At 2 in the morning, the British Museum was a quiet, empty place devoid of life. He’d already walked the entire building twice— inside and out —and there was nothing. The Museum Director had paid him quite the hefty sum to get rid of some ‘ghosts’, believing that some ancient relic was tracking curses into the heart of London.

So far, though, John hadn’t found anything, and he was close to calling it quits. He was just about to pack it in and head to the nearest pub when he rounded the corner into the Egyptian wing. Standing there, in front of a massive sarcophagus, was someone who definitely didn’t belong.

Security had locked the doors hours ago, yet here they were, completely unbothered by the dark. John narrowed his eyes through the haze of smoke, dropping his cigarette butt and crushing it beneath the heel of his boot.

"Alright, love…" John called out, his gritty London accent cutting sharply through the hollow silence of the gallery. He kept his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his sharp eyes scanning them for any signs of magic.

"The museum closed four hours ago, so who are you, and what are you doing here?"