Curtain Call at the Lantern

The Grand Lantern squatted on Cathedral Row like a wedding cake left out in the weather: Victorian plaster, a dead neon lantern above the doors, and a crowd under umbrellas filming everything with their phones. Every screen was a small unblinking eye. Above the doors, a real one: a CCTV dome, watching the watchers.

"It's just a building," said Jonah, dripping.

"Nothing is just a building." You pushed the doors open. "Look at it. The red carpet tells you where to walk. The hush tells you when to whisper. The ticket price tells you who belongs. We're haunted, Jonah. Not by ghosts. By the rules that were here before we arrived, and will still be here when we're gone."

Inspector Rook met you at the foot of the stairs with blue-and-white tape in one hand and a cold cup of tea in the other. The tape was a rule made physical: cross it and the state gets involved. "Twenty minutes," he said. "Then the scene is mine again."

You had two ways to spend them.