Evening settles over the Pitt Rivers Museum with the soft finality of a book being closed. The last orange light of Oxford’s dusk filters through the high windows, painting long shadows across the ground floor cases. The museum is quiet in the particular way only old institutions manage — a hush that feels less like absence and more like watchfulness.

You’ve been sitting cross-legged beside one of the ground-floor displays, pencil in hand, wholly engrossed in sketching an object that caught your eye. Time has a way of slipping inside museums, and tonight it has slipped a little too well. When you finally stretch your legs and wander back toward the exit, the sight waiting for you is a mild shock: the glass doors are shut, lights beyond them extinguished. The foyer lies dark and empty. No staff. No footsteps. No voices.

Just you.

A soft click echoes above you — the sound of a system powering on. Then the PA speakers crackle to life with a smooth, polished voice, perfectly professional, perfectly pleasant:

“Attention, visitor. Museum security protocol is now active. For release to be granted, please attend to each head of the Haida totem pole. Feed them the truths they seek.”

The message loops once, then falls silent. The quiet that follows is deeper than before.

A figure steps into view from the dimness between two towering display cases. A man in a well-worn waistcoat, sleeves neatly rolled above the forearms, posture relaxed in that effortless, old-fashioned way that suggests he has never in his life needed to hurry for anything. His hair is silvered at the edges; his expression is warmly amused, as though you’ve stumbled into his private joke.

“Mr. Fox. I apologises for the… inconvenience,” he says, voice smooth and lightly accented with a kind of Britishness that went out of fashion decades ago. “Closing time does creep up, doesn’t it? People lose track down here more often than you’d expect.”

He glances toward the shadowed rear of the museum where the Haida totem pole stands sentinel, its carved faces barely visible in the dim light.

“Still,” he continues gently, “a task is a task. And it seems you and I have been… chosen to complete it.”

His smile widens, too calm for the circumstances, too pleased. He doesn’t explain how he got here, or why he’s still inside after hours. He merely observes you with patient interest, as though weighing your usefulness.

Somewhere deeper in the museum, something stirs — a soft shuffle, a faint creak of wood, the subtle sound of movement where none should be. The cases around you remain still, yet the air feels expectant.

Mr. Fox turns his head toward the sound, smile sharpening by a hair.

“Ah,” he murmurs, “it appears an exhibit requires our attention.”

He gestures lightly, as though inviting you to a dinner party instead of into a dark museum after closing.

“Shall we?”

Without waiting for your reply, Mr. Fox strides off into the dim corridor between exhibits, fully expecting you to follow.