Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts, tragically and inevitably, with plucked string instruments and that horizontal black bar fade. The scene slowly opens showing the promise of adventure in the sand dunes. The rest of the instruments join in—winds, percussion, a few high-pitched plinks. What is missing is a snake is about to rise from a wicker basket. This is the beginning of enough cultural insensitivity to piss off a whole department and a whole culture.

Then it pans out to show the vast Sahara Desert—conveniently empty except for a small perch of oasis at the side. The dunes shift left to right, like they’re waving and then, a shot of the blistering Egyptian sun. The camera attempts majesty but is trapped in a 16:9 aspect ratio, and even the faux-epic score can’t fake enough reverence because it’s literally the instrumental of Aladdin’s Arabian Nights. The entire scenery is something out of a tourism ad.

The intro continues. Of course, a camel appears… naturally. Perched on top, a rider draped in white and saddle brown. Beside them, holding the camel’s rein, a guide in black, face mostly obscured. Together, they trudge forward evoking something heroic, windswept, yet mysterious.

“Turn that off,” Mel winces, turning her head away from the screen but Arabian Nights still ringing from the speakers.

The screen freezes mid-pan. Camel, sun, dunes.

Mateo doesn’t flinch. He’s halfway into a bucket of buttered popcorn and watching the scene unfold like it’s an episode of The Office. “You haven’t even gotten to the part where they sexualize a woman holding a golden scarab—thick black eyeliner and all.”

Mel drags a hand down her face. “Of course they do. They always do. They think if they slap an oud over b-roll and show one close-up of someone lighting incense, they’ve achieved authenticity.” She snatches the remote, mutes the score, but the imagery keeps rolling—panning slowly across sand-swept ruins, slopes of desert, a lone palm tree, a puddle of water, something gold that is almost certainly plastic… it glitters though. Cinema magic.

“We spend literal years trying to teach context, and these idiots churn out a Sahara-softcore montage like it’s an introduction to The Mummy’s fourth installment. Inaccuracies aside, I liked the first and second movies. But the third? Let’s forget it exists. The world doesn’t need a fourth.”

“At least this one doesn’t mention curses.” Mateo leans back, wiggling his butter fingers at her. “Yet.”

Mel crosses to the screen, points at a particularly overexposed shot of a temple… with literal butterfingers. “That’s Karnak. They’ve flipped it. That’s the wrong side of the hypostyle hall. You’d have to crawl over three ropes and a Chinese tour group to get that angle.”

“I think they CGI'd the sky,” Mateo adds helpfully. “They made it bluer.” He pops a few kernels in his mouth, almost nonchalantly.

Mel groans, frustrated at this promotional video. “We are fighting for grants with this.” The video continues to play; she doesn’t know which part it is now at, but she does know it’s either wrong or insensitive. Mel doesn’t even know what’s worse: this travesty of a video muted or the one with the brass stereotypical score.

Mateo waits until she runs out of steam, then reaches into his bag. He produces an unsealed envelope, slid between his index and middle fingers, narrowly avoiding his butter clad fingers.

“We got a letter.”

Her eyes narrow. Mel knows this is either good or bad, a donor or a warning. “Please tell me that’s not another cease and desist from the Heritage Ministry.”

“Nope.” Mateo waves it with a small grin on his face. “From Dana’s office.”

Mel sits up a little straighter. Dean Dana Evans, a name that carries grand weight, is the President of the University, the Queen of Saving Deadlines and Donor Gifting Trees.

Mel stands to grab the envelope from Mateo. The man gives her a smize. “There’s a donor. A private one. Big wallet, serious interest.”

“How big?”

“Big enough that the Dean scheduled it herself. Two days. Her office. And before you ask… yes. You’ll need to smile.”

Mel glares at the envelope like it just insulted stratigraphy. The thing about archaeology is that it is a mix of both science and art. And it can’t be rushed. There can’t just be two days to mentally prepare for some oddball wanting proof that the Pyramids were created by aliens.

By the time the envelope’s open and the documentary’s been shut off (by the merciful Mateo Diaz), Mel’s already pacing. She has a pen behind one ear, another one in her hand, and a third one clamped between her teeth like she’s prepping for a signature campaign instead of a possible archaeology dig.

“It’s real,” Mateo confirms, scrolling through the email again on his phone. “Heather Collins. Alum. Published a few YA books in the nineties with titles like The Pharaoh’s Bride and Beneath the Nile Moon.” He glances up. “There’s probably a bodice rip in there somewhere.”

“Oh great,” Mel mutters. “Another romantic Egyptophile with too much money and a fetish for eyeliner.”

“She’s also on the board of the Walters Museum,” Mateo adds. “And gave a keynote at the Women in Antiquity conference last year. Title was Sands of the Self: Reclaiming Lost Herstories.”

Mel’s eyes narrow. “…That’s actually not bad.”

“I know.”

She sighs, rubs the back of her neck. “So it’s not just cosplay. Maybe she’s serious.”

Mateo grins. “Serious enough to pull Dana Evans out of the administration crypt and get her into a room with you.”

Mel groans and uncaps the nearest marker. Her whiteboard’s already half-filled with field notes, citation fragments, and a sketch of a falcon with the word “NOPE” scrawled under it.

“I need my people,” she mutters. “I’m not dragging a cluster of fresh doctorate candidates with baby teeth to a serious donor-funded site. We need fast, fluent, and field-broken… and worthy.”

Mateo nods. “Dennis?”

“Obviously. If anyone can read a crushed cartouche with three inches of shadow and a bad light angle, it’s Whitaker.” She scribbles his name at the top of a column labeled TEAM. “And Donnie.”

“You sure?”

“He once faked a customs form in five dialects to get a statue past an overzealous Dutch security team. It’s not illegal. It’s working around a senseless bureaucratic proces.”

