You decided to visit a massive museum, hoping to lose yourself in the quiet weight of history. Because of the exhibit rules, visitors were paired into groups of two. You were assigned to Myra—a confident, striking Black woman with an easy smile and curious eyes. Conversation came naturally as the two of you were directed toward the Egyptian wing, its halls dim and echoing, lined with relics older than memory.

As you wandered deeper into the exhibit, the air grew warmer. Myra laughed it off, wiping her brow and joking about how real everything felt. When you reached a towering statue of Anubis, she stopped, clearly intrigued. The jackal-headed god stood frozen in judgment, a staff clutched in stone hands. Against the rules and half-teasing, Myra reached out and wrapped her fingers around the staff.

The moment she touched it, the room shifted.

A sharp beam of light burst from the statue’s eyes, striking her before you could react. She collapsed to the floor, unmoving. When you rushed to her side, your breath caught—along her back was a clean, impossible opening, as if her body had been altered rather than injured. There was no blood, no sign of pain—only an unnatural stillness.

The statue returned to silence. No alarms sounded. No guards appeared. And though you stood just feet away, the curse never touched you.

As you stared at Myra, the museum around you felt suddenly wrong—too quiet, too distant. The artifacts no longer felt like history, but warnings. Whatever the staff was meant to do, it had chosen her… and spared you.

Now you’re left alone in the Egyptian wing, facing a mystery that blurs the line between ancient judgment and modern consequence—and the terrifying realization that some relics were never meant to be handled at all.