Alex’s life with John, the maybe-immortal roommate, was already a sitcom of suspicion, but the stuff John owned pushed it into full-on Twilight Zone territory. The Brooklyn apartment was a museum of anachronisms, littered with objects that screamed “I predate your great-grandparents,” yet John brushed them off with the nonchalance of someone explaining why they bought too many avocados.

  Alex, teetering on the edge of a conspiracy theorist’s corkboard, was 99% sure John was older than the Constitution, but that 1% of doubt clung to him like a stubborn barnacle. The kicker? John’s possessions weren’t just old—they were suspiciously iconic, and Alex’s refusal to fully question them was a masterclass in denial.

  The “Prop” Collection

  John’s room was a hoarder’s paradise for historians and a nightmare for anyone with a grip on reality. Alex first noticed the weirdness when he borrowed a pen from John’s desk (okay, he was snooping again, but who could resist?). Instead of a Bic, he found a quill. Not a modern “I’m quirky” quill, but a legit, feather-from-a-bird-that-went-extinct-in-the-1700s quill, complete with an inkwell that smelled like it had been used to draft the Magna Carta.

  “Oh, that?” John said when Alex held it up, eyebrows raised. “Just a prop for a play I was in… uh, community theater.”

  Community theater? In Brooklyn? Alex didn’t press, but he googled “quill pens” later and found they hadn’t been standard since Shakespeare was scribbling sonnets.

  Then there was the sword. Oh, the sword. It wasn’t just any sword—it was a gleaming, medieval-looking beast with a hilt encrusted with what looked like actual gemstones, casually leaning against John’s dresser like an umbrella.

  Alex, who’d seen Excalibur in a museum gift shop (and maybe watched Monty Python too many times), swore it looked like the real deal.

  “Nice prop,” he said, trying to sound casual while his brain screamed, That’s a legendary weapon!

  John glanced up from his cereal, mid-spoonful, and said, “Yeah, got it at a Renaissance fair. Foam core, super realistic.”

  Foam core? Alex touched it when John wasn’t looking. It was definitely metal, heavy as sin, and had an inscription in what looked like Old English. He didn’t dare ask more, mostly because John started whistling “Bohemian Rhapsody” and changed the subject to whether they needed more dish soap.

  The apartment was littered with these “props.” A pocket watch that ticked backward, engraved with “To J, from T.J., 1803” (Thomas Jefferson? Really?). A clay tablet with cuneiform that John claimed was “a replica from a museum gift shop.” A compass that always pointed west, no matter how you turned it, which John said was “broken, but sentimental.”

  Alex once found a wax-sealed letter in John’s junk drawer, addressed to “Master John” in calligraphy so perfect it belonged in a monastery.

  John snatched it away, muttering, “Old fan mail from a LARPing phase.”

  LARPing? Alex wasn’t born yesterday, but he let it slide, mostly because John offered to make tacos.

  The Nonchalant Ownership

  What drove Alex up the wall wasn’t just the objects—it was John’s attitude about them. He treated these artifacts like they were IKEA furniture. One evening, Alex tripped over a brass astrolabe on the living room floor. Not a plastic toy, but a heavy, intricate thing that looked like it had guided Columbus across the Atlantic.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Sorry, forgot to move that,” John said, picking it up and tossing it onto a shelf next to a Rubik’s Cube. “Just a prop for a… science fair thing.”

  Science fair? Alex was 28, and even he didn’t buy that. He googled “astrolabe” and learned they were used by astronomers in the Middle Ages. John didn’t strike him as an astronomy nerd, unless “nerd” meant “guy who probably stargazed with Galileo.

  The worst offender was a locket John sometimes wore, a tarnished silver thing with a faded portrait inside. Alex caught a glimpse when John left it on the bathroom counter (because apparently immortals forget their jewelry like everyone else).

  The portrait showed a woman in a Victorian dress, and on the back was engraved, “Eternal, J & M, 1891.”

  Alex, heart pounding, asked, “Who’s this?”

  John’s face flickered—actual emotion, for once—before he said, “Oh, just a family heirloom. Great-aunt… uh, Martha.” He snatched it back and started rambling about the weather.

  Alex didn’t push, but he lay awake that night wondering if “Martha” was John’s long-lost love from the 19th century. Or maybe his wife. He stopped himself there. That was too much, even for his 99% conspiracy brain.

  Alex’s Denial Dance

  Here’s the thing: Alex should have been interrogating John like a detective in a noir film. He should’ve been shaking the sword, demanding, “Where’d you get this, Highlander?” But he didn’t.

  Maybe it was the cheap rent. Maybe it was John’s killer lasagna. Or maybe it was that 1% of doubt whispering, “What if he’s just a really weird collector?” Alex’s brain did mental gymnastics to avoid the obvious.

  The sword? Could be a replica. The quill? Hipster nonsense. The locket? Maybe John was a romantic with a thing for antiques. Alex clung to these explanations like a life raft, even as the evidence piled up like a medieval armory.

  It didn’t help that John was a master of deflection. Every time Alex got close to asking a real question, John would pivot like a politician dodging a scandal.

  “Hey, John, where’d you get that weird coin with Caesar’s face on it?” Alex asked once, holding up a suspiciously pristine denarius.

  John didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, that? Got it at a flea market. Wanna order pizza?” And just like that, Alex was distracted by the promise of pepperoni.

  It was infuriating how well it worked.

  The Incident of the “Prop” in Action

  The final straw came during a rainy Saturday when Alex and John were stuck inside, binge-watching The Witcher.

  A scene with a sword fight prompted Alex to joke, “Bet you couldn’t swing that fake sword of yours like that.” John’s eyes glinted—never a good sign. “Wanna see?” he said, grabbing the “foam core” sword from his room.

  Before Alex could protest, John was in the living room, twirling the blade like a knight who’d trained with Charlemagne. He sliced through an empty pizza box with surgical precision, the cut so clean it could’ve been done with a laser.

  Alex’s jaw dropped. “Foam core, huh?” he managed.John froze, realizing he’d gone too far.

  “Uh, yeah, it’s… weighted. For realism.” He tossed the sword back in his room and suggested they switch to Brooklyn Nine-Nine.

  Alex didn’t argue, but he spent the rest of the episode staring at the wall, replaying the sword-twirling in his mind. No one moves like that unless they’ve fought in actual duels. Right?

  The Ongoing Mystery, Now With More “Props”

  Alex’s life with John was a paradox: he was 99% sure his roommate was an immortal hoarding artifacts from centuries past, but that 1% of doubt kept him from staging an intervention.

  The quill, the sword, the locket, the astrolabe—they were all “props,” according to John, and Alex let himself believe it because the alternative was too wild. He didn’t want to be the guy who accused his roommate of being a 500-year-old time-traveler only to find out he was just really into cosplay.

  Still, Alex kept a mental list of John’s “props” and their too-convenient excuses. He caught John polishing the sword late one night, muttering something in a language that sounded like it predated vowels.

  When Alex cleared his throat, John jumped and said, “Just practicing lines for… a play.”

  Sure, John. A play. Alex didn’t ask what kind. He just added it to the list and went to bed, dreaming of knights, quills, and a roommate who might’ve partied with Cleopatra.

  One thing was certain: living with John was never boring. And if Alex ever found a time machine in John’s closet, he wouldn’t be surprised. He’d just hope it came with a manual—and maybe a discount on rent.