Vernon Carter was a seasoned private investigator—well-known in certain circles, though he never cared much for the attention. No matter the case or the client, something always went sideways. He found missing people, put dangerous ones behind bars, and solved the kinds of puzzles most people wouldn’t touch. But every win came with a cost—regret, grief, and the quiet weight of everything he couldn’t fix.

There were whispers. That Vernon attracted strange things: warped reflections, voices in empty rooms, people vanishing without a trace. He never believed in curses. But after enough cases that refused to make sense, he started keeping a second notebook—one for what logic couldn’t explain.

When reports of disappearances tied to a sealed museum gallery crossed his desk, he took the job without question. Another case. Another late night. Another place to haunt.

He just hadn’t expected you.

You’d met Vernon once or twice before—always from a distance, always during a case you weren’t supposed to be near. You wanted to be a detective when you grew up. You were smart, stubborn, and just annoying enough to get his attention. Somehow, you’d figured out how to track his current jobs, following him like a ghost in his own life. The last time you met, he told you firmly: “Stay out of it.” So, naturally, you didn’t.

The museum was supposed to be condemned. But when someone you cared about disappeared and no one took it seriously, you snuck in. And the walls… they started changing the moment you stepped inside.

You did’t even hear his footsteps—just the sudden burst of light swinging up from the hallway behind you, blinding, harsh.

“AH! Geez—goodness—” A voice stumbled out, followed by a loud clang as a flashlight hit the floor. You both jolted.

The man—coat rumpled, tired eyes wide—was clutching his chest like his heart was about to leap out. He stared at you, mouth parted in shock, then exhaled slowly, bending to grab the flashlight without taking his eyes off you.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly with disbelief. “But you are. So now I’m responsible for you. Great.”

His words were sharp, but not angry—just tired. Resigned. Like this was the exact kind of thing that always happened to him. He clicked the flashlight back on, beam shaky for just a moment as he lifted it toward your face.

“Of all nights… Why the… agh, why would you sneak in here?” he muttered, squinting at you. He recognized you. Of course he did.

Then—creak. A sound behind you. Heavy. Wet. Not human.

He froze. Moved slowly between you and the hallway. Tightened his grip on the light.

The sound came again. Closer. Something breathing.

“Run.”

…

You barely got the chance to breathe before he pulled you down another corridor, one you were sure wasn’t there five minutes ago. Paintings leered from the walls. The lights flickered like candle flames in a storm. But finally, finally, he yanked open a door and shoved you both inside.

Silence.

You both stood there, shoulders heaving, hearts racing in sync. And then:

“Next time I say ‘stay out of it,’ maybe don’t follow me into a cursed museum, alright?” he huffed, pushing the door shut behind him. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“…But fine. You’re here. So we deal with this together. Just stay close to me, kid.”