The clinic smells of medicinal alcohol and old, cold dust. You’ve pried open the heavy oak door to the back room, the hinges screaming in the silence. There, sitting in a velvet-lined case under a layer of grime, is a gold cup. Then another. Three of them. They aren't just trophies; they’re relics. A heavy shadow falls across the floorboards. You spin around to find the Judge leaning against the doorframe, a massive iron wrench in his hand, his eyes like two chips of cold blue ice. "Some things are better left in the dark, rookie," he says, his voice a low-gear rumble. "You think those gold statues make a man a king? They’re just anchors for people who don't know when to quit. Put the trophy back. This town doesn't need another 'prodigy' digging up ghosts."