“Fair. We need Donnie.”

Mateo taps his chin. “Princess?”

Mel smiles without meaning to. “If she says yes, we’re golden.”

Princess Dela Cruz: logistics whisperer, drone pilot, caffeine-powered goddess of grid systems. Mel once saw her take down a drunk European archaeology major with nothing but a clipboard and a Post-It. She’s not even tenured. She doesn’t need to be.

Mateo leans against the window, watching Mel’s brain go full pinboard. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Where you start planning a dig before the donor’s even confirmed the site. Or the location. Or the logistics. Or, you know, officially said yes.”

Mel looks at him like that’s irrelevant. “We’ll be ready. Let’s see if they know the gravity of sponsoring a dig.”

He grins. “I’ll start the calls.”

The front door creaks open thirty minutes later and Becca’s voice cuts through the whiteboard haze like a breeze: dry, amused, and ever-so-slightly nosy.

“Oh good,” she says. “You’ve entered your murder-board era.”

Mel doesn’t turn around. “It’s not murder if it’s for science.”

“That’s what murderers say.”

Becca pads into the office, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a sweatshirt that says Ask Me About My Disability So I Can Ruin Your Day. She surveys the room like she’s taking inventory. She smells faint marker fumes, a cup of stale cold coffee with a spilled crust as coaster... and one archaeologist in full academic feral mode.

Mateo waves from behind a teetering pile of monographs. “She’s in prep mode, Becca. Approach with caution.”

Becca smirks. “She always gets grumpy when she’s excited.”

“I am not grumpy.”

Becca reaches out and pokes Mel between the shoulder blades. “You’ve been pacing in five-foot increments for the last hour like a caged exhibit. You’re one dead battery away from reenacting the Curse of the Lost Charger.”

Mel finally turns; she gives Becca a look that’s only half fake annoyance. The other half is soft and tired and also full of guilt.

“I thought you were staying at Dana’s guest suite.”

Becca shrugs. “I changed my mind. I’m staying with Perlah for the week.”

Mel exhales, relieved. Perlah was a caretaker back when Becca had her first surgery—gentle, fiercely competent, and not afraid to call Mel out when she spirals.

“Good,” she says, more to herself than anyone. “Good. That’s good.”

Becca flops into the armchair, watching Mel with the same expression she’s had since they were kids. Patient. Amused. Slightly exasperated but always loving.

“You’re gonna say yes, right?” Becca asks. “To the donor? To the dig? To the whole dusty, ancient mess?”

Mel leans against the desk, looking at the whiteboard like it’s a portal.

“I don’t know yet,” she admits. “There’s a lot of layers. Politics. Press. Legal bullshit.”

Becca grins. “So. Tuesday?”

Mel blinks. “Huh?”

Becca tilts her head. “That’s when you’ll know. You always pretend to deliberate, but you already decided. Tuesday, the morning of, you’ll put on those awful boots and your cargo pants and the necklace you never take off—”

“I don’t—”

“—and you’ll walk in like you own the tomb. I’m glad you don’t have allergies.” Becca adds, getting a chuckle from Mateo.

Mel starts to protest but doesn’t because Becca’s right, despite being the younger sibling, Becca is always right.

Mateo, still half-buried in emails and marker fumes, lifts a hand. “Should I prep the possible site maps?”

“Do it,” Mel says.

And that’s that.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

Frank Langdon wears his suits like armor. Today, it’s navy with a faint gray pinstripe which Stanley Tucci’s Nigel Kipling will describe as sharp, masculine, classic, but also, forgettable. He’s been playing the long game in climbing the ladder since law school, and now, supposedly, he’s at the threshold. Supposedly.

Michael Robinavitch is already seated when Frank walks into the conference room. Robby doesn’t budge—not even a small smile. The Senior Partner looks like he’s about to perform surgery with a fountain pen (an allegation that apparently, he has done— only a minor one though).

“Frank, you’ve got the capital,” Robby says, skipping pleasantries. “But not the votes.”

Frank blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. The money’s there. Your metrics are solid. But when it comes to naming new partners, there’s a little more at play than billables and tenure.”

“Such as?”

“Optics,” says Cassie McKay, striding in with a Starbucks cup and the energy of a woman who sleeps five hours, still runs six miles, and is the World’s Best Mom. “Narrative, dear Francis. Whichever partner gets added this cycle is going to be part of the next campaign brochure. And no offense, Frank, but ‘billable plain-suit wearing litigator with a messy divorce and two kids’ doesn’t exactly scream visionary global impact.” Cassie is blunt but she does it out of love and care.

Frank frowns. “I win cases.”

Robby raises a brow. “So did I. Before they stuck me on DEI oversight and art law cases in Vienna.”

“You loved Vienna.” Frank reminds his boss.

“I loved the schnitzel,” Robby says. “Not being babysat by a board of eccentrics and a Swedish heiress with a never-bathed pet lemur.”

Cassie slides a folder toward Frank. “There’s an opening. Legal liaison. It’s in Egypt. It’s a Donor-funded dig through the Jeffersonian and Oxford.”

“I do litigation,” Frank says. “Not babysitting sand.”

Cassie smiles. “The elder partners… you know… the ones who you want backing you love this kind of optics.”

He opens the folder. There’s the typical desert, an old brownish parchment with scribbles of a map, and a headshot of a woman—around early-thirties, sharp-eyed, disheveled in that accidentally intimidating academic way.

“What is this?”

“It’s archaeology,” Robby says. “Cultural preservation. Civil oversight. CSR. You know, ‘corporate social responsibility.’”

Frank snorts. “You mean the stuff we usually bury on page seventeen of the firm’s annual report?”

“Exactly,” Cassie chirps.

