Charssein's POV
I've made a lot of bad decisions in my life.
This one?
Top five. Maybe top three.
It's 2 AM. I'm in a museum I have no business being in. And Neil, that smug bastard, is the reason why.
"Remind me again," I mutter, "why the fuck we are committing a felony?"
Neil, utterly unbothered, strides ahead like he owns the place. "It's not a felony if no one catches us."
"That's literally how felonies work."
Neil hums, amused. "Semantics."
I resist the urge to throttle him.
The museum is unsettling. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring, like something is missing. The air smells like old paper and varnished wood, with a faint, musty scent lurking underneath. The exhibits are… wrong.
The statues watch us with too many eyes. The paintings have shadows that feel deeper than they should be, like if I stare too long, I might see something staring back. There's an empty glass case in the middle of the hall. No label. No plaque. Just a case with nothing inside—yet I swear something is breathing inside it.
I shake off the feeling. "Neil, if you lured me here to summon a demon, I'm going to be pissed."
Neil laughs softly. "Wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to you."
"And what is?"
"You."
I shove him. He stumbles but catches himself with that same lazy smirk.
"Such abuse," he sighs. "And here I thought this was a date."
I freeze. "What."
Neil tilts his head, feigning innocence. "You agreed to go somewhere with me at an unreasonable hour, snuck out, and now we're doing something wildly illegal together. If that's not a date, then what is?"
My brain malfunctions.
He tricked me. That bastard actually tricked me.
"I hate you," I mutter.
"That's the spirit."
I groan and focus on the nearest exhibit to drown out my secondhand embarrassment. It's a painting—one that immediately makes my skin crawl.
Because I recognize it.
Because I painted it.
It's massive. Stretched across the wall like some grotesque parody of my own work. But it's wrong. It's finished.
And I never finished this painting.
I never showed it to anyone.
I never even submitted it.
My breath catches.
My pulse kicks into high gear.
Neil, for once, loses his smirk. His expression flickers into something sharper, something serious.
"Shit," he mutters. "It's starting."
What's starting?
The museum groans. The lights flicker. The walls seem to breathe.
The paintings scream.
I whip around. Statues shift when I'm not looking. Their heads twist. Their hands reach. The glass case is rattling.
I see something in a reflection—a figure behind me.
I turn.
Nothing's there.
And then—
The lights go out.
Neil'sPOV
Ah. So we've reached this part of the story.
I don't curse often. It's not my style. But as soon as the lights flicker out, one thought slams into my mind with the force of a trainwreck:
Fuck.
Charssein is still here, right next to me, but I know we're not alone.
The museum warps.
The air distorts. The weight of the story shifts, breaking, twisting, rewriting itself. I brace for it—because I know what's coming.
A presence moves in the dark.
Fast. Relentless. Familiar.
I barely dodge as a hand lunges for my throat. I twist, countering with a strike, but the figure is too fast. They slip through my defenses, striking at my ribs with brutal precision.
Pain flares. I stumble back.
Charssein shouts my name, but I can't answer—I'm busy.
The attacker doesn't relent. They know how I fight. Every move is countered before I can even react. I grit my teeth, waiting, waiting—
Then, I see my opening.
I slam my palm against their chest—pushing them back just enough for the light of a faulty emergency exit sign to illuminate their face.
My breath stops.
No.
That's not possible.
The man—no, the thing—smirks bitterly. And then he says something that makes my stomach drop.
"My dear reader," he murmurs. "Please remember me."
The world distorts.
A crack splits through reality like shattering glass. The man's body trembles—his form breaking apart.
Then—
He disintegrates into paper.
The shreds scatter into the air. One flutters down into my palm.
I stare at it.
Ink-stained. Torn at the edges. And written across it, scrawled in my own handwriting—
"Continue reading."
Charssein is saying something. Yelling, probably. But I can't hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.
My fingers tighten around the paper.
For the first time in a long, long time—
I feel fear.
Charssein's POV
"Neil?"
He doesn't answer.
He just stands there, rigid, staring at a scrap of paper like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I grab his shoulder. "Neil, what the fuck just happened?"
He blinks, finally snapping back. His expression shifts—his usual smirk reappears, but it's wrong. Stiff. Forced.
"Nothing," he says smoothly. "Just a minor inconvenience."
Bullshit.
The paintings are still twitching. The statues are still breathing. I feel like I'm being watched.
"Neil, we need to get the fuck out of here."
For once, he doesn't argue.
We sprint for the exit. The museum shifts around us—hallways stretch, doors vanish, the ceiling warps like melting wax. Shadows chase us, whispering things I don't understand.
Then—
We burst outside.
The night air is sharp, real, solid.
I gasp, bracing against my knees. "What… the fuck…"
Neil exhales slowly, pocketing the scrap of paper. His hands are steady, but his jaw is tight.
I've seen Neil smirk through a lot of shit. But I've never seen him rattle.
Whatever just happened?
He knows something.
And I intend to find out exactly what.
---
TO BE CONTINUED.