For the next few days, Chuka tried to bury himself in work. He spent long hours cataloging samples, cross-referencing data, pretending that what he had seen in the archive hadn't changed everything. But the silence around him had shifted. It was no longer peaceful — it was listening.
He began to notice small things first. A door left slightly ajar after he was certain he'd closed it. The faint smell of cigarette smoke in the lab — though no one there smoked. A black sedan idling across from his dorm some nights, its windows tinted too dark to see through. He told himself he was being paranoid, but the feeling clung to him like humidity before a storm.
One evening, as he locked the lab, the reflection of a figure flashed across the glass door — tall, coat collar raised, gone before Chuka could turn. His pulse kicked. He scanned the corridor, but it was empty, lit only by the dull glow of vending machines and the hum of fluorescents.
He forced a laugh under his breath. "You're imagining things," he whispered to himself. Yet even his voice sounded unconvinced.
Across the city, Amara Roman was beginning to sense it too — though in her world, shadows wore tailored suits.
Her father had grown suddenly inquisitive. Over breakfast meetings and boardroom calls, Chief Roman mentioned Chuka's name too often, his questions veiled as idle curiosity. "Bright man, that archaeologist," he would say. "I hear he's made progress on the Nok fragments. You've met him, haven't you, Amara?"
Each time she nodded, she felt his gaze linger a moment too long.
One night, unable to sleep, she wandered into her father's private study — a place she hadn't entered since childhood. The scent of cigar smoke and leather-bound volumes clung to the air. On the desk lay an open dossier marked CONFIDENTIAL – FIELD OPERATIONS: JOS SECTOR. Her breath caught and a chill went down her spine because Inside were photos — satellite images, excavation layouts, and a familiar face bent over a trench.
Chuka.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. She shut the folder quickly and slipped into the adjoining corridor, her heart thudding. When her father entered moments later, she listened from behind the door as he made a call. His voice was low and controlled.
"Yes… he's close to finding it. Keep an eye on him. Discreetly."
A pause. Then, in a softer tone: "He must never know we found the first fragment."
Amara pressed a hand to her mouth, the weight of realization sinking in. Whatever her father's company was after, it wasn't just archaeology — it was something older, darker and something powerful.
The next day, she found Chuka sitting alone in the campus café, a cup of untouched coffee cooling by his hand. He looked exhausted — eyes sunken, fingers drumming restlessly against the table.
"You look like you haven't slept in a while," she said quietly.
He glanced up, startled, then tried to hide his exhaustion with a smile. "Just work. The usual ghosts."
Amara hesitated before sitting across from him. "Chuka… I need to tell you something about my father."
He studied her for a moment — the unease in her eyes, the tremor in her voice. Then, for the first time, he spoke the fear that had been stalking his thoughts since that day in the archive.
"I think your father's company knew about the relic long before I did."
Outside, the winter rain began again — steady, relentless — as if the sky itself was listening.