He flips the page. There’s a quote highlighted at the top of the project brief: ‘Archaeology is about memory. It is about power. It is the stepping stone to know who gets remembered and who doesn’t.’ Below it, another photo—this one of a museum dig from a few years ago. It’s the same woman with her neat braid and blazed eyes.

“She doesn’t look friendly,” Frank mutters.

“She’s probably not,” Robby says. “But people like her… they’re good and they’re smart. You’re not going to Egypt to make friends. You’re going to represent the firm’s and the donor’s interests, liaise with the university, and not do anything that gets us sued.”

Frank sighs. His chest tightens almost reflexively, like it always does when Abby’s name comes up in his head without warning. Then, he thinks about Tanner’s lacrosse and soccer practices and Jamie’s piano and ballet lessons. Then, he remembers the mortgage and the condo association… and the private school fees. He hears his late dad’s voice telling him: “you’ve got to earn the kind of life you want, son, it’s not gonna come find you. We’re not like the rich.”

“So, this is… what? A test?” Frank huffs. Call him ambitious and brazen and even, pretentious but this sweet and comfortable life of luxury is what he wants for him and his kids.

Cassie shrugs. “More like a hoop, Francis. But it’s a high-visibility one.”

“You ever have to do this?” he asks Cassie but he already knows the answer.

“No,” she says like it is a matter of fact because it is. “My dad’s a big shot at  A&O Shearman. I got waved through. Tough luck, Frank. It’s the luck of the draw.” Again, Cassie’s words hits but she makes it a point. This career and path Frank chose—it’s not about equality nor equity. It requires a lot of making up to catch up to the privileged ones.

Robby leans back, watching Frank with a soft look of reassurance and sympathy. Frank treats Robby as his mentor, a self-made man who came from the same metaphorical pod as him.

“Look,” he says. “You asked how bones and statues help humanity? They don’t. Not directly. Not obviously. But this diversion from your usual cash-ridden assholes with planes and briefcases? This makes you look like you care. It makes you look like you believe in something other than billable hours. Something a fraction of those with the biggest voting shares actually believe in.”

“I do believe,” Frank says, sharper than he means to. “I believe in my kids having a future. A stable one.”

“Then take the damn trip,” Cassie says. “Play the game. Prove the privileged ones—not me—wrong.”

Frank looks at the folder again and etches in his memory his next office, a hot and empty desert and the caricature of his future coworker—a woman with desert dust on her cheek and ancient script behind her like a halo.

He closes it. He sighs.

“…When do I leave?”

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

The meeting takes place in a dusty boardroom on the third floor of the Jeffersonian’s administrative wing. It smells like an old vintage bookstore filled with echoes of a noisy boxed air conditioner. Francis Langdon already thinks he is a little overdressed for this affair.

Dana Evans greets him with a smooth palm and a voice practiced in donor dinners and university politics. Heather Collins— tall, prim, radiating in old money— who writes novels and collects European art, introduces herself.

Then, there’s Mel. Dr. Melissa King walks in a little late, wearing a linen shirt that’s only buttoned to the sternum and cargo pants that have seen actual war. Her hair’s up in a messy bun and her glasses are a tad bit crooked on her nose.

“Late. Sorry! Is this the smooch meeting?”

Heather laughs, as if Mel’s joking.

Frank’s first impression: hostile. Second impression: inconveniently attractive for someone who clearly hates me without knowing who I am. Third impression: …God help me, this is going to be a disaster.

Dana clears her throat. “Dr. King, this is Frank Langdon. He’s the legal liaison assigned by Ms. Collins & her legal representation. He’ll be accompanying the dig and ensuring all contracts, permits, and reporting are—”

“—Babysat?” Mel finishes. She tosses herself into the chair across from Frank. “Right. Legal babysitting. Great. Because if there’s one thing archaeology needs, it’s more paperwork and fewer artifacts.”

Frank doesn’t bristle—not visibly and not now… maybe later when this is all over. Frank is good at meetings. He wins depositions by doing less. He folds his hands and offers the smooth, impersonal smile he reserves for people who think being a lawyer is a personality flaw.

“I’m not here to interfere,” he says. “Just to make sure the donor’s funding is used appropriately, and the university’s reputation stays intact.”

Mel raises an eyebrow. “Is that what the suit’s for?”

Heather interjects, too brightly: “Frank comes highly recommended. He’s here to make everything run smoothly, darling. A bridge between worlds.”

Mel mutters something about bridges and colonialism.

Frank pretends not to hear.

Dana cuts in before the mood sinks any further into the tomb. “Dr. King, your research proposal is already drawing media attention. We want this expedition to reflect the best of what modern archaeology can be… collaborative, transparent, respectful.”

Mel groans. “I know. I’ve written the grant applications, remember?”

“And we want to support you,” Dana says with a gentle voice but her eyes rigid at Mel. “Which includes adding oversight, not to undermine you… but to protect you.”

Frank notices the flash of something in Mel’s eyes. It seems like fatigue or maybe even fear but is buried beneath the usual sarcasm and scorn, but they’re still there… all the same. The reasons behind… he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t intend to find out. He almost feels sorry for her. But this expedition is also worth something to him.

“I don’t care who’s on this expedition,” Mel says, standing, grabbing her bag. “As long as they stay out of the way, read the room, and don’t touch anything they can’t spell.”

Heather exhales like she’s just finished a Pilates class. “She’s brilliant,” she says to no one in particular. “She’s just… passionate.”

Frank looks at Dana.

“She always like this?”

Dana smiles with her mouth. “You’ll get used to it.”

He won’t. But he already knows he’ll try.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

The post-meeting debrief has moved to Mel’s living room. It’s cozy but cluttered—something Mel doesn’t mind but Becca sometimes dotes on. There are papers spilling from folders, an old reproduction of the Narmer Palette on the wall, a half-eaten takeout container on the coffee table. The air smells faintly of shawarma and sandalwood.

