When Amara Roman woke, the world around her was a blur of white light and metallic echoes.
For a moment, she thought she was back in the excavation tent — that maybe the soldiers, the shouting, the dust — had all been part of a fever dream. But then she felt the restraints on her wrists, soft yet firm, like padded bands woven with cables. The air smelled of antiseptic and iron. Machines hummed rhythmically, as though the walls themselves were breathing.
She tried to sit up. Pain spiked through her temples, sharp and electric. A faint pulse fluttered beneath her skin — not in her wrist or throat, but everywhere, like a vibration humming beneath the flesh.
"Easy now," came a voice, smooth and clinical.
A woman stepped into view — dark lab coat, hair tied in a severe bun, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses. "You've been unconscious for sixteen hours, Ms. Roman."
Amara's gaze darted around. The room was a sterile chamber, its corners glowing faintly blue from recessed containment lights. There was no window, only a single glass wall that looked out into a corridor where shadows moved silently.
"Where's Chuka?" she demanded, her voice hoarse.
The woman didn't answer immediately. She tapped a tablet instead. "Stable vitals. No contamination markers. Neural activity… elevated."
Amara tried again, louder. "Where is he?"
The woman looked up then, expression unreadable. "Dr. Nwankwo is safe. He's under observation."
That word — observation — made Amara's stomach knot.
"What am I doing here?"
"You were exposed," the woman replied. "During the containment of the artifact, you made physical contact with the amour's surface. We're conducting scans to ensure there's no… residual effect."
"Residual effect?" Amara repeated, disbelief thick in her tone. "It's an ancient sculpture, not a virus."
The scientist's eyes flicked briefly to the glowing monitor beside Amara's bed. "Artifacts can hold more than dust and history, Ms. Roman. Sometimes, they hold memory."
Amara frowned. "Memory?"
Before the woman could respond, the lights in the chamber dimmed slightly — a fluctuation that lasted no more than a second but made the air tighten, the hum of the machines falter. A faint pulse shimmered across the glass wall, like static crawling on skin.
The woman stiffened. "Stay still," she ordered, then turned toward the console near the door. "I'll be right back."
The door sealed shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss.
Amara exhaled shakily. For a moment, all was silent again — except for that low vibration under her skin. She looked down and noticed something she hadn't before: faint patterns along her forearm, bronze and almost iridescent, appearing beneath the surface like veins of metal.
Her breath caught.
She rubbed the skin hard, but the markings didn't fade. If anything, they glowed faintly warmer at her touch.
"What's happening to me?" she whispered.
The hum grew louder, and a soft flicker of light appeared in the corner of the glass wall. She turned toward it — and froze.
Inside the reflection, something moved.
It wasn't her reflection that shifted; it was behind it — a shadow, tall and still, humanoid in outline but blurred, as though seen through water. Two faint lights glimmered where eyes should be.
Amara's heartbeat thundered. "No…"
The light in the room dimmed further, the reflection sharpening. Now she could see the outline more clearly — armour, ancient and heavy, the same spiraled carvings she had traced with her fingers days ago in the dig site.
And yet it wasn't standing still. It leaned forward — toward her.
Her breath quickened. She stumbled back, almost tripping over the medical cables. "Get away from me!"
Her words echoed, but the figure didn't vanish. Instead, a faint whisper slithered through the room — familiar, rhythmic, ancient. She didn't understand the language, but the cadence sent chills through her spine.
Then, a single word formed clearly in her mind, not heard but felt:
"Blood."
Amara gasped, pressing her hands to her temples. The markings on her skin brightened. The hum beneath her flesh turned into a throb — not pain, but something deeper, like another heartbeat emerging inside her own.
The reflection shimmered again. This time, she saw something else — Chuka, his face pale, standing in a room much like hers. He was speaking, shouting, but no sound reached her. His eyes were wide with fear — not for himself, but for her.
"Chuka!" she screamed, slamming her palms against the glass. "Chuka, I'm here!"
The reflection wavered violently, light and shadow blurring into chaos. Then everything snapped — the image dissolving in a burst of static.
Silence.
The hum vanished. The light steadied. Amara stood trembling, her skin slick with sweat.
Then — faintly — a voice spoke through the chamber's speaker system.
"Amara?"
Her breath caught. That voice — cold, composed, familiar.
"Father?"
There was a pause. Then Chief Roman's voice came again, distorted slightly by distance. "You're safe, Amara. I'm monitoring your condition from Houston. Don't be afraid."
Her throat tightened. "You did this, didn't you? You ordered them to take the amour."
"For humanity's good," he said evenly. "What we found is beyond archaeology. It's the bridge between the divine and the human — between myth and evolution. You touched it first, Amara. It recognized you."
"Recognized?" she echoed. "You mean it's inside me."
"Not yet," Roman replied. "But the bond is forming. You can feel it, can't you?"
Amara backed away, shaking her head. "You're insane."
"No," Roman said softly. "I'm enlightened. And soon, you will be too."
The line cut.
For a moment, Amara just stood there, the sound of her breathing filling the sterile room. Then, from somewhere deep within the walls, an alarm began to wail — low at first, then rising into a sharp, metallic crescendo. The containment lights shifted from blue to crimson.
Her restraints released automatically with a soft click.
Amara didn't hesitate. She ran to the door, slamming her palm against the panel. The seal disengaged, and the corridor beyond flashed with emergency strobes.
Somewhere below, something heavy struck metal — once, twice — like a heartbeat growing stronger.
She turned back once, toward the mirrored wall. For an instant, her reflection lingered — but it wasn't her anymore. The eyes were glowing bronze.
And beneath her skin, the echoing pulse of the amour beat in time with her own.