Minseo was up before dawn, the first pale streaks of light creeping through the cracked blinds of apartment. Her bag was already packed: weapons, a change of clothes, essentials. She didn't need much, just enough to survive. The rest was unnecessary weight.

The drive was long, the road stretching out endlessly before her. A cheap pop song crackled through the car's ancient speakers, grating against her nerves, but she didn't bother to turn it off. The noise was better than silence—it kept her thoughts from spiraling too deep.

By the time she reached the town, the sun had clawed its way into the sky, casting the streets in harsh, unflattering light. She pulled into a faded motel, the kind of place that looked like it hadn't seen an upgrade—or a thorough cleaning—in decades. The room she rented was as bad as she expected: peeling wallpaper, a bed she didn't want to think too much about, and a faint smell of mildew clinging to the air.

Minseo dropped her bag onto the chair in the corner, refusing to let it touch the bed. She wouldn't be here long. Just long enough to find what she was looking for.

Without pausing to settle in, she stepped back out into the daylight, letting the door slam shut behind her. The town was small, quiet, with a veneer of normalcy that felt off. Too still. Too staged. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and started to walk, keeping her head down, eyes sharp.

She found herself standing outside the police station, the small-town emblem peeling off its glass doors. Letting out a soft sigh, Minseo pushed inside, her eyes immediately scanning the room. It smelled faintly of stale coffee and bureaucracy—unwelcoming but familiar.

Her gaze landed on the receptionist, a woman with graying curls and a weathered expression, glued to the glow of her computer screen. Minseo adjusted her posture, slipping on a mask of fake warmth, and walked over.

"Hi," she began, her voice sugarcoated and harmless. "My name is Emily—Emily Cho—and I'm a student at the local university. I'm writing a paper for my criminology class, actually. It's about the murder that happened yesterday... the one where, um, Abraham Lincoln supposedly..." She let the sentence trail off with a sheepish smile, selling the role of the overly curious, eager-to-please student.

The receptionist finally looked up, her face softening. "Well, aren't you just the cutest thing," she said, her voice dripping with grandmotherly affection. "You know, I have a grandson who's—"

The woman stopped mid-sentence, catching sight of the deadpan expression that Minseo failed to completely mask. Her tone shifted. "Oh, the case. Right, right. Well, I'm not really supposed to say anything..."

Minseo tilted her head slightly, just enough to convey polite curiosity.

"But," the receptionist continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "the victim—William Hill—died from a gunshot wound to the head. Thing is, they didn't find a weapon. No gunpowder, no bullet, nothing. It's got the whole department scratching their heads."

Minseo furrowed her brow, the pieces already moving in her head. A weaponless gunshot? That screamed supernatural. Maybe a ghost.

"And then there's the witness," the receptionist added, leaning in closer. "Poor woman's not in her right mind, bless her heart. She's claiming—get this—that she saw Abraham Lincoln pull the trigger. But, well..." She let out a sympathetic sigh, shaking her head. "She's a wreck. Doesn't know up from down right now."

Minseo offered a polite nod, forcing her expression into something resembling concern. Inside, her mind was spinning. No weapon. A historical figure come to life. It was absurd, but absurdity was her reality these days.

"Thank you so much," Minseo said, her voice still syrupy sweet. She turned and walked out of the station, the pieces of the puzzle starting to align

Back at the motel, Minseo dropped her bag on the creaky bed and pulled out her laptop. The room smelled faintly of mildew, and the flickering light overhead did nothing to ease her nerves. She set her computer on the rickety table by the window, her fingers moving with precision as she started her search.

It didn't take long to find something strange. Two days before the Abraham Lincoln murder, another man had been killed. The article barely pieced it together, but Minseo caught the key detail: the victim had just purchased James Dean's infamous car, the "Little Bastard." Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Her thoughts wandered. Could it really be the ghosts of these figures? No, that was ridiculous. Even in her line of work, some things were too absurd to entertain. She scratched that idea off the list almost as quickly as it formed.

Instead, she considered a more plausible theory—a vengeful spirit targeting collectors and enthusiasts of famous historical artifacts. If these victims had a connection to something tangible, that could explain it.

She rubbed at her temples, the faint thrum of a headache building, as her search led her to an article about Colton's Wax Museum. Her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a big name, just a small roadside attraction, but the museum claimed to house "authentic items" from various historical figures.

Her stomach sank. Real possessions. That could do it. If someone had managed to get their hands on a cursed artifact and put it on display, it could explain the deaths.

Reluctantly, she grabbed her jacket and keys, her jaw tightening as she walked out the door. She hated wax museums. They always left her feeling uneasy, like the statues were watching her when she wasn't looking.

The parking lot was nearly empty when she arrived, just a handful of cars and a faded sign that read Colton's Wax Museum: Step Into History! She could already feel her skin crawling as she pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

Inside, the air was cool and eerily quiet. The exhibits stretched out in dimly lit rows, the wax figures frozen in life-like poses. Abraham Lincoln, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe—all immortalized in unsettling detail. Minseo kept her head down, avoiding their blank stares.

The place was mostly empty, save for an elderly couple murmuring to each other near an exhibit. She spotted a man in a dark cardigan and glasses standing by one of the statues, a slight smile on his face as he dusted its shoulder.

Minseo cleared her throat, and the man jumped, nearly dropping his duster. He turned to her with wide eyes before relaxing into a polite smile.

"Sorry," she muttered.

The man waved it off. "No harm done! What can I help you with today?" His tone was bright, almost too eager.

Minseo bit the inside of her cheek as she carefully chose her words. "I'm a student, actually," she began, layering her voice with false sweetness. "I'm writing a paper for one of my classes—about how fascinating wax museums are. I wanted to know more about this place to include it in my research."

