Alex’s life with John, the maybe-immortal roommate with a closet full of historical knickknacks, was already a rollercoaster of suspicion and denial. But when John left the apartment one Saturday for one of his vague “errands” (probably to haggle with a 17th-century ghost over a cursed candelabra), Alex saw his chance.

  He was 99% sure John was older than the wheel, and that 1% of doubt was starting to feel like a personal insult. So, he called in reinforcements: his old college buddy, Sarah, a history major with a knack for sniffing out anachronisms and a caffeine addiction that rivaled Alex’s. If anyone could confirm John’s stash was straight out of a time traveler’s garage sale, it was her.

  The Setup

  Sarah arrived at the Brooklyn apartment with a backpack full of textbooks, a magnifying glass, and an energy drink that looked like it could power a small spaceship.

  “You’re telling me your roommate’s got, what, Viking relics in his sock drawer?” she said, raising an eyebrow as she plopped onto the couch.

  Alex, pacing like a detective in a bad crime drama, nodded. “Not just Viking. I’m talking Roman coins, medieval swords, a locket that screams ‘I mourned Queen Victoria.’ He says it’s all props or family heirlooms, but I’m not buying it.”

  Sarah grinned, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s Indiana Jones this shit.”

  Alex hesitated—snooping alone was one thing, but bringing in a witness felt like crossing a line. Then he remembered John casually popping his dislocated shoulder back into place like it was a loose Lego piece.

  Screw the line. He led Sarah to John’s room, where the museum of “props” awaited.

  The History Major’s Freakout

  Sarah’s jaw hit the floor the second she saw John’s collection. The sword—the one Alex swore was a dead ringer for Excalibur—was propped against the dresser, glinting like it had just been forged.

  Sarah ran her fingers along the hilt, muttering about “5th-century craftsmanship” and “authentic pattern-welding.”

  She pulled out her magnifying glass and inspected the inscription, which Alex had assumed was fake.

  “Alex, look at this,” she whispered, her eyes wide as she traced the shimmering flat of the blade. “On this side, etched in Archaic Latin, it says Accipe Me—‘Take me up.’ And on the other...” She turned it over, her voice dropping to a reverent crack. Abice Me. ‘Cast me Away.’ This isn’t some Ren Fair knockoff. This is... museum-grade. No, this is legend-grade.”

  Alex, sweating, pointed to the quill and inkwell on John’s desk. Sarah picked up the quill, sniffed it like a sommelier with a fine wine, and declared, “This is goose feather, hand-cut, probably pre-1700. And this inkwell? The glasswork’s Venetian, 16th century at the latest.”

  She opened it, took a whiff, and gagged. “Smells like it was used to write the Treaty of Westphalia.”

  Alex blinked. “The what?”

  Sarah waved him off. “Peace treaty, 1648. Point is, your roommate’s not buying this at Etsy.”

  Then she spotted the locket, still on the bathroom counter from John’s last “forgetful” moment. She popped it open, revealing the portrait of the Victorian-era woman.

  “This is wet plate photography,” she said, voice trembling. “Mid-19th century. And the engraving—‘Eternal, J & M, 1891’—is done by hand, not machine. This is personal.”

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  Alex’s stomach churned. He was starting to picture John waltzing with “M” at a ball while Edison fumbled with his first lightbulb.

  The real kicker was the wooden box Alex had snooped through before, now sitting on John’s bed like it was daring them to open it again. Sarah, practically vibrating with excitement, cracked it open and pulled out the grainy photos.

  There was “John” in a Civil War uniform, arm around a guy who looked suspiciously like Ulysses S. Grant. Another showed him in a 1920s speakeasy, clinking glasses with someone Sarah swore was Al Capone.

  “These aren’t Photoshopped,” she said, holding one up to the light. “The emulsion, the paper—it’s period-accurate. Either your roommate’s family has been cloning him for centuries, or…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. Alex’s 1% of doubt was shrinking faster than his bank account after rent day.

