The two days leading up to July 25th were a blur of nervous energy and frantic preparation. Mira didn't know what to expect at the Wolverhampton Art Gallery, but she couldn't go in blind. She researched the gallery's layout online, memorizing its various wings and exits. She called Brenda, fabricating a story about needing to meet a friend urgently, anything to explain her continuing absence from work.
Her mind raced, trying to anticipate Link's moves. Was this a trap? Of course it was. But what kind? A psychological one? A physical one? She packed a small bag with essentials: a power bank for her phone (though she still kept it mostly off), a small, sharp object for self-defense (a blunt pair of scissors, the only thing she felt she could reasonably carry without raising suspicion), and a change of clothes. Just in case.
Marley watched her with unusual intensity, as if sensing the gravity of her decision. She hugged him tightly, a silent promise that she'd come back.
As 10:00 PM approached, the city was settling into its nighttime hum. Mira dressed in dark, unassuming clothes, blending into the shadows. The gallery stood imposing and silent, its classical facade bathed in the dim glow of streetlights. It was closed, its heavy wooden doors firmly shut. There was no sign of a public event, no crowds, just the occasional passing car.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. Had he given her the wrong coordinates? Was this another mind game?
Then, as she approached the main entrance, a faint, almost imperceptible sliver of light appeared at the side of the building. A discreet service entrance, barely visible in the gloom, was ajar. A single, low-wattage bulb glowed faintly within.
Taking a deep breath, Mira pushed the door open. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of old dust and polished wood. The silence was absolute, amplifying the sound of her own pounding heart. The gallery was deserted, its grand halls filled with silent statues and dark canvases, casting long, eerie shadows.
She felt his presence immediately, a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. He wasn't visible, but he was here. He was watching.
Suddenly, a voice, calm and electronically distorted, echoed through the vast space, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn't loud, but it was clear, chillingly so.
"Welcome, Mira Andrews," the voice intoned. "Thank you for accepting my invitation. The game begins now. Your first task is in Gallery 7. You will find the rules within. Please proceed carefully. I am… observing."
Mira's blood ran cold. This wasn't just an invitation; it was an elaborate, terrifying game. And she was already a player, whether she liked it or not.