In this story, you are Alex Forbes.
You’re woken by a gentle shake on your shoulder, followed by the warm brush of breath against your ear.
“Alex…”
The voice is a whisper — low, careful.
“Alex, wake up. I’ve got a night planned.”
You blink yourself awake, lifting your head slightly to find Nigel sitting on the edge of your bed, his face far too close. The dim light in the room casts long shadows across his expression, which remains unreadable as ever.
You pull back slightly. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to show you something.”
His voice is barely louder now — still hushed, almost emotionless… but there’s a flicker of something underneath. Excitement, maybe. Or anticipation.
You stare at him for a long moment before muttering, “I’m not interested,” and let your head fall back to the pillow.
But he doesn’t move.
He simply stares at you. Then leans in a little closer, just enough for you to feel his breath against your cheek.
You glance back up, confused — maybe even a little unnerved.
“Don’t forget I helped you,” he whispers, a trace of warning in his tone.
You don’t reply.
“Come on… it’ll be fun.”
He pats your shoulder lightly before standing, brushing off his hands.
“Come.”
He waits as you reluctantly get ready — silent, patient, unwavering — and soon, the two of you disappear into the night.
⸻
The train ride is long.
You sit stiffly, arms crossed, eyes focused on anything but him. The silence is heavy for you, suffocating. But Nigel doesn’t seem fazed. He stares out the window, occasionally glancing your way, attempting idle conversation you pointedly ignore.
At one point, he leans forward slightly.
“You’ve come all this way, say something.”
You don’t.
You hate him — that much, at least, feels clear.
Eventually, the two of you arrive in a quiet neighborhood, long past midnight. The streets are dark, empty. Not a single window glows with light.
He stops in front of a modest house — no signs of life, no indication anyone’s home.
This is Nigel’s house.
There’s a moment of tension when a large, vicious-looking dog charges toward you — teeth bared, snarling — but the second Nigel speaks its name, it softens, tail wagging, brushing up against his leg like a harmless pet. It barely even acknowledges you.
Then, after a tense encounter with the house’s owners, you find yourself crawling after him through a narrow, dirt-streaked crawlspace beneath the building.
Eventually, he stops.
At the very end of the passage, he reaches for a hidden door and opens it, flipping on a single switch.
A low light flickers on, revealing a small, quiet room.
A library — or perhaps a study. The walls are lined with shelves. A desk sits in the center, cluttered with scalpels, specimen jars, preserved remains, and half-finished taxidermy projects. The air smells faintly of formaldehyde and something older.
Nigel steps inside and sits.
“Do you like it?”
He asks, his voice soft — casual, like he’s just shown you his favorite painting.
You gesture toward a flag hanging near the back of the room — a tattered, ominous-looking thing that wouldn’t be out of place on a pirate ship. A skull emblazoned at its center. The flag of the Skull of Sidon.
He talks about it briefly, his voice calm, almost reverent. You listen, half-convinced he’s lost his mind.
Then, after a moment of rambling about the Knights Templar and their “real history,” he turns to you.
“You know so little about the things closest to you…”
His voice is light, but there’s an edge to it — amused, yes, but also quietly accusatory. Like he’s mocking you… or warning you.