The lie rolled off her tongue easily, and she mustered a friendly smile.

The man's face lit up, clearly pleased by her interest. "Well, isn't that wonderful? What exactly would you like to know?"

Minseo tilted her head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness. "I heard you have real artifacts from some of the historical figures displayed here," she said, her tone casual. "I was wondering if that's true?"

The man chuckled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Oh, absolutely. We pride ourselves on authenticity here! For instance..." He gestured toward the Lincoln statue. "That pocket watch? It belonged to him. And over there—" He pointed to James Dean. "That's one of his jackets. Genuine articles."

Minseo nodded along, though her stomach tightened. Her instincts had been right. These weren't just wax figures—they were magnets for something far darker

Minseo feigned fascination, her eyes scanning the room as the man continued his enthusiastic explanation of the museum's collection. She caught snippets—details about a Civil War medal, a piece of John Dillinger's clothing, a lock of Marilyn Monroe's hair—but her focus was elsewhere. Her gaze drifted toward a plaque next to the James Dean exhibit, the letters catching the dim light.

"Does the jacket have any, uh, stories attached to it?" she asked, interrupting the man mid-sentence. She stepped closer to the exhibit, her eyes narrowing on the display.

"Well," the man said, clearly pleased with her curiosity, "some say it's cursed. You know, part of the whole James Dean legend." He chuckled nervously, as though brushing off his own words. "But we haven't had any accidents here—just the usual creepy stories that come with items like these."

Minseo hummed thoughtfully, but her mind was already racing. Cursed wasn't a word she took lightly. She scanned the room again, piecing together the puzzle. If the deaths were connected to these items, there could be more cursed objects in the museum—and someone would have to destroy them.

"I'd love to learn more about the process of acquiring these pieces," she said, forcing another smile. "Do you get them from private collectors?"

"Oh, yes," the man replied. "We have a network of experts and collectors who—"

The museum door swung open, cutting through the stillness. Minseo's body went rigid, her eyes snapping toward the sound of boots echoing through the otherwise silent room.

Two men stepped inside, both imposing in their own right—one tall, broad-shouldered, the other slightly shorter, but just as commanding. They wore leather jackets, the kind that suggested they weren't here to admire art. Their eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the space with quiet precision.

The older man she'd spoken to earlier was the first to greet them. "Welcome! What brings you boys to Colton's Wax Museum?"

Minseo slipped further into the exhibit, feigning interest in a wax figure of Marilyn Monroe, but her attention never wavered from the two strangers. She kept them in her periphery, eyes narrowed, calculating.

The shorter man smiled with practiced ease. "Oh, we're writing a piece. You know, about tourist attractions in small towns. Kind of a... road trip feature."

Minseo couldn't stop herself from eyeing them, the words grating on her. A lie. An obvious one. She rolled her eyes, irritation flaring.

"Well, isn't that interesting!" The older man beamed, completely oblivious. "What kind of article are you writing?"

The taller man, who'd been quietly scanning the room, spoke next, his voice smooth, polished. "We're focusing on places with a unique history. Wax museums are... fascinating."

"Fascinating?" The shorter one coughed into his hand, a poorly disguised chuckle escaping.

Minseo continued to study the wax figure, her gaze steady and fixed, but her mind wasn't really on the actor frozen in time. It was the two men in leather jackets behind her that held her attention. They were talking in low tones, but she could hear enough of their conversation to know something wasn't right.

The older man didn't seem to notice, still chatting away with enthusiasm, but Minseo wasn't as easily fooled.

She casually shifted her focus back to the figure, but there was something... off. She felt a shift in the air—like the weight of eyes on her. She subtly glanced to her right and caught the taller man's gaze for a split second before he quickly looked away, as though he hadn't meant to make contact.

A beat of silence.

Then footsteps. Heavy, purposeful.

Minseo didn't turn to look, but she knew who it was. She kept her eyes locked on the wax figure, but her every sense was alive, waiting. It wasn't until he was almost next to her that she allowed herself to shift her focus, ever so slightly, to the man who was now standing a few feet away, his posture relaxed but watchful. He wasn't pretending not to notice her, and for a brief moment, Minseo felt the weight of that scrutiny.

"Creepy, isn't it?" His voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

Minseo turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his green eyes for a fleeting second before her gaze flicked back to the wax figure.

She didn't answer right away, her face blank as she studied the statue's frozen smile. A faint hum escaped her, noncommittal.

He wasn't deterred. "You hear about all the craziness that's been going on around here?" His tone was casual, but his eyes told a different story—sharp and watchful, like he was sizing her up. Like he knew exactly what she'd been doing earlier.

Minseo shrugged, finally tearing her gaze from the figure. "I've heard. Peculiar case," she said flatly, her voice giving nothing away.

His lips quirked in a small, knowing smile, but he didn't push. "Sure is." He lingered for a moment longer before stepping back. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

Her eyes followed him as he rejoined the taller one. The two exchanged a look, a silent message passing between them, before leaning in close to talk. Their voices dropped to a hush, words indistinct.

Minseo's jaw tightened as she watched them walk away, her mind working through the pieces. The way they moved, the way they spoke—too deliberate, too careful.

They weren't bloggers.

They were hunters.

AUTHORS NOTE
initially this chapter was close to 5'000 words but because that was so long i had to break up this chapter into two parts. i also had a hard time deciding what episode I wanted misneo to sort of jump into but decided to go with this one.

also i do want to say that misneo might not be the "friendliest" character to others especially this early on. just wanted to say that since i will not accept any negative comments towards her since i love her and she can do no wrong.

okay well thank you to anyone who takes the time to read this fic i appreciate. and please show support towards this fic i would appreciate it that's it bye!!!!