Although it felt like he had only taken a few steps away from the crime scene, Lowe appeared to be already lost amongst the museum's winding corridors.

It struck him that there was something rather perverse about Soar's key repository of knowledge being quite so impossible to navigate. Still, then again, anyone who knew Grackle Nuroon would surely introduce the word 'perverse' into the conversation at the earliest possible opportunity.

Determined not to need to call for help and alert his men to his difficulty, Lowe chose to wander onward, his polished boots - Mylaf had developed a special paste that she applied and buffed off each morning - disturbing the thick layer of dust that blanketed the stone floors.

Did the museum not employ any ? Lowe wondered. Of course, he recognised the hypocrisy here as he himself had been perfectly comfortable living in utter filth before . . . acquiring a with Legendary powers during his last case. However, it felt like Soar Museum should possess slightly higher hygiene standards than a down-on-his-luck disgraced detective. Riffing on a similar theme, shafts of weak, dusty light filtered through high, grimy windows, casting shadows that seemed to reach for him as he passed. It created the illusion of movement in the corner of his eye as if he were being followed.

Yes. An illusion. That was all it was.

Lowe paused, trying for a moment to regain his bearings. Really, this was all rather stupid. He must only be yards from all sorts of other people, so why did he have this odd feeling of complete isolation? With just a trace of embarrassment at having to resort to his using a Skill, he activated Grid View, seeking out the memory of being led from the entrance of the museum to the office and its attendant dead body.

This corridor was not one of the ones he had been escorted down.

Swearing, Lowe turned around and tried to retrace his steps back to Penarth Lant, one eye on his progress and the other on the images on display in Grid View. Somehow, the museum's layout seemed to defy the constraints of logic and space, passages doubling back on themselves and leading him into increasingly unfamiliar territory.

Lowe paused at a junction, glancing down each of the four possible routes available to him. He was sure he had not been here before. Grid View was apparently being interfered with by something in a way he did not think was supposed to be possible.

Well, wasn't that just a treat?

Looking down each option in turn, Lowe couldn't make out anything that seemed familiar. The branching corridors stretched out like the insidious tentacles of some aquatic monster, each one promising only more confusion and entrapment. "Fuck's sake," he muttered, looking back at the way he had come. The last thing he needed was it getting back to Cuckoo House that, minutes after arrival, he became lost at the crime scene.

That would be the final nail in a heavily studded reputational coffin.

Choosing a path at random, the one on his right, Lowe started walking -almost jogging - his footsteps echoing hollowly in the oppressive silence, a growing unease at his predicament gnawing at him.

The corridor he had chosen was lined with tall display cases, their glass fronts cracked as if someone - or something - had sought to break in. Or out. Well, wasn't that a lovely thought that would not fester at all? Inside each cabinet, the bizarre and the grotesque vied for his attention: a mummified cat, its shrivelled body contorted in eternal agony; a collection of rusted surgical tools, still stained with the remnants of use and an array of eerie, faceless dolls, their porcelain heads cracked and eyeless sockets staring blankly.

A shiver ran down Lowe's spine, and not just from the cold. Was someone following him? He turned abruptly, scanning the dancing shadows for any sign of actual movement, but found nothing. The museum was silent, save for the faint creaking of the old building settling around him.

Where the fuck was everyone!

Turning back around, the sensation of being watched persisted, a prickling at the back of his neck that refused to be ignored. It had been a while since he had activated Slugger - Arebella had been clear that she would prefer it if he could find more effective methods of conflict resolution - but he did so now. Immediately, the increased weight in his fists calmed his trembling nerves. As Staffen had hinted at earlier, the label above his head might say Level 25, but anyone - or anything - that leapt out at him from the darkness would quickly discover that, thanks to the practical application of Essence Transmutation Theory, he packed a punch equivalent to a Level 50.

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Hands swinging with a comforting heaviness at his side, Lowe pressed on, noticing that the musty smell was growing more pungent as if he were descending into the museum's bowels rather than moving towards the exit. It must be his imagination, but the narrow corridor seemed closing in on him, the walls leaning inward as though the building sought to swallow him whole.

Lowe’s breath came shallow and rapid. He glanced back again, expecting to see some remorseless hunter pursuing, but only emptiness was stretching into darkness. Then, he rounded a corner and found himself in a small, circular chamber.

The ceiling rose high above to become lost in darkness, and the walls were lined with strange tapestries, their colours faded and designs obscured by layers of dust. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal upon which a single, lit candle rested. For some reason, the sight of it sent a chill through him, an inexplicable sense of foreboding that rooted him to the spot.