“He’s a walking, talking NDA,” Mel announces, dropping her water bottle onto the cluttered table with a soft thud.

Mateo blinks awake on the couch. “The lawyer?”

“‘Legal liaison,’” she says, air quotes so obvious they might as well be in neon. “Francis Langdon. Esquire. The human embodiment of ‘we’ll circle back.’”

Becca gently closes her magazine, eyes curious. “Was it a bad meeting?”

Mel exhales sharply. “It was a smothered meeting. He sat there like he was waiting to sign our lives away, or like—I don’t know—like he didn’t want to be there but also somehow still felt superior the whole time.”

Becca tilts her head, thoughtful. “What did his voice sound like?”

Mel pauses, then shrugs. “Like… a nice voice. But fake. Like he was trying to sound calm at me. A fake nice calm voice.”

Mel paces barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, gesturing with half a falafel. “He kept saying things like ‘if the conditions are met’ and ‘we’ll be monitoring scope’ — like it’s a weapons deal. Like he thinks digging up the birthplace of human meaning is some PR liability. This is not my first rodeo.”

Mateo is curled up on the couch, arms crossed behind his head. “The man is taller than me,” he says, deadpan. “I was already on edge.”

Becca sits cross-legged on a floor cushion, sorting M&Ms by color on a napkin. “Was he mean?”

Mel stops pacing. “No. Not necessarily. That’s the worst part. He was polite. Measured. Almost like… diplomatic, but the kind where you know they’ve already made up their mind.”

Becca thinks about this, gently placing a green M&M beside the blues. “So… he was calm. But you didn’t trust him.”

Mel exhales. “Exactly.”

Dana’s perched on a stool by the kitchen pass-through, still wearing her blazer, now with her heels off and a beer in hand. “He was good-looking, though.”

Mel shoots her a glare.

“What? I’m married, not blind.” Dana takes a swig from the frosted bottle.

Mateo lifts his eyebrows. “He had that kind of tired-handsome thing. Like a divorcee who’s good with his kids and emotionally repressed.”

Becca looks up, interested. “What does emotionally repressed look like?”

“Buttoned-up shirt,” Mateo says. “And eyes that apologize without saying anything.”

Mel makes a strangled noise. “Please stop analyzing him like he’s a dig site or a relic.”

Becca tilts her head. “But you’re upset. And you only get this tense when something matters.”

The room falls silent in agreement to Becca’s quick turnaround.

Mel sits down next to her. “I don’t like corporate oversight. That’s all.”

Becca nods, accepting the answer though her older twin’s reason is not enough. “Okay.” She offers Mel the last red M&M (her favorite) and Mel takes it, quiet for the first time since walking in.

Dana raises her bottle. “To bureaucratic nightmares and desert charmers.”

Mateo lifts his glass of flat Coke. “May they stay on opposite ends of the grid square.”

Mel rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

Frank drains the last of his whiskey and sets the glass down with a quiet clink, the low hum of the bar wrapping around him like a thick fog. He rubs his jaw, feeling the weight of the day settle hard across his shoulders. The shadows in the room feel like they are pressed even closer and he feels like he doesn’t exactly belong here. But this is better than staring at his reflection in some sterile office.

Robby slides onto the stool beside him, shaking his head as if he already knows Frank’s mood. “You’ve got the money for that partner slot, but not the votes. Classic.”

Frank gives a bitter laugh. “So now I’m the guy sent to babysit a sandpit.”

Cassie takes a step and leans casually against the bar. She flicks her gaze over with a half-smile. “The partners love this kind of optics. ‘Look, we care about history. We care about humanity.’ All that corporate social responsibility nonsense.”

Déjà vu. Frank has seen this film before, and he doesn’t really like the ending. He’s going to soldier through though. “I’m a litigator. I deal with contracts and courtrooms. Not… ancient ruins.”

He shakes his head, feeling the tension in his jaw tighten. The idea of being dragged into some dusty dig—representing a donor no less—feels like a punishment disguised as a promotion. But as Cassie and Robby repeatedly remind him, the babysitting gig is not a punishment. It is a kind of positioning. “Helping humanity,” Robby says, like some kind of charity work… it actually is.

Frank is skeptical. How exactly does digging up old bones and broken statues help anyone? He has taken some liberal arts classes and sees their value but a bigger significance… that is his question. He frowns at the thought. The world is already messy and brutal. He deals with real problems—divorces, custody battles, contracts gone sideways, people cheated by the system. And here he is, supposed to act like some kind of hero because of a few chunks of rock.

His gaze drifts and brings him to the image of his next office and next coworker — the sharp headshot of a woman with fierce eyes, someone who looked like she could bulldoze through an army without breaking a sweat. “That woman,” he muttered under his breath. “Dr. Melissa King… a handful. I know it.”

Robby grins, excited for this change of pace and turn in his mentee’s life. “Looks like you’re in for a show, Langdon.”

Frank sinks back into his stool, the noise of the bar blurring around him. The more he thinks about it, the more tangled the whole thing felt. This isn’t just about law or money. It is about navigating a world that valued appearances over grit, about playing a role he did sign up for yet underestimated its gravity.

He thinks of the team he’d heard about—archaeologists, academics, and the like. Probably a cult, really. “A History channel documentary but with attitude,” he says, and that description stuck. He can already imagine the eye rolls and the constant buzz of theories and passion. It’s not exactly his scene especially when he’s been honed by raw courtroom drama.

Cassie’s voice cuts through his thoughts, softer this time. “You always did have a thing for intense women.”

