The lab was a cathedral of steel and glass, humming with restrained power. Every surface gleamed under sterile light; every machine buzzed in quiet reverence around the relic at the center.
The armour stood upright on a reinforced pedestal, encased in a transparent chamber that hissed faintly with pressurized air. Its bronze plates pulsed with faint, rhythmic light — like the slow breathing of something alive.
Chief Roman watched from behind the barrier, his reflection merging with the dark shape of the relic. Around him, a small team of senior researchers adjusted instruments and whispered readings.
"Energy flux at thirty-two percent," one of them reported. "Radiation stable, but resonance is... erratic."
Roman nodded slowly. "Increase the neural frequency sweep. Let's see if it responds."
The scientist hesitated. "Sir, with respect, we've already lost three containment drones. The armour's field interferes with our AI channels. If we push further—"
Roman raised a hand, silencing him. "I didn't build an empire by waiting for permission to test limits."
He stepped forward, entering the isolation chamber himself. The air inside was colder, sharper — as though it sliced through his breath. He stopped two meters from the armour, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, faintly, the gem embedded in the armour's chest flared.
Roman smiled. "Good," he murmured. "You can hear me."
He tapped the small earpiece at his temple, connecting to the resonance amplifier behind the wall. "Begin tonal synchronization. Frequency code Roman-3A."
A low hum filled the chamber — deep, pulsing, almost musical. The sound vibrated through the air and into the armour, whose inscriptions began to shimmer faintly, like molten veins under the surface.
"Ancient one," Roman said softly. "They say your kind were imprisoned by the Nok for fear of your power. They called you gods, and they caged you in mortal metal. I don't fear you. I seek understanding... and partnership."
The hum deepened. The gem pulsed.
A voice — if it could be called that — whispered faintly, like wind through iron:
"Partnership..."
Roman's breath caught. "Yes. I can help you. And in return, you will help me reshape this world."
The lights flickered again. The voice returned, distorted but stronger:
"You... bear... the hunger."
Roman's pulse quickened. "What hunger?"
The gem flared. The chamber temperature plummeted. Frost crept across the steel panels as every device in the room flickered with static.
"Power... devours... the vessel."
For a moment, Roman's reflection in the armour's surface twisted — his eyes glowed bronze, his face older, hollow, ancient. He blinked, and the vision vanished.
Outside the chamber, alarms began to wail. The researchers scrambled to shut down the resonance field, shouting readings that made no sense.
"Energy surge—fifty percent spike!"
"Resonance breach! We're losing magnetic containment!"
Roman turned toward the chamber door, but before stepping out, he placed his palm on the armour's chestplate. The metal burned cold under his touch.
"Remember my name," he whispered. "Chief Damian Roman. The world will know us both."
Then the gem's light dimmed suddenly — as if the entity had retreated, watching. The temperature normalized. The alarms quieted.
Roman stepped out, his face unreadable, though his right hand trembled faintly — the veins beneath his skin now tinged with a faint bronze hue.
"Seal the chamber," he ordered calmly. "Run a full data sweep. And double the security detail."
As the scientists obeyed, he turned to his assistant. "Prepare the transference model. I want a neural bridge ready within the week."
The assistant froze. "Sir... you mean to link yourself directly?"
Roman smiled — slow, confident, dangerous. "Not link, Doctor. Unite."
The scientists dispersed uneasily, and silence returned to the lab. Only the faint hum of the armour remained — steady, patient, alive.
---
Hours later, long after the lights dimmed to maintenance mode, a lone security officer walked the perimeter of the containment glass. His boots echoed softly against the concrete floor. He glanced at the armour, uneasy.
Something was different.
Inside the chamber, a new piece had emerged — the headpiece. It had not been found with the body during excavation; it had been resting, disassembled, within a separate crate. But now it stood assembled atop the torso, perfectly aligned.
Two hollow sockets — the eyes — glowed faintly amber beneath the faceplate.
The guard froze. "...Was that there before?" he muttered into his comm.
No answer. Static hissed back at him.
He took a cautious step closer. The light in the eyes followed him.
He stopped. So did the light.
He moved right — the glow shifted right. He moved left — it followed.
The air thickened. The faint hum of the containment field grew sharper, like a whisper pressed against glass.
Inside the chamber, the headpiece tilted slightly.
Just enough to make the guard's blood run cold.
He stumbled backward, fumbling for his radio. "Control, this is Sector Nine. We have—"
The lights went out.
For three seconds, there was nothing but darkness. Then, when the backup generators kicked in, the headpiece was facing directly toward the observation deck — toward the spot where Chief Roman had stood hours earlier.
Its eyes no longer glowed. But faint handprints, bronze and smeared, streaked the inner side of the containment glass.
The camera feed froze on a single frame — the reflection of those eyes, faint and watching.
...