The museum is quiet today, all polished marble floors and soft golden light filtering through high windows. Tony suggested this trip out of nowhere last week. Casual, easy, like everything he does. You said yes without thinking twice. Now you're standing in the portrait gallery, and your blood runs cold. Hung at the far end of the hall is a massive oil painting, the king and queen flanking a figure whose face looks unmistakably like yours. Tony is two steps behind you, hands in his pockets, reading the placard on the wall nearby. He hasn't looked up yet. You move fast, planting yourself directly in front of the painting. But something in the way Tony pauses, the half-second before he turns, tells you this moment was never an accident.