  The “Prop” That Broke the Camel’s Back

  Sarah, now in full history-nerd mode, dug deeper into the box and pulled out a small, tarnished coin.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered, turning it over. “This is a Roman denarius, minted under Trajan, circa 100 CE. Look at the wear—it’s been handled, not just preserved.”

  Alex, who’d flunked history in high school, nodded like he understood.

  “So, it’s old?”

  Sarah shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. “Old? This is ‘I shook hands with Caesar’ old. And it’s not a replica. Replicas don’t have this kind of patina.”

  She kept going, pulling out a clay tablet with cuneiform. “Sumerian, probably 2000 BCE,” she said, her voice shaking. “This isn’t a prop. This is the kind of thing museums fight wars over.”

  Alex, feeling like he was in over his head, pointed to the backward-ticking pocket watch. Sarah examined it, muttering about “Georgian-era clockwork” and “Thomas Jefferson’s signature,” which was etched on the back.

  “This isn’t just a watch,” she said. “This is a relic.”

  Alex’s brain was doing somersaults. He wanted to believe John’s “family heirloom” excuse, but Sarah’s expertise was like a wrecking ball to his denial.

  “Okay, so what do we do?” he asked, voice cracking. Sarah, clutching the denarius like it was her newborn, said, “We confront him. Or we call the Smithsonian. Or both.”

  The Almost-Confrontation

  Just as Sarah was drafting a mental email to her old professor at NYU, the front door clicked open. John was back, carrying a suspiciously heavy duffel bag that clinked like it was full of chainmail. Alex and Sarah froze, the wooden box still open, artifacts scattered across the bed like a Black Friday sale at the British Museum.

  John poked his head into the room, saw the scene, and didn’t even flinch.

  “Oh, hey, you found my prop collection,” he said, tossing the duffel onto a chair. “Cool, right?”

  Sarah, bless her, didn’t miss a beat. “Prop collection?” she said, holding up the denarius. “This is a Roman coin from the second century. And this sword? It’s got Latin inscriptions that predate the Magna Carta. Explain.”

  Alex braced for impact, expecting John to bolt or confess to being Merlin.

  Instead, John laughed—a little too loudly, like he was auditioning for a sitcom laugh track. “Wow, you’re good,” he said, pointing at Sarah.

  “Yeah, I’m a big history buff. Got those at an estate sale. The sword’s a replica, though—foam core, super realistic.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Foam core doesn’t weigh 10 pounds,” she shot back.

  John didn’t miss a beat. “Weighted foam. You know, for LARPing.” He turned to Alex. “Pizza tonight? My treat.”

  Alex, caught between Sarah’s death glare and John’s infuriating calm, mumbled, “Sure.”

  Sarah looked ready to strangle someone, but John was already in the kitchen, humming what sounded suspiciously like a Gregorian chant.

  Sarah whispered to Alex, “He’s lying through his immortal teeth. That coin’s real, and he knows it.”

  The Aftermath

  Sarah left the apartment with a notebook full of sketches and a promise to “get to the bottom of this.” She texted Alex later that night, saying she’d contacted a professor who specialized in ancient artifacts, but Alex was starting to regret the whole thing. John was still the best roommate he’d ever had—rent on time, killer cooking, never hogged the Netflix. But now Sarah was on a mission, and Alex was stuck in the middle of a historical conspiracy.

  That night, as John whipped up a carbonara that smelled like it came from a Renaissance tavern, Alex caught him glancing at the locket, now back around his neck.

  “You ever gonna tell me about that?” Alex asked, half-joking.

  John’s smile faltered for a split second before he said, “Just a family thing. Hey, you want garlic bread?”

  Classic John. Deflect, distract, delicious.

  Alex didn’t push. Not yet. But he kept Sarah’s number on speed dial, and he started locking his door at night—just in case John’s “props” included a time machine or, worse, a guillotine.

  Living with a maybe-immortal was still better than paying full rent, but Alex was starting to wonder if he’d end up as a footnote in John’s 2,000-year memoir. Or worse, as the guy who got dumped for asking too many questions.