Chapter 1: The First Rule

Chapter 1: The First Rule

The text message glowed on the cracked screen of Leo’s phone, a small, defiant beacon in the gloom of his apartment.

Maya: Feeling a little better today. The doctors are optimistic about the new meds. Don't worry about me, big bro! Love you!

A faint smile touched Leo’s lips before vanishing. He swiped away the message, and the screen behind it came into focus: an overdue notice from the hospital’s billing department. The number had so many zeroes it looked like a cruel joke. Optimism was a luxury, and each dose of Maya’s medicine cost more than he made in a week at the diner.

That was why he was here, standing before a pair of bronze doors so massive they seemed built for giants, not men. The building loomed over the street, a black monolith of gothic architecture that swallowed the city lights. The Lachrymal Atheneum. Even the name was pretentious, unsettling. It meant ‘a place of tears.’

The job posting had been a godsend, or a typo. The hourly wage was triple what any sane institution would pay a night guard. The only requirements were a pulse and the ability to stay awake. Desperation had a way of silencing the alarms in your head.

The smaller service door creaked open before he could knock, and a man stepped out of the sliver of amber light. He was impossibly old, his skin as pale and thin as parchment, stretched tight over the sharp angles of his face. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than Leo’s car. Yet, for all his apparent fragility, his eyes were like chips of obsidian—sharp, intelligent, and holding a chilling, ancient amusement.

“Mr. Vance, I presume,” the man said, his voice a dry rustle of old paper. “I am Alistair Finch, the curator. Punctuality is a virtue. Come.”

Leo followed him into the grand entrance hall. The air was cold, still, and heavy with the scent of floor polish and something else… something faintly metallic and organic, like old blood or dried roses. The ceiling soared into a darkness that his eyes couldn't pierce. All around them, pedestals rose from the marble floor, but their exhibits were shrouded in heavy, velvet cloths for the night. The silence was absolute, broken only by the click of Finch’s expensive shoes and the soft scuff of Leo’s worn-out boots.

Finch led him to a small, modern security office tucked away behind a tapestry depicting a medieval hunt. A bank of monitors showed silent, grayscale images of empty galleries.

“Your duties are simple,” Finch said, handing Leo a heavy ring of keys and a surprisingly lightweight flashlight. “You will patrol each designated gallery once per hour. You will ensure all entrances remain secure. You will not touch the art. And you will adhere to the one, most important rule of this establishment.”

He paused, letting the silence hang between them. Leo felt a prickle of unease. “Okay?”

Finch’s smile was thin and predatory. “Do not stare at any exhibit for more than thirty seconds.”

Leo blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Thirty seconds,” Finch repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Consider it an artistic principle. A piece loses its profound mystery upon prolonged, mundane inspection. Its essence is diluted. And some pieces… they can become rather possessive of an audience’s attention. Appreciate them, Mr. Vance, but do not linger. Is that understood?”

It was the strangest thing Leo had ever heard, but the image of Maya’s hospital bill flashed in his mind. He’d follow any rule they wanted for that kind of money. “Understood, sir. Thirty seconds.”

“Excellent.” Finch gave a curt nod. “I will see you shortly before dawn.”

And then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the museum as silently as he had appeared.

Left alone, Leo took a deep breath. The silence of the Atheneum pressed in on him. He clutched the flashlight, its beam feeling like a flimsy sword against the oppressive darkness. He touched the worn silver locket around his neck, the cool metal a familiar comfort. For Maya.

His first patrol was a journey through a gallery of ghosts. He moved through halls dedicated to forgotten dynasties and surrealist nightmares, the shrouded statues looking like hunched figures in the gloom. His art school instincts, long-since buried, began to surface. He could almost feel the weight and texture of the pieces beneath their covers, the cold touch of marble, the rough grain of sculpted wood. He was just a guard, but the soul of an artist still lived in him, hungry for a glimpse.

He found it in the Gallery of Solitude.

There was only one piece in the center of the vast, circular room. It was a life-sized statue of a woman sitting in a chair, a heavy book open on her lap. Her head was bowed, her expression one of serene concentration. The plaque on the pedestal read simply: The Reader.

Leo’s breath caught in his throat. The artist had used a material he’d never seen before, a type of alabaster or marble that was unnervingly translucent. Light from his flashlight seemed to pass through the surface, illuminating the statue from within. It was a masterpiece of impossible craft. He could almost see the delicate suggestion of a skeleton beneath the surface, the faint, shadow-play of an inner world.

He stepped closer, mesmerized. His artistic eye took over, tracing the gentle curve of her spine, the delicate drape of her dress, the individual strands of hair carved with microscopic precision. But it was the skin that held him captive. Dark, thread-like veins were visible beneath the milky surface, snaking up her arms and across the backs of her hands with an anatomical perfection that was both beautiful and grotesque.

He wondered who could have possibly carved such a thing. The skill was beyond human. It was as if the artist had not sculpted stone, but had somehow petrified a living being. He had to see the face, the details of the book.

He took another step, raising his flashlight, and his own reflection in the polished floor caught his eye. The sight of his own tired face, his guard uniform, jolted him back to reality. Finch’s voice echoed in his head.

Do not stare for more than thirty seconds.

A chill that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature crawled up his spine. How long had he been standing here? He glanced at his cheap digital watch. Twenty-eight seconds.

Panic, sudden and sharp, seized him. The rule was absurd, but Finch’s unnerving certainty was not. With a grunt of effort, Leo tore his gaze away, whipping his head to the side to stare at the blank gallery wall. His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt like an idiot. It was just a statue. A weirdly realistic statue in a creepy museum run by a man who was probably insane.

He took a shaky breath, about to turn and continue his patrol.

And then he saw it.

In the extreme, blurred edge of his peripheral vision—the statue was still there. And it was no trick of the light. It was no figment of his sleep-deprived imagination.

For a single, silent, horrifying moment, the network of black veins beneath the statue’s translucent skin pulsed.

It was a violent, convulsive throb, a surge of black life through a body of stone. A heartbeat where no heart should be.

Leo froze, his blood turning to ice. He squeezed his eyes shut, then snapped them open, whirling around to face the exhibit again, his flashlight beam trembling wildly.

The Reader was exactly as it had been. Perfectly still. Serene. Lifeless. A beautiful, terrifying statue of a woman reading a book.

But Leo knew what he had seen. The image was burned onto the back of his eyelids.

The first rule wasn't an artistic principle. It was a warning. And the night was just beginning.