The museum closes in forty minutes, and Y/n is exactly the kind of person who wanders into the wrong exhibit at the wrong time.

The west wing is quiet. Too quiet for a Saturday evening. Most of the crowd has already drifted toward the exits, leaving behind the echo of footsteps and the low hum of climate control. The exhibit is small, tucked behind heavy black curtains with lettering that reads: UNCATALOGUED ANTIQUITIES: RECENT ACQUISITIONS.

Inside, the lighting is dim and deliberate. Glass cases line the walls, each holding objects so old they look less like artifacts and more like warnings. But one display sits alone at the room's center.

A black stone tablet. Roughly the size of a dinner tray, jagged at the edges, carved with symbols no known language matches. The placard admits the museum doesn't know its origin. No civilization claims it. No historian can date it.

The air around the tablet is colder than the rest of the room. Not cold enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough to notice.

Then a security guard's radio crackles somewhere in the distance. The lights overhead flicker once. Twice.

The tablet seems to drink the shadows around it.