Rain washed the city in liquid silver, drumming on rooftops and running down neon-lit gutters like veins of light. The university town, usually loud with laughter and movement, had grown quiet under the storm's weight. Streetlamps flickered, their glow swallowed by mist. Chuka walked alone down the narrow lane that led to his apartment, his satchel pressed tight to his chest. Inside it lay the photograph — the one he should never have taken.
Each step splashed softly against puddles, but beneath the rhythm of his boots he thought he heard something else: footsteps, faint and deliberate, matching his own. He slowed. The echo slowed too. When he stopped, the silence grew unnaturally still. Somewhere behind him, a car door creaked open, then shut. A cigarette flared in the dark — a small red spark under a streetlight — before vanishing into the rain.
He forced himself to keep walking, eyes straight ahead. Paranoia, he told himself. Too many late nights, too many secrets clawing at his nerves. But by the time he reached the gates of the university residence, the air behind him felt charged — the kind of pressure that came before lightning.
His apartment was on the third floor of an old faculty building, its corridors dim and always smelling faintly of chalk dust and varnish. He locked the door twice, drew the curtains, and flicked on the desk lamp. The yellow light fell over a clutter of papers, field notes, and a single framed photograph of the Jos Plateau. He stared at it for a long moment — at the red earth, the endless horizon — wondering if he had made a mistake ever leaving it behind.
From the satchel, he withdrew the photograph he'd taken from the archive earlier that day: a terracotta figure, its surface carved with spiraling lines that converged into a single circular emblem at its chest. Under the lens, the clay had seemed to shimmer faintly, like heat rising off sand. He ran a thumb over the print now, half expecting to feel warmth.
He should have turned it in. He knew that. But after reading those old expedition logs — after seeing the corporate letterheads stamped on them — trust had become a fragile thing. The university's benefactors were too deeply entangled with Chief Roman's company. Too many files redacted. Too many questions answered with silence.
A knock startled him. Three sharp, deliberate raps.
He froze. No one visited unannounced.
Then came a whisper from the other side of the door — soft, but urgent. "It's me."
Amara.
He cracked the door open, scanning the hallway before letting her in. She slipped past him quickly, pulling off her hood. Rain glistened on her hair, catching the dim light like strands of obsidian. Beneath her soaked coat, she wore a deep-green silk dress that clung to her in places, darkened by the storm. The scent of jasmine and rainwater followed her in. Her eyes, sharp and uncertain, darted toward the window.
"You shouldn't be here," Chuka said, voice low.
"Neither should you," she replied. "They're watching you, Chuka."
He frowned. "Who?"
"My father's people. The foundation's security team. I saw the reports tonight — surveillance files, timestamps. They've been tracking your excavation data since Jos."
The room seemed to shrink around them. The hum of the lamp grew louder.
"So," he said finally, "it's true. The scholarship… the sponsorship… it was never about me."
She hesitated, biting her lip. "I think it was — at first. But now it's about what you found. My father's company isn't just funding archaeology, Chuka. They're buying history. Controlling what gets discovered — and what doesn't."
Chuka moved to the desk, spreading papers across the wood. The photograph of the figurine lay in the center, the circular emblem catching the light. "This symbol," he said, tapping it. "I've seen it before — in one of the British colonial field notes from 1934. They called it a 'Resonance Seal.' Claimed it emitted a frequency when exposed to direct sunlight."
Amara leaned closer, frowning. "A frequency? Like sound?"
"Or energy," he murmured. "Something beyond measurement. The reports were vague — most of the equipment back then couldn't detect it. But they knew it was powerful. One note said the energy 'responded to human proximity.'"
She stared at him. "You think it's still active?"
"I don't know. But whatever it is, the Nok knew it long before anyone else. And if your father's company is after it…" He trailed off, unable to finish.
Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating her face — the worry lines near her eyes, the way her jaw tightened when she was afraid. When the thunder rolled after, it felt like the sound came from beneath them instead of the sky.
They both jumped as a car engine started somewhere down the street — low, idling, then fading. Amara moved to the window but dared not peek through the curtains.
"They're close," she whispered. "We don't have much time."
"Then we need to move fast," Chuka said, gathering his notes. "The next step is in those archives — the ones sealed under the anthropology wing. I think they hid something there. Maybe a location, maybe a translation key for this pattern."
Amara hesitated, then nodded. "I can get us in. But once we start, there's no turning back."
Chuka met her gaze, and for a long moment the storm outside was just a pulse of white noise between them — distant, meaningless.
"I turned back once," he said quietly. "It cost me a discovery. I won't do it again."
Amara's hand brushed his as she reached for the photograph, her touch brief but electric. "Then we do this together."
Outside, thunder cracked again — louder, closer — and for an instant, the desk lamp flickered. The photograph trembled where it lay. Chuka's eyes widened. The symbol in the center of the figurine's chest seemed to shimmer faintly, pulsing once like a heartbeat before going still.
Neither of them spoke.
The hum in the air deepened, low and resonant, as if something old had stirred from sleep. Chuka felt it vibrate in his bones — a familiar rhythm he'd last felt years ago, kneeling in the red soil of Jos.
The relic was calling again.
And this time, it wasn't just whispering.