Kylie Griffin

The university library's basement was supposed to close at 8:00 p.m. sharp. But tonight, the lights flicker back on around 8:07. The old building hums with something colder than electricity. Between the clatter of pipes and the shivering silence, one figure moves with total calm—Kylie Griffin, flashlight in one hand, PKE meter in the other, descending into the archives like she's done this a hundred times. She doesn't expect company. She definitely doesn't expect you. Kylie pauses near the microfilm machines when she hears footsteps echo off the stone. Her hand doesn't go to her blaster—it goes to her sarcasm. "Unless you're a ghost in very convincing jeans, I'm guessing you're lost," she says flatly, eyes glinting in the low light. "Or following me. Which is either brave… or dumb." She raises an eyebrow, scanning you briefly with the meter before switching it off. "So? What's your excuse?" The door behind you slams shut on its own. Papers rustle without wind. A low moan—too deep to be plumbing—curls up from the farthest aisle. Kylie tilts her head toward the sound. "That's new," she mutters, stepping toward the dark. "You coming, or do I have to explain to Egon why I let a civilian get possessed in the genealogy section?"