Maya's POV
The morning began like any other at the Blackwood Foundation, though an unshakable curiosity clung to me after yesterday's strange encounter with Alexander Blackwood. I moved through the familiar halls, each step echoing softly against the polished floors. My tasks for the day were clear: more cataloging, assessments, and preparations for the upcoming exhibition. Yet, the lingering mystery of the carved wooden box and Alexander's cryptic words gnawed at my focus.
By mid-morning, Julian approached, carrying a clipboard and wearing his usual air of cool detachment. "Ms. Hargrove," he said curtly, glancing at me over the rim of his glasses. "You're to assist me today."
I nodded, even as unease crept in. Working with Julian was always like navigating a minefield. We spent hours combing through more art pieces, organizing and cataloging. Each minute felt like a silent test, but I was determined not to falter. Just as I thought we'd wrap up, he looked at me, his expression unreadable.
"There's a section that needs… specialized attention," he said, pausing as if weighing his next words. "Follow me."
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, but curiosity got the better of me. We made our way through a labyrinth of hallways and winding staircases I'd never seen before. As we walked, the air grew cooler, and the light dimmed, casting everything in a somber hue. This was not part of the public foundation; it was a different world entirely.
Julian finally stopped in front of an unassuming door, partially hidden behind a draped curtain. He pushed it open, revealing a narrow stone staircase descending into darkness. My pulse quickened. "Is this… part of the archives?" I asked, trying to mask my nerves.
"In a manner of speaking," he replied cryptically, gesturing for me to go first.
The stairs creaked beneath my feet as I descended, each step amplifying the sense of stepping into another realm. When we reached the bottom, Julian flicked on a switch, illuminating a vast underground gallery. My breath caught. It was nothing like the pristine displays above. Here, the art seemed alive—raw, untamed, almost vibrating with energy. Paintings lined the walls, their colors richer and more vivid than anything I'd seen before. Sculptures loomed in the dim light, their forms twisted, daring you to look closer.
"What is this place?" I whispered.
Julian's eyes glittered. "The Hidden Gallery. Few are allowed here. It houses pieces too controversial, too potent, or simply too dangerous to be displayed publicly."
The words hung heavy in the air. Dangerous? How could art be dangerous? I stepped closer to a painting that seemed to call out to me—a swirling storm of blacks and reds, its center an indistinct figure that sent chills down my spine. "Who decides what comes here?"
"Alexander Blackwood," Julian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Each piece has a story, often tied to those who wield power or influence. Some have… unusual histories."
I wanted to press him further, but the weight of the place stilled my tongue. Moving from one piece to the next, I felt a mix of awe and unease. Each work seemed to carry a story that went beyond the canvas or clay, whispering of secrets best left undisturbed.
As I examined a sculpture—an intricate marble figure with outstretched wings—an icy chill ran down my spine. The detail was exquisite, but something about it felt suffocating. I reached out, then hesitated, remembering Alexander's warning: *Some things are dangerous to uncover.*
"Careful," Julian said, his tone sharp. "Some of these pieces have… histories that don't end well for the curious."
"Why show me this, then?" I asked, turning to him. "What's the point?"
He was silent for a moment, as if debating whether to share more. "Alexander sees potential in you. That alone is rare. But this world requires more than talent. It demands resilience, discretion… and the willingness to bear heavy burdens."
I felt the weight of his words, but I refused to be cowed. "I'm here for a reason," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'll do what it takes."
"Good," he said, though I could see a flicker of doubt. "You'll start by documenting every piece in this gallery. Record its history, its known origins, and any… anomalies."
"Anomalies?" I asked, feeling both dread and intrigue.
"Unexplained occurrences," he said, his tone flat. "Some might say curses. Others prefer 'energies.' Either way, you'll learn."
With that, he handed me a worn leather-bound notebook, its pages filled with cramped handwriting, sketches, and notes. As I flipped through, I realized I was holding decades of secrets—a record of the Foundation's darkest acquisitions. My hands trembled slightly, but I steeled myself. If I was to survive here, I needed to understand what I was dealing with.
Over the next hours, I moved through the gallery, cataloging as instructed. Some pieces felt benign, but others… others seemed to watch me. I couldn't shake the feeling that the air grew heavier around certain works, pressing in on me like unseen hands. More than once, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see shadows moving.
Finally, I approached a painting covered in a thick black cloth. Something inside me screamed to leave it be, but my hands moved on their own. I lifted the edge, revealing an image that stole the breath from my lungs—a woman standing atop a darkened field, her eyes burning with blue fire. She was powerful, unyielding, and somehow… familiar.
"Stop!" Julian's voice cut through the silence, harsh and urgent. He grabbed my wrist, forcing me to drop the cloth back in place. "Not this one. Never this one."
"What—why?" I demanded, shaken by the intensity in his eyes.
His grip tightened for a second before he released me. "Some stories are better left untold. Remember that."
I nodded, too rattled to argue. Whatever secrets the Hidden Gallery held, I was now part of them. Whether I liked it or not, the shadows of this world were beginning to creep into my own—and there would be no turning back.