Frank’s lips twitches in a reluctant smile and doesn’t argue. Maybe that is the worst part of all.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

Frank steps off the plane like he’d wandered into the wrong movie. Crisp chinos, brown-black loafers so polished they could’ve been a mirror, and aviators that scream he has no idea about the manual work he is getting into. The instant blast of Cairo heat hits, and his confident stride turns into a slow, reluctant shuffle.

“Jesus. It’s like a hairdryer set on full blast,” Frank grumbles, peeling off his blazer, already regretting his choices. “And no AC in the truck? What is this? Desert survival 101?”

Donnie, the team’s unofficial jester, chuckles as he clapped Frank on the back hard enough to nearly knock him sideways. “Bro, you packed like we’re goin’ to a rooftop brunch, not digging in the Sahara.”

Mel doesn’t bother hiding her amusement. “This isn’t the Nile cruise, Mr. Langdon. Your loafers won’t cut it here. You’re going to need boots and maybe a helmet. And also a big bottle of sunscreen.”

Princess leans over to Dennis with a smirk. “How long do we give before he melts into a puddle?”

Dennis doesn’t look up from his notebook. “My money’s on ninety minutes, tops.”

Just then, Victoria and Samira arrive, smooth and professional in crisp blouses and smart trousers. They exchange polite nods but gives Frank a look like he is a rare sighting of an alleged extinct species.

Ahmad, their guide and security, is the last to appear—tall, calm, steady as the pyramids themselves, dressed in a flowing galabia that billowed gently in the warm breeze.

Mel’s eyes flick toward Frank’s gleaming Rimowa suitcase sitting awkwardly on the cracked tarmac.

“Watch out,” she warns, “the local wildlife might find your luggage more interesting than you.”

Before anyone could react, a curious goat ambles over, sniffing the shiny case like an alien artifact. Donnie springs into action, grabbing a tarp and flinging it over the case like a pro.

Frank jerks back, nearly dropping his sunglasses. “Hey! Hands off my—”

“That thing costs more than my entire field kit,” Mel says flatly, eyes on the tarp-wrapped luggage.

Frank shots her a look. “Exactly. And it’s going to survive this trip.”

Mel folds her arms, unimpressed. “My kit works.”

Frank sighs, already bracing for the next hundred surprises.

They load up the truck. Mel starts barking orders. Donnie jokes about Frank’s “fancy” packing while Princess teases Dennis about his “camera obsession,” and the museum reps roll their eyes but staying polite.

As they settle in, Mel takes the seat beside Frank in the open bed of the truck, while the others climb aboard with gear, supplies, and enough water to survive a small siege.

Frank adjusts his aviators and tried to dive into business immediately.

“So, Dr. King,” he begins, voice low, “about the donor contracts — I need to review the clauses on artifact ownership and liability before we move further.”

Mel cuts him off with a raised eyebrow and a faint smile. “Mr. Langdon, can we not do legal speak until we’ve survived the first ten miles of dirt roads?”

He blinks — half amused, half exasperated by her tone.

“I’m just trying to get ahead here,” he mutters before staring out at the endless stretch of golden desert.

“Yeah, well,” Mel says, “if we’re gonna survive this, you’ll need to loosen up.”

Surrounded by nothing but sand and sun, Frank unconsciously studies her, noticing the way her eyes sparkle when she talks to the team about the dig. Mel is awkward yet blunt. She sports a geeky smile often but is still unapologetically feisty. Frank thinks that maybe she isn’t just some stuck-up academic.

She catches him staring at her and she quirks a brow. “Already bored, Mr. Langdon? Lighten up and enjoy the bumpy ride.”

He smiled, grudgingly. “Not quite my style.”

Mel nudges him with an elbow. “That’s gonna have to change.”

The truck rattles forward, dust swirling up in lazy clouds, the city skyline shrinking behind them. Frank’s thoughts drifted — this team, this place, is unlike anything he has ever known. Yet, he is intrigued.

The truck’s tires crunches over cracked asphalt before veering onto a red-dusted dirt track, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled over everyone like a thin veil. Behind them, the Cairo skyline shimmers in the heat—a jagged silhouette commerce and culture bodied in glass towers, minarets, and ancient stone buildings—blurred by the desert haze.

Frank shifts in his seat, feeling every bump through the truck bed. His loafers scrape against the metal floor, while his knuckles are white from gripping the side rail tighter than he liked. The heat soaked into his clothes, making his polished chinos feel suffocating.

Mel, on the other hand, seems made of sun and grit—like a demigod springing from Horus and Nut. Her hair is pulled back into a magically neat and polished braid and her loose linen shirt effortlessly billows in the hot breeze. She glances sideways at him… quite amused in Frank’s deep thought.

“You okay back there, Mr. Corporate?” she teases.

Frank tries to smile but it came out more like a grimace. “It’s… different. I didn’t expect the whole ‘off-road rally’ vibe.”

Mel laughs, not mocking just direct and real. “Welcome to archaeology.”

Frank tries again—this time smoothing his voice. “So, what’s the real challenge here? Sand, weather, local politics?”

Mel sighs; her eyes fix on the endless dunes slowly melting into the horizon. “All of it. The desert plays by its own rules. One minute it’s a sunbaked furnace, the next a freezing nightmare. Then, there’s the bureaucracy.”

Frank leans forward, his curiosity nudging past his usual reservations. “The bureaucracy? What’s the hold-up?”

Mel’s eyes flick to him; her lips tug into a wry smile. “Let’s just say the red tape here is a labyrinth designed by someone who hates progress. Permits take months, approvals are endless, and half the time the rules change mid-dig.”

Frank nods slowly, picturing the mountain of paperwork. “Sounds… frustrating.”

“It is,” she says in full of agreement. “And that’s partly why you’re here. To keep the labyrinth gate guards off my back… with the endowment and all.”

Frank raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“Let’s just say,” Mel smirked, “I like digging up history, not wading through legal red tape and being too fixed on a matrix.”

