Zain stared at the glowing coordinates, pulse hammering.
The logical part of his brain screamed to ignore them. This was insane—he was a coder, not an archaeologist. And yet, somewhere in his chest, that same heartbeat rhythm pulsed:
Dum. Dum. Dum.
It was pulling him toward Death Valley.
He started packing—just the essentials: a laptop, the manuscript, cash, an old revolver he'd inherited but never fired. Every move was fast, precise. His instincts said he didn't have much time.
He was halfway through zipping his bag when a click echoed from his door.
Not the locks.
The hinges.
He froze.
The door swung open—slowly, silently.
A tall figure stepped inside, dressed head-to-toe in black tactical gear. No face visible, just a smooth visor reflecting the dim light.
The intruder didn't speak.
Didn't aim a weapon.
Just stared.
Zain's eyes flicked to the manuscript on the table. The figure's helmet turned toward it—like it was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
Zain grabbed it first.
The figure lunged.
Zain ducked, smashing the desk lamp into the intruder's helmet. Sparks flashed. A gloved hand caught his shoulder, yanking him back with inhuman strength.
The voice that came from the helmet was distorted—like static tearing through a radio:
"Keyholder. The Seal keeper summons you."
Zain wrenched free, slammed the manuscript into his bag, and bolted for the window. He'd reinforced it months ago—but adrenaline made short work of his caution. Glass shattered. Cold night air hit his face.
He didn't stop running until his breath burned his throat.
By dawn, he was at the edge of the city, boarding a bus west.
His phone buzzed—again from that same unknown number. This time, it wasn't just a word.
It was an image.
The same symbol from the manuscript—
burned into the sand.
Beneath it, a timestamp:
Tonight. 23:59.
Death Valley.