Lowe took a moment to steady himself before stepping forward. The candle, though innocuous, seemed to pulse with a quiet menace. He shivered, the coolness of the room seeping into his bones as his eyes traced the faint patterns etched into the pedestal. If it was in a language spoken in Soar, it certainly was not one he recognised.

He crouched down, his fingers brushing the cold stone base of the pedestal. As he did, a sticky substance clung to his fingertips. He brought his hand closer for inspection and recoiled slightly—a viscous, dark slime similar to what he had seen covering the body of the .

Then, Lowe's mind was on other things as the burn from the necrotic slime started to consume his fingers. He stood up abruptly, hastily wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. Roll with the Punches activated as Lowe's hand literally began to melt before his eyes, and he manually pushed a trickle of mana—and then a veritable river of the stuff—into the Skill to overwhelm the damage. The power of this slime was something else!

The candle, the slime, the eerie, expectant silence . . .

Determined to find a way to make sense of all this, Lowe activated Grid View again, hoping to overlay his memory with his current location. But the interference persisted, the images flickering and distorted, offering no clear path. Frustration mingled with unease as he deactivated the Skill.

Lowe's eyes scanned the room, landing this time on the colourful tapestries lining the walls. Moving closer to one, he noticed a tear in the fabric, a narrow slit that had gone unnoticed at first glance. Peering through, he saw more of the necrotic slime smeared on the wall behind it. He stepped back, but this was not the right atmosphere for revelatory moments of stunning insight. He needed to move, to find his way out of this disorienting maze before the creeping dread overwhelmed him.

However, as Lowe turned to leave, the faint sound of rustling fabric reached his ears again, more pronounced this time, like a whisper of something brushing against the stone walls. His heart pounding in his chest, Lowe quickened his pace away from the chamber, the sense of being pursued becoming almost tangible. The corridor outside stretched before him, lined with the same macabre exhibits that had greeted him earlier.

As he walked, he noticed more signs—tiny, almost imperceptible patches of necrotic slime smeared on the walls and floor. It felt that they formed a path, guiding him forward, and the realisation sent a shiver through him. Was whoever had killed the leading him somewhere? And if so, did he have any other choice but to follow?

The patches of necrotic slime became more frequent, their viscous presence now almost covering the walls and floor, and Lowe needed to walk carefully to avoid stepping in it. Sensing his fists were about to explode with the gathered power of Slugger, Lowe dismissed the Skill and then resummoned it immediately. The drain on his mana was substantial, and he felt a flutter of unease at what would happen should Roll with the Punches be needed and the well be dry . . .

Suddenly, a low, guttural noise reverberated through the very walls. It was a sound of pain and despair, but before Lowe could react, a presence manifested behind him. He span, throwing out an enhanced punch, but his attack landed on nothing.

Lowe’s heart pounded in his chest as he took a step back, raising his fists in a defensive posture. His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of the creature he knew must be there. The low, mournful sound intensified into a deep rumble that shook dust from the roof. His instincts screamed at him to flee, but his legs felt rooted to the spot.

Then it was in front of him. Lowe threw out two massive blows with Slugger, striking something solid but with no visible sign of impact. No creature revealed itself following being hit by the equivalent of a Level 50.

What the fuck was this thing?

Lowe stumbled back as the low, guttural noise shifted, becoming softer, almost pleading. It was a resonant agony, and Lowe tried to focus on its meaning - to listen - but the moment's terror made it impossible to think clearly. Then the presence moved again; the sense of it closing in around him was overwhelming. Lowe threw out another blast of Slugger, draining his mana dry before complete desperation overtook him.

Lowe turned and ran, his footsteps echoing hollowly as he fled down the corridor. But as he did, he noticed something—marks on the walls, smeared in the same dark slime. The marks were crude, almost like writing, forming a pattern that beckoned him closer. He stumbled into another corridor, the low, sad sound following him, a constant reminder of the unseen presence. It grew louder, more insistent as if urging him to understand. But the terror was too great, the oppressive weight too much to bear.

As he stumbled out of the corridor and ran mindlessly, Lowe could still hear the faint echoes of the creature’s cries. The clue as to what had happened to the were there, somewhere in the darkness, waiting to be deciphered. But for now, Lowe could only run, driven by the desperate need to escape the unseen thing that stalked him through the twisted halls of the Soar Museum.