It was just past 2 a.m. when the skyline of Grit City was lit not by neon signs or the usual siren strobes—but by something stranger. From the rooftop of a nearby tenement, Blue Boxer stood in a crouch, squinting behind his domino mask at the pale green glow pulsing faintly from the upper floor of the Grit City Museum.
"That ain’t part of the regular exhibit," he muttered, tightening the straps on his blue boxing gloves.
The museum, closed for renovations, had been dark for weeks. No night crew. No activity. And certainly no ethereal lights dancing across the fossil hall skylight like the northern lights had dropped in for a midnight tour.
He leapt down the fire escape and crossed the rooftop gaps with practiced ease. Thirty seconds later, he was clinging to the edge of the museum's stone arch, wedging a crowbar-like tool from his utility belt between the back window’s seams. With a pop and a gentle push, the glass opened, and the Blue Boxer slipped inside like a shadow.
Inside, the air was still and heavy with dust. The overhead security lights blinked on motion detectors, throwing eerie shadows between the towering dinosaur skeletons and sarcophagi. Blue Boxer stalked through the exhibits, footsteps silent against the marble floor. His eyes, trained from years of night patrols, darted between shadows as he advanced toward the light.
As he approached the ancient artifacts wing, the glow intensified—soft, rhythmic pulses like a heartbeat. There was no hum of machinery, no buzzing like faulty circuits. Just silence... and light.
He paused, crouching behind a display of Mayan ceremonial masks, and tapped the side of his domino mask to activate night vision. What he saw made him suck in a breath.
The exhibit hall ahead had been cordoned off with yellow scaffolding and tarps. But from beneath one of the canvas covers came the glow—bright now, as though reacting to his presence. The tarp fluttered slightly despite the absence of wind. Blue Boxer tensed.
What the hell is under there? he thought, creeping forward.
He reached the edge of the tarp, his gloved hand lifting it just enough to peek inside.
And then—something moved.
The light flared bright enough to blind his night vision, and a low whump of air burst outward as if the room exhaled. Blue Boxer staggered back, shielding his face, and the air suddenly filled with the scent of ozone and... sandalwood?
He narrowed his eyes as the light receded back into an orb—a floating sphere no larger than a softball, hovering over an open, ancient-looking sarcophagus that most definitely hadn’t been opened earlier that week when he’d toured the museum with the curator.
Inside the sarcophagus, a faint shape stirred.
Blue Boxer stepped forward, slowly, cautiously. He raised a gloved hand.
"Alright," he said aloud. "Let’s see what you are, glowball."
The orb pulsed in response—once... twice... and then darted toward him like a shot.
The last thing he saw before impact was a pair of glowing, inhuman eyes opening inside the sarcophagus.