April 14th, 1865

Arthur's vision blurred as the world around him twisted and bent, the familiar sensation of the system's pull overtaking him.

The basement, Charlotte, the small window barely letting in the morning light—all of it faded as the system transported him to another time, another place.

When the world came back into focus, he was no longer in his cold, quiet room. He stood on a cobblestone street, the evening air warm and heavy.

The sounds of horses clopping down the road, the murmur of conversations, and the distant ringing of a bell filled his ears. Arthur looked around, disoriented for a moment, before taking in the sights of 19th-century Washington, D.C.

Ford's Theatre, he thought, his heart pounding as the mission details flashed in his mind. It was the evening of April 14th, 1865—the night of Abraham Lincoln's assassination.

The air was thick with tension, and Arthur knew the events that would unfold tonight would be historic, infamous. But he wasn't here to stop the assassination.

His mission was clear: infiltrate the theatre, retrieve the key documents hidden within, and get out.

The system buzzed in his pocket, and Arthur pulled out his phone slightly without anyone seeing it, glancing at the map that appeared on the screen. A small dot blinked on the map, marking the location of his objective inside the theatre. He couldn't waste any time.

Arthur's eyes darted to the entrance of Ford's Theatre, the large brick building standing out in the busy streets. People were lined up outside, eagerly awaiting the performance.

He could see the banners advertising Our American Cousin, the play that was scheduled for tonight. Lincoln's attendance was the worst-kept secret in the city. Everyone knew he would be there.

But Arthur wasn't interested in the crowd, or the excitement buzzing around him. His focus was on the job. He needed to get inside, get the documents, and get out before everything went to hell.

He moved swiftly through the crowd, blending in as best he could. His modern clothes weren't entirely out of place, but the city's energy was foreign to him.

 Arthur kept his head down, walking toward the side entrance of the theatre where fewer people lingered.

He had studied the map on his phone carefully. The documents were hidden somewhere in the lower levels of the building, likely stored in a secure room.

He would need to move quickly—before the chaos of Lincoln's assassination threw everything into disarray.

Reaching the side door, Arthur glanced around to make sure no one was watching. The crowd's attention was on the front entrance, and the guards stationed there didn't seem concerned with the alleyway.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur pulled the knife from his pocket and carefully worked the door's old, rusted lock. It clicked open with a faint sound, and Arthur slipped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft creak.

The interior of the theatre was dimly lit the air heavy with the scent of wood and dust. Arthur moved silently through the narrow hallways, his heart pounding in his chest as he followed the map's guidance.

The sound of the crowd outside faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the theatre's backstage activities. Actors and stagehands rushed around, oblivious to his presence.

Arthur made his way deeper into the building, descending a set of stairs that led to the lower levels.

The narrow corridors became darker, and the atmosphere grew tense. The map on his phone led him to a small door at the end of the hallway.

He crouched down, listening for any movement on the other side of the door. When he heard nothing, he carefully pushed it open.

The room beyond was small, cluttered with old furniture and crates, but it wasn't just a storage room. Tucked away in the corner was a wooden chest, its lock glinting in the dim light.

Arthur moved quickly, pulling the rope from his pack and tying it around the chest's handle to drag it closer.

The lock was more complex than the one on the theatre's side door, but Arthur had prepared for this.

He pulled out the knife again and carefully worked the lock, his hands steady despite the tension rising in his chest.

"Click."

The lock gave way, and Arthur opened the chest, revealing a stack of documents inside.

His heart pounded as he rifled through them, scanning for the ones marked with the system's distinctive symbol.

After a few moments, he found them—thick, yellowed papers with a seal stamped on the corner.

These were the documents. The key to whatever truth was hidden in this moment of history.

Arthur quickly folded the papers and tucked them into his jacket, his mind racing. He needed to get out before things escalated—before the assassination.

He couldn't afford to be caught in the chaos that would soon unfold.

As he turned to leave, the sound of voices echoed down the hallway. His pulse quickened. "Someone's coming." He had to move fast.

Arthur crept out of the room, sticking to the shadows as the voices grew louder. He ducked behind a stack of crates just as two men passed by, their conversation muffled but urgent.

One of them mentioned something about the President arriving soon, and Arthur's stomach twisted.

"It's happening," he thought. "I need to go."

He waited until the men were out of sight before making his way back up the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest.

The theatre was beginning to fill with people now, the excitement for the night's performance building. Arthur moved quickly, sticking to the side corridors and avoiding the main areas where the crowd gathered.

As he neared the side exit, the sound of footsteps behind him made him freeze. He turned slowly, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife in his pocket.

But it wasn't a guard or a stagehand. It was a man dressed in black, his face pale and his eyes wide with a manic gleam.

"John Wilkes Booth."