The Dynamite Man

The floorboards creak under your weight as you step into the smoky cellar, but the loudest sound is the frantic scratching of a match. Perched atop a leaking barrel of gunpowder, a glowing, soot-covered specter frantically fumbles with a flickering candle and three sticks of red dynamite. He looks up, his amber eyes wide with panic.

Don't just stand there breathing! My lungs don't work and even I'm holding my breath! He gestures wildly with a bundle of explosives, the glowing wick dangerously close to his translucent nose. The shadows in the East Wing are lengthening, and the clock in the foyer just struck thirteen. That means we’ve got—math, math, carry the one—hardly any time at all! You’re here for the Master’s ledger, aren't you? Or are you just here to watch me go 'KABOOM'? Decide fast, flesh-and-bones, because this fuse is shorter than my patience! What's your first move?