He opens his mouth, about to pry further and giving into his curiosity of the headaches she and her team face—when the truck hits a rough patch of gravel. The jolt sends a cold splash of water from the cooler tumbling toward him.

Frank catches the bottle just before it toppled over, blinking in surprise.

“Smooth roads,” he mutters sarcastically.

Princess retorts, “You’re gonna have to get used to this, Mr. Bond.”

Frank catches Mel’s eye again, and this time he sees something else. He thinks of it as respect and to some extent, maybe even a hint of challenge.

Trying to break the tension, Frank glances at the Rimowa case tucked under the tarp and utters, “Still can’t believe that thing’s surviving this.”

Mel grins. “It’s got a tarp and some goat’s blessing. Should be fine.”

Frank shakes his head and settles back against the truck bed, watching the desert roll by in endless waves. His mind buzzes with all the things he thought he knew—and how little they matter here.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the dunes, Frank finds Mel looking at him from the corner of her eye.

“So,” he says, “what’s your bet? How long before I’m completely out of my depth?”

Mel smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in a playful way. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t bet against you yet. But you’ve got a lot to learn.”

Frank grins at the confidence. This time it is a little bit real.

Frank shifts again—uncomfortably on the hard metal bed of the truck, the relentless bumps shaking him like a marionette. Every jolt pulls at his nerves, reminding him just how far this was from his orderly office, his crisp bespoke suits, and the predictable hums within the law firm. The relentless heat from the sun and the invasive desert dust cling onto his skin like a constant irritant.

He wonders how he ended up here. He glances at Mel as she sits beside him with an easy grace, unbothered by the heat or the grit, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if she could already read the secrets buried beneath the sand. Her deep spontaneous laughter still echoes faintly in his ears and Frank realizes it is a sound he narrowly missed.

Frank’s mind races, tangled with his exhaustion. This isn’t just a long trip. This is a journey into a world that refused to fit inside the neat categories he’d spent his life getting in and relying on. The endless bureaucracy she’d mentioned continues to gnaw at him. It is indeed a maze of inefficiency and contradiction, but Frank can justify it. He is part of that system whichever part of the courtroom he stood. But what is worse to him is that notion of purpose itself—digging in the dirt, chasing fragments of dead civilizations. To what end?

He watches Mel’s profile in the slanting sunlight. The desert seems to belong to her. She thrives in it in ways he couldn’t grasp—as if she is driven by some fierce hunger that has nothing to do with contracts or profits. He reflects on his own work that revolved around readings, filings, approvals, meetings, cases, hearings, depositions… the list goes on. He feels his own box is somewhat shallow and trivial compared to this raw pursuit of something ancient, something untouchable.

Frank is lost in a maze of his ponderings. There is nothing to do while in this bumpy ride on a back of a truck anyway. A question he fixates on is: What exactly is she hoping to find? His brows furrow. He tries to scan his mind palace for answers. A piece of pottery? A shard of a story long forgotten? Why does it matter so much? He feels a flicker of impatience with himself. It is easy to dismiss this as impractical, romantic nonsense — until he realizes the quiet intensity in Mel’s eyes is real despite the uncertainty. It is more real than the polished presentations and legal jargon he deals with daily. It is beyond the certainty of his desired outcome to always win.

His thoughts drift to the fragile balance of the team around them. Each person sitting with him is a thread in a tapestry he barely understands. The street-smart Donnie tosses a tarp over his suitcase. The nervous Dennis fiddles with his compass. The sassy Princess captures moments on her phone (Frank concurrently worries about his phone’s battery life… being in the middle of nowhere and all). Even the stoic Ahmad, who is ever watchful, seems part of a dance that Frank is only beginning to learn the steps to.

But for all that, Frank feels like he is stranded between two worlds. He is the outsider, the intruder in this land of sand and stories, trying to impose order on chaos. The heat, the dust, the endless questions — they are more than physical discomforts. They are metaphors for everything he doesn’t yet comprehend. They are relics of the life he strived to escape from.

Yet despite it all, as he glances again at Mel — that woman in the magazine who is confident, fierce, unflinching — he can’t deny this feeling of grudging admiration. She is in her element here, and maybe that is a kind of strength he needed to understand, if not yet embrace.

The late afternoon sun blazes down as the team work to set up base at the dig site, a dusty patch of earth marked by scattered rocks and half-buried pottery shards. Mel moves with practiced ease. Her originally pale skin is already sun-kissed and her demeanor grows grittier, issuing orders with a sharp confidence that felt natural and unshakable.

“Ahmad, the southwest marker goes there, not a meter closer to the old ruins,” she says, her voice light but firm. Ahmad, the tall, composed guide and security presence, shakes his head with a patient smile then goes on to shift the stake a few inches.

Frank lingers nearby, clutching a clipboard overloaded with forms and waivers. He clears his throat, voice slicing through the low hum of the team’s chatter.

“You all need to sign this before someone fractures their pelvis on unstable ground,” he says, handing out papers like a man distributing life preservers on a sinking ship.

Mel laughs, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re a parasite with a clipboard.”

“And I’m here to prevent lawsuits,” Frank shoots back, scanning the group. They’re back to their old snappy dynamic. “I’d appreciate it if you all took this seriously.”

Mel steps forward, hands on hips. “And I’m here to find lost civilizations. Pick your hero.”

The team exchanges glances. Donnie snorts softly. Dennis plays nervously with his hat brim. Princess rolls her eyes but smiles beneath her breath. Even Ahmad seems amused but wary.

Frank watches them all, feeling the familiar prick of being the outsider. The rules he is trying to enforce are like lines in the sand—easily ignored, lightly stepped over by those who lived this world.

