The rain had thinned to a mist by the time Chuka and Amara reached the university's anthropology wing. The old building loomed ahead like a sleeping beast — its stone façade slick with water, its windows dark except for one dim bulb glowing at the far end of the hall. The campus was silent, save for the low hum of the generators and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.
Chuka adjusted the strap of his satchel, glancing at Amara. She had traded her soaked dress for a black coat and dark jeans, her hair tied back. There was something fierce in her eyes — not fear, but focus. The daughter of a magnate, standing in the rain beside an archaeologist, about to break into her own father's funded archives.
"Last chance to walk away," Chuka said, voice barely above a whisper.
Amara smirked faintly. "If I was going to walk away, I'd have done it when you picked the lock."
He gave a small, tense smile and turned back to the door. With a soft click, the lock yielded. They slipped inside, swallowed by the scent of dust, old books, and chilled air.
The anthropology archive stretched beneath the main library — a labyrinth of narrow aisles lined with metal shelves. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered uncertainly as if resenting their intrusion. Rows of boxes, folders, and artifacts slumbered under plastic sheets. The silence was thick — the kind that presses against the chest.
"This place always feels… different at night," Amara whispered.
"That's because most of the ghosts here have PhDs," Chuka murmured.
Her laugh was quiet but real — a brief, human sound against the sterile hum of the lights. Then they were all business again. Chuka led her through the maze of shelves until they reached a restricted section marked ARCHIVE 4B – PRIVATE COLLECTIONS. The gate was locked with a digital pad.
Amara pulled a small device from her pocket — sleek, metallic, the kind of tool only someone with corporate clearance would carry. She pressed it against the pad; a faint buzz, a click, and the gate slid open.
"Remind me never to underestimate you," Chuka said.
"Please don't," she replied, stepping inside.
The air grew colder. The deeper they went, the more the atmosphere shifted — less academic, more clandestine. The boxes here weren't labeled by expedition or date. Instead, they bore coded tags: CR-09, RZ-SEAL, Legacy A2. One crate, larger than the rest, had a faint warning label: HANDLE WITH LEAD GLOVES ONLY.
Chuka's pulse quickened. "These are the ones," he said. "The Resonance Seals."
He brushed the dust off a nearby crate and pried it open. Inside lay a stack of old field journals — leather-bound, yellowed by time. The top one bore the insignia of the British Colonial Research Mission, 1934. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it.
The handwriting was faded but legible. Sketches of Nok figurines filled the margins, each with notes about energy readings and "acoustic anomalies." But what caught his eye was a page in the middle — a series of symbols arranged in a spiral pattern, nearly identical to the carving on the Jos relic.
Amara leaned closer. "That's it," she whispered. "The same pattern."
Chuka nodded slowly. "But look at the notation — it's not decorative. It's a code. These lines… they're coordinates."
He reached for his notebook and began cross-referencing the symbols. The spiral wasn't random — it corresponded to latitudes and longitudes across West Africa. At the center of the spiral, a single mark stood out: a stylized eye, surrounded by triangles.
"That's near Kagara," he said, tracing the coordinates on a small map. "In Niger State. That's where the Nok culture reached its peak."
"Do you think the statue came from there?"
"I think it's pointing to there."
They exchanged a look — excitement tangled with dread.
Suddenly, a soft clang echoed from the far end of the corridor. Both froze.
Amara turned off her flashlight instantly. The darkness closed in like water. Footsteps followed — slow, deliberate, moving closer.
Chuka's heart hammered in his ears. He motioned silently toward a side cabinet, and they slipped behind it, crouching low. Through the narrow gap, they saw the beam of another flashlight sweeping across the room.
Two voices. Male. One said, "They said he'd come here. Check every aisle."
Security.
Amara's breath came in quiet bursts beside him. Chuka reached for her hand instinctively. She squeezed it — not in fear, but in steadiness.
The light passed inches from them, then moved on. The footsteps receded, replaced by the creak of the exit door.
Silence again.
They stayed crouched for a long moment, barely breathing, until Chuka dared to move. He gathered the journal, slid it into his satchel, and stood. "We have to go," he whispered. "Now."
They made their way back through the aisles, careful not to disturb anything. The rain had begun again outside — a steady rhythm tapping against the windows.
Just as they reached the exit, Amara paused, staring at something on the wall: a faded colonial map under glass. Dozens of red pins marked excavation sites across Nigeria, but one stood out — circled in black ink, the word "ORIGIN" written beside it.
Amara's voice trembled. "That's the same mark as the one in the spiral."
Chuka looked closer. "Then that's where we're going."
As they slipped into the rain-soaked night, thunder rolled across the sky like a warning drum. The symbol in Chuka's satchel pulsed faintly once more, unseen — its rhythm steady, yet alive.
And somewhere, in the dark corridors beneath Chief Roman's private office, a silent alert flashed red across a monitor as if on cue:
Unauthorized Access – Archive 4B. Subject Identified: C. Nwankwo.
Treat as urgent