The morning light spilled over my kitchen table, highlighting the clutter of photos, notes, and a small medieval trinket Amiel had nervously handed me earlier. It had been days since the Rift Storm incident, and somehow, my life had gone from mundane office work to coordinating missions involving misplaced armor and wigs. This wasn't exactly what I'd signed up for.
I tapped the table with a pen, clearing my throat. "Alright, everyone. Apparently, some of the medieval relics didn't make it back to Valeraine during the Rift Storm. Guess where they ended up?"
Luke and Amiel, sitting stiffly in their chairs, exchanged nervous glances. Their polished appearances screamed "out-of-time noblemen," which was becoming harder to ignore in a modern kitchen filled with mismatched mugs and snack wrappers.
"Where?" Amiel asked, leaning forward like I'd just declared war.
I jabbed a photo I'd printed from a news article. "At the Medieval Museum. There's a suit of armor hanging around like an out-of-place art exhibit. And get this—a wig is still attached to the helmet."
"A wig?" Amiel blinked, his expression torn between confusion and horror.
Luke groaned, running a hand through his immaculate hair. "Of course. Only His Grace Duke Thorian would lose his wig to another world."
I-seo giggled, leaning back in her chair. "At least it's not something magical like an enchanted weapon. Imagine explaining that to the curators."
"That's not the point," I said, trying to maintain focus. "We need to get the armor—and the wig—out of there before someone decides to make it a NicTok trend."
I could already picture it, #MedievalAesthetic blowing up the internet with Thorian's wig as the star.
We arrived at the museum just after it opened, blending in—or rather, failing to blend in. Amiel and Luke looked like Greek gods on a casual stroll, attracting a small gaggle of admirers who snapped pictures and whispered excitedly.
"Excuse me, are you guys in a K-drama or something?" a woman asked, holding her phone up for a selfie.
Before they could answer, I grabbed both of their arms and steered them toward the entrance. "Sorry, no photos. They're, uh, not union actors."
Inside, we immediately spotted the armor: a polished suit displayed in the middle of the museum, complete with an elaborate helmet—and an unmistakable wig perched on top.
It looked like someone had stapled a Lord Farquaad cosplay onto medieval headgear.
Amiel froze. "Why… why is it still there?"
I smirked. "Guess the Rift decided it wasn't important enough to bring back."
Luke sighed. "Let's grab it and leave."
"Not so fast," I warned, pointing at the security cameras. "CCTV is everywhere. We can't just waltz in and grab it."
I reached into my bag and pulled out the Infinity Storage, an ornate, palm-sized relic from Valeraine capable of sucking objects into a pocket dimension. "We'll use this. Quick and clean."
As Luke and Amiel stepped closer to the armor, a flamboyant museum guide appeared, practically bounding over with unbridled enthusiasm. He was decked out in mismatched socks, a feathery hat, and a blazer that screamed "art school dropout."
"Ah! You've found it!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Our prized exhibit: the Duke'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. Did you know the wig was enchanted to enhance charisma? It's said that wearing it could guarantee your success at medieval banquets!"
Luke looked like he wanted to crawl under the nearest display case. "That's… not true."
The guide waved him off. "Nonsense! Look at that craftsmanship! Why, the Duke probably used it as a symbol of his unmatched confidence."
Amiel leaned in, whispering to Luke. "We have to fix this. Now."
I watched as Luke discreetly reached for the Infinity Storage, but the guide's voice boomed again. "Oh, and the codpiece! Did you see it? Absolutely fascinating. I'm told it was multifunctional—perhaps even used as a… hair accessory?"
My jaw dropped. I-seo snorted. Amiel turned beet red.
"That's… inaccurate," Amiel muttered, stepping toward the codpiece that had been mistakenly propped up next to a food stall. "It's for protection. It doesn't go anywhere near your head."
Luke, determined to save what little dignity they had left, picked up the codpiece and, in his haste, accidentally placed it on his own crotch. A collective gasp rippled through the room as the curators stifled their laughter.
"Luke!" I hissed, grabbing his sleeve. "What are you doing?"
"It slipped!" he whispered back, mortified.
Amiel quickly intervened, yanking the codpiece back and glaring at Luke. "Have some dignity."
Meanwhile, the guide, entirely unfazed, clapped his hands again. "A demonstration! Marvelous! You've truly brought history to life."
I buried my face in my hands as I-seo doubled over with laughter.
"Enough," I snapped, pulling both men back to the armor. "Just grab the wig and use the Infinity Storage before we all end up on social media."
Luke fumbled with the device, snapping the armor—and its cursed wig—into the pocket dimension with a flash of light. The guide gasped. "What an incredible replica! It looked so real!"
"Yeah," I muttered, dragging my group toward the exit. "Real history in the making."
Back at my apartment, Amiel and Luke inspected the armor with reverence while I-seo and I tried not to laugh at the wig, which still looked ridiculous even in modern lighting.
"Looks unscathed," Amiel declared, placing the helmet on the table. He hesitated, then picked up the wig. "His Grace was… creative."
Luke snorted. "If by creative, you mean delusional."
I grinned, raising a glass of soda. "Here's to another successful mission. Let's hope the next one involves fewer wigs and codpieces."
"Agreed," Luke muttered, still red-faced.
"Cheers," Amiel said, though his voice carried a tinge of exhaustion.
As we toasted, the city lights outside glimmered like stars. It was another day of chaos, but at least we'd survived—with our dignity mostly intact.