Mel catches his gaze, smirking like she’d caught a fly in her hand. “You know,” she says in a low teasing voice, “the rules don’t really apply here. They’re more... guidelines.” The words hang in the dry air like a challenge, mingling with the scent of dust and sunbaked earth.

Frank’s jaw tightens. He can feel her feist settling under his nails, the fading haze of the sun beating down on the back of his neck, but the ache in his gut is something else. “Guidelines won’t cut it when someone breaks a leg, or worse. Or when the university gets sued because someone ignored safety protocols.”

She tilts her head, amused but wary. “You sound like my grant committee. Always worried about the paperwork. I get it— the money matters.” Her eyes flick briefly to the faded tents and battered vehicles that made up their base. “But you don’t seem to get why we do this. We’re chasing history, not profits.”

Frank’s mind flashes back to sterile boardrooms, calculated smiles, contract clauses whispered like secrets. This is a different world entirely, and yet here he is—the outsider with his pristine chinos now carrying the weight of corporate oversight in the middle of the Sahara.

He inhales sharply, pushing through the irritation and fatigue. “It’s not about profits. It’s about accountability. The donors, the university—they want assurance their investment isn’t going to disappear into a sandstorm. You’re passionate, I respect that. But passion doesn’t pay the bills or fix legal liabilities.” In his chinos and dusty loafers, Frank looks more of a volunteer trying to get enough signatures for a petition.

Mel crosses her arms, the muscles in her forearms flexing with a faint sheen of sweat. “We’re funded on grants that come with strings attached, and I’m perfectly aware of the fine print. But I’m the one who’s out here every day with the team, risking everything to uncover the truth buried beneath this earth. You want to talk about accountability? Try standing in the sun for ten hours straight without a break.”

Frank glances at the others—Donnie wiping sweat from his brow, Dennis nervously adjusting his glasses, Princess shading her eyes while glaring playfully at him—and he sees the truth in Mel’s words, the weight of devotion that no legal form could capture.

Still, his voice stays steady. “I’m not here to slow you down. I’m here to make sure you can keep going. This partnership isn’t just about digging up relics. It’s about preserving your work, your safety, and your future. If we don’t follow some rules, the whole thing falls apart.”

Mel’s eyes narrow, not in anger but in challenge. “And if we follow every rule to the letter? We’ll be buried under red tape before we find the first shard. I get that you have to protect the firm, but I protect this dig—and my team. Sometimes, that means bending the rules a little.”

Frank takes a breath, his throat dry and his patience running a bit thin. “Bending rules is one thing. Breaking them is another.”

A flicker of a smile touches Mel’s lips, the kind that said she wasn’t about to back down. “Fine. But don’t expect me to carry your clipboard the whole way.”

He looks at her, and for the first time, he sees past the stubbornness to the fierce intelligence and deep passion and responsibility she carried. She is reckless. She is infuriating. But she is the heart of this project. And that is a truth he couldn’t ignore.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows over the cracked earth as they stood—two stubborn forces tethered by necessity.

Mel turns toward the truck where the others were loading gear. “Look, the funding isn’t endless. We’ve got a private donor who’s itching to see results, and the university’s board breathing down our necks for monthly reports.”

Frank nods, already calculating the risks. “Which means we need clear documentation, insurance compliance, and chain of custody for any finds. Otherwise, the entire project could be frozen or worse.”

“Yeah,” Mel wryly grins, “which is why I’m keeping you around. Even if you are a walking, talking NDA.”

Frank chuckles and the tension cracks down a notch. He can’t say he was thrilled to be here, standing ankle-deep in dirt and argument, but maybe this is where the real work—and the real story—lived.

Around them, the team murmurs in agreement, half-irritated, half-accepting. They don’t like Frank’s interference, but they understand his role. If the project is going to keep running, they needed him—even if he felt like a fish out of water.

Donnie claps Frank on the shoulder. “We’re a bit of a cult out here, yeah. But you keep us out of jail, and we’ll keep digging.”

Frank gives a small, tight smile. The sun drops further and the group, with Frank, begins to settle into a rhythm that is both chaotic and hopeful. Somewhere beneath the dust and paperwork, a fragile alliance is forming.

After a bumpy, bone-rattling hour-long drive from the dig site, the team piles out, sticky and coated in dust. Mateo mutters something about never trusting anything without wheels made after 1980, eyeing the battered truck with skepticism. They reach the Desert Inn.

The “Desert Inn” is less of an inn and more of a haphazard collection of stone and sand clumsily arranged, dust swirling beneath prayer flags fluttering in the evening breeze. The walls are cracked and aged, the air inside thick and still—no AC, no fans, just the ancient desert heat settling in like an unwelcome guest refusing to leave. Four small, cramped rooms house eight people, and there is one bathroom that smelled like regret and missed opportunities.

Room assignments are handed out like cards in a high-stakes game: Victoria and Samira are off with knowing smirks and whispered gossip. Mateo and Donnie disappear quickly, already debating who bore the worst mosquito bites. Dennis and Princess exchange wary looks.

“He snores like a cursed pharaoh,” Princess warned with a dry laugh, “but he’s harmless.”

Frank is left with the only remaining option.

Mel.

They exchange a glance—a split of amusement and resignation—as they stepped inside the room. Two creaky beds smashed together are under a single grimy window, the kind that didn’t open all the way, trapping the day’s heat inside like a slowly closing tomb but may prove helpful if cold winds try to freeze them in the dark night.

Frank’s eyes catch a small, dark shape perched on one bed—a perfectly still scorpion that he has only seen on the National Geographic. Frank shrieks. He swallows. “Is this venomous?”

Mel, barely suppressing a grin, replies, “Only if you scream like that again.”

Frank takes a cautious step back, heart thudding. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. In North Carolina and New York, we don’t get scorpions. Or anything that crawls around like that.”

