The morning on a weekend sunlight filtered through my apartment, highlighting the chaos sprawled across my kitchen table: photos, notes, and what looked suspiciously like a medieval paperweight Amiel had nervously handed me. It had been days since the Rift Storm, and somehow, my ordinary life had turned into a bizarre mix of artifact retrieval and babysitting two displaced noblemen with egos as shiny as their armor. Not exactly in my job description.

“Alright,” I began, tapping my pen on the table like a gavel, “we have a new mission.”

Amiel and Luke sat across from me, their unnaturally perfect postures making my ICEA chairs look like thrones. It was hard to take them seriously when their polished, noble demeanor clashed with the mismatched coffee mugs and a lingering smell of takeout.

“Apparently, some of the medieval relics didn’t make it back to Valeraine during the Rift Storm,” I said, sliding a photo across the table. “Guess where they ended up?”

Luke and Amiel exchanged a glance that practically screamed, Please don’t say anything ridiculous.

“Where?” Amiel asked cautiously, leaning forward like I was about to declare war.

“The Medieval Museum,” I replied, flipping the photo to reveal a full suit of armor displayed under bright lights. “And it gets better—there’s a wig attached to the helmet.”

A/n: For your reference 😂

Luke groaned, running a hand through his perfectly combed hair. “Of course. It would be His Grace Duke Thorian’s wig. The man couldn’t hold onto his dignity, let alone his hair.”

I-seo giggled from her perch on the counter. “At least it’s not something dangerous, like a cursed weapon. Imagine trying to explain that to the curators.”

I held up a hand. “Focus. We need to get the armor—and the wig—out of there before someone posts it on NicTok and turns it into a meme.”

My brain conjured up the inevitable hashtags: #MedievalDrip #WiggedOut #ThorianHairGoals.

The museum was already bustling by the time we arrived, and blending in wasn’t exactly an option. Luke and Amiel looked like walking statues carved by a Renaissance sculptor, and their presence attracted a small crowd of admirers. Phones were whipped out faster than I could say, “Stop.”

“Excuse me, are you guys actors?” a young woman asked, snapping a selfie with Amiel, who looked bewildered.

I grabbed both men by their sleeves, yanking them toward the entrance. “Sorry, no photos. They’re… not union.”

Inside, I scanned the room until my eyes landed on the armor. It stood on a raised platform in the center of the exhibit, gleaming under fluorescent lights.

Inside the helmet was a wig so perfectly styled it looked straight out of a bad medieval-themed commercial.

Luke stopped in his tracks. “Why… why is it still here?”

“Because the Rift decided it wasn’t worthy enough to take back,” I replied, smirking.

“We should take it and leave,” Amiel said, already stepping forward.

“Hold it,” I warned, grabbing his arm. “CCTV. We can’t just stroll up and yank it off the platform.”

From my bag, I pulled out the Infinity Storage device, an ornate relic capable of storing objects in a pocket dimension. “We’ll use this. Quick and clean.”

As Amiel and Luke approached the armor, their movements full of misplaced regal authority, a museum guide appeared out of nowhere, his enthusiasm as blinding as his mismatched socks and feathery hat.

“Ah! You’ve found it!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Our prized exhibit, the Medieval Noble's armor and wig! Such intricate craftsmanship. Truly ahead of its time.”

Amiel’s eye twitched. “Ahead of its time?”

The guide nodded solemnly. “Oh yes. That wig wasn’t just a fashion statement, it was a symbol of charisma. Wearing it guaranteed success at medieval banquets. Did you know the Duke may have invented wigs as a political strategy?”

Luke’s jaw dropped. “That’s… not accurate.”

The guide waved him off. “Nonsense! Look at that elegance. Why, the Duke could’ve walked into a room and instantly commanded respect. Or perhaps the codpiece was his true statement piece. Did you see it? Absolutely fascinating.”

I turned to see the infamous codpiece sitting awkwardly on a nearby pedestal. Before I could stop him, Amiel stepped forward.

“That’s for protection,” he said firmly. “It’s not meant to be a… hair accessory.”

Luke, trying to back him up, reached for the codpiece. In his haste, he accidentally placed it on his own crotch, earning a collective gasp from the room. The curators nearby tried—and failed—to suppress their laughter.

“Luke!” I hissed, yanking his sleeve. “What are you doing?”

“It slipped!” he whispered, his face redder than the emergency exit signs.

Amiel snatched the codpiece back, glaring at Luke. “Have some dignity.”

Meanwhile, the guide clapped again. “What a marvelous demonstration! You’ve truly brought history to life.”

I buried my face in my hands as I-seo leaned against the nearest wall, laughing so hard she was practically crying.

“Enough,” I snapped, pulling them both back toward the armor. “Use the Infinity Storage and get us out of here before NicTok turns this into a trend.”

Luke fumbled with the device, his hands still shaking with embarrassment. In a flash of light, the armor—and its cursed wig—vanished into the storage. The guide gasped in awe. “What an incredible replica! It looked so real.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, steering the group toward the exit. “Real history in the making.”

Back at my apartment, Amiel and Luke inspected the armor while I-seo and I tried not to laugh at the wig, which looked even more ridiculous under modern lighting.

“His Grace was… creative,” Amiel said, holding the wig up like it might bite him.

Luke snorted. “If by creative, you mean shameless.”

I raised my soda. “Here’s to another successful mission. May the next one involve fewer wigs and codpieces.”

“Agreed,” Luke muttered, his dignity still in tatters.

Amiel sighed. “Cheers. Let’s hope Uncle Thorian never finds out about this.”

We toasted as the city lights glimmered outside, promising more chaos on the horizon.