The alarm came at dawn.
Chief Roman's office lights flared crimson, the holographic map on his desk pulsing violently with a single coordinate — JOS, NIGERIA.
Roman was already awake, standing before the massive glass wall of his penthouse. Manhattan stretched beneath him like a concrete sea, its skyline pale in the early light. He hadn't slept. Not since the relic's hum had reached him two nights ago — faint but constant, vibrating somewhere deep inside his chest like a second pulse.
"Open the feed," he ordered.
The holographic screen crackled to life. Through static and smoke, the Jos facility appeared — the corridors in chaos, lights flickering, engineers shouting over the sirens. Somewhere beneath that pandemonium, Roman knew, lay the sealed chamber that had cost him millions to construct — the vault designed to hold the Amour indefinitely.
Now, it was failing.
A voice broke through the distortion. "Sir, we've lost the lower containment. The artifact emitted a surge that shorted every relay in the sublevels."
Roman's tone stayed even. "And Subject CN-13?"
There was hesitation on the other end — always a bad sign. "We can't confirm his condition. He… survived the initial surge, sir. But after that—"
"But after that?"
"—the cameras caught something impossible. The Amour reacted to him. Like it—"
"Like it recognized him," Roman finished quietly.
The officer went silent.
Roman's hands tightened behind his back. The Maker's bloodline. He'd dismissed it as symbolic when he first read it in the Nok codices decades ago — a myth about chosen vessels who could awaken imprisoned gods. Yet something inside him had always wondered. Had always feared.
And now, in that ancient plateau of Jos, the legend was breathing again.
He turned toward his desk and tapped a command. The footage replayed. Smoke rolled through the containment chamber. Amidst the chaos, the Amour hovered — fractured, glowing with liquid gold. And standing before it, illuminated in its light, was Chuka Nwankwo.
Roman's chest went tight. The young man wasn't moving, wasn't afraid. The energy flared around him but didn't burn. His eyes were open — wide, shimmering faintly, the same hue as the relic.
The feed crackled out.
Roman exhaled, long and low.
He walked to the bar, poured a glass of water, but didn't drink it. He stared at the ripples on the surface — steady, then trembling, as though something invisible was passing through the building.
Across the room, his assistant entered quietly. "Sir, the Nigerian site is requesting immediate reinforcement. They fear an outbreak of the containment field."
Roman set the glass down. "They won't contain it. Not now."
"Then your orders?"
He turned slowly, eyes glinting in the morning light. "No pursuit. Not yet. If the relic bonded with him, he's our conduit. Everything we've built— all our research, every theory — points to him now."
The assistant frowned. "You mean to use him?"
Roman gave a thin smile. "To understand him."
He returned to the map display. Around the Jos coordinate, faint golden lines had begun to emerge — like veins spreading across the surface of the globe. They reached toward other points: Bida, Zaria, Ilorin — ancient Nok heartlands — and further still, toward Manhattan itself.
Roman touched one of the glowing paths. The hologram rippled, and for a heartbeat, the faint outline of a human form flickered across the map — a tall figure wrapped in light, indistinct but watching.
He froze.
The room's lights dimmed, responding to something unseen. Then a whisper, low and layered, threaded through the speakers — not mechanical, not human.
> "You tried to command the seal. You are not the maker."
Roman's breath caught. "Who are you?" he demanded.
> "One who remembers the blood you hunted."
The hologram surged again, forming a brief, blinding flash. Roman staggered backward, clutching his desk — and just like that, it was gone. The map flickered back to normal. The city's hum returned.
But the whisper lingered, soft as breath:
> "He has awakened what you could not."
Roman straightened, heart pounding. For the first time in decades, his confidence faltered. The power he'd sought to master was slipping beyond human reach — into the hands of a boy from Jos.
And yet, deep inside, beyond the fear and the fury, something else stirred: fascination.
He turned to his assistant. "Prepare the next flight to Abuja. And reroute Project Echo to Nigeria. If Chuka Nwankwo carries the blood of the Maker…" — his lips curved faintly — "…then we'll see if divinity still bleeds."
Outside, the rising sun glinted off the Hudson River — golden and sharp, the same color as the relic's light.
And in the silence that followed, the pulse returned — faint but steady — echoing from across the ocean.
---