Mel’s eyes sparkles with entertainment. “Well, welcome to the desert, Mr. Langdon. Nature’s a little more... vivid here.”

He rubs his neck, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “I mean, at least no one’s asking me to outrun a rattlesnake, right?”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Mel warns, sliding the magazine under the bed with practiced ease.

The ensuing scorpion eviction is an elaborate performance. Mel jabs it with the magazine, trying to flick the creature onto the floor, but it skitters away with alarming speed, vanishing under the bedframe.

“Great,” Frank mutters. “Now it’s lost. Probably plotting its next move.”

“Relax,” Mel says with a smirk. “It’ll go find a nicer place to crash—probably your shoes.”

They both sit down, Frank carefully choosing the bed without the scorpion—which turned out to be the one right next to the door. Mel immediately begins unpacking, tossing clothes and gear onto the other bed like she has camped in worse conditions a dozen times over. She probably has.

Without hesitation, she drops her bag and starts changing behind the thin curtain of a blanket that barely separated the beds.

Frank’s eyes snap away, pretending to inspect a suspicious stain on the floor. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“You going to be okay over there?” Mel asks without looking up. Her voice is light but edged with challenge.

He shrugs, cheeks flushing. “I’ll survive, Dr. King. Just not used to sharing a room with the local wildlife.”

Mel chuckles softly. “You’ll toughen up. Desert nights are a rite of passage. Also, call me Mel, Frank.”

The room settles into a tense quiet, broken only by the distant murmur of the desert night—the occasional calls of night birds, the soft hum of insects weaving through the still air.

Then, unexpectedly, Frank feels a light brush against his leg. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He inspects sideways; Mel is half under the blanket, eyes twinkling mischievously teasing Frank and his disdain for the Desert Inn. He shifts away and turned toward the wall, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

The desert night drags on, heavy and restless. Frank lays rigid, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling, heart still pounding from that unexpected brush beneath the sheet. The heat presses in like a weight, but it isn’t just the desert air keeping him awake. At least it isn’t too hot for him to sweat like a pig and dampen the sheets or is it too cold that he needs to share the blanket with her.

Mel, just a few feet away, seems utterly at ease—a stark contrast to the tight coil of tension he is feeling. She is in her element here. She is gritty. She is fearless. She is alive. He, on the other hand, feels like an ill-fitted suit trying to survive a sandstorm. He wants to bet against himself but does the opposite. He is here to be named partner. He is here to do just that.

Mel’s steady breathing is the only rhythm in the stillness, but Frank’s mind races in the bleakness—paperwork, legal risks, the absurdity of being stuck here, with her. The desert is too raw, too vast, and he is disoriented. His desire to live the comfortable and cosmopolitan life of a highly respected lawyer didn’t come easy but he didn’t expect getting to that next step in the ladder is going to be this hard.

The golden sunrise emerges across the horizon, dust particles catching the light like tiny fireflies. The room is still warm but oddly, it is cooler than the night before. Frank wakes, blinking against the sun slanting through the grimy window.

Mel is already awake, perched cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone with that same unshakeable calm.

Frank clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Next time, can we book a place with functioning air conditioning?”

Mel smirks without looking up. “You mean like a hotel? We’re not in Paris, Francis.”

He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’d survive better in Paris right now.”

She finally glances over, eyes bright and teasing. “Survive? Or thrive?”

Frank snorts. “Can be both. You haven’t heard me order a good bottle of wine yet.”

The door creaks open and Princess pipes her head in, already dressed in practical layers, hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid.

“You guys awake? Breakfast is a thing somewhere in that dusty truck.”

Mel grabS her sunhat, tossing it on. “I’m starved.”

Frank sighs, standing and stretching. “And I’m probably going to miss civilization.”

As they step out, the entire camp stirS with life — Donnie and Mateo loading gear, Dennis grumbling softly about the snoring marathon Princess had warned about.

Mel nudges Frank as they walked toward the truck.

“You looked out of place last night,” she says—stating an observation.

Frank hesitates. “I am out of place. This whole trip feels like a detour from what I should be doing.”

Mel’s gaze is steady. “Sometimes the detours are where you find the things that matter.”

He looks at her. She is sunburnt, dusty, completely at ease in a world that was foreign to him.

“Maybe,” he replies quietly. “Maybe I’m just not ready to find them yet.”

They climb into the back of the truck, the desert sun warming their backs, the vast unknown stretching ahead. Somewhere beneath the heat and dust, a fragile understanding is beginning to form — but still built on tension, clashing worlds, and maybe, just maybe, something more.

Chapter Text

The desert sun climbs higher, beating down relentlessly as the team spread out over the dig site. The dust and heat is coating everything in a thin, gritty layer — and everything includes Frank’s patience.

He finds himself brushing the sand out of his borrowed boots every ten minutes, grimacing as some stubborn grains still have worked their way past every barrier.

“Seriously,” Frank mutters for the fourth time that morning, dumping out the contents of one boot. “How do you people even walk in this?”

Dennis, wiping his hands on his already dirt-streaked pants, edges up with his trademark half-smile. “Welcome to archaeology, Langdon. You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll just learn to hate sand as a concept.”

“Constantly no WiFi?” Frank asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dennis nods like this was the gravest news of all. “None. No room service either. And if you’ve got to go — well, there’s the tent.”

Frank’s eyes widen. “You mean... the portable toilet?”

Dennis gives him a look like he was explaining quantum physics. “Yes. The porta potty. Pooping in a tent sounds more dignified than it is. It’s hot, and there’s sand. And the occasional scorpion or spider lurking nearby.”

Frank swallows. His recent experience with a scorpion wasn’t really attuned to his image. He looks at Mel, who was crouched nearby, calmly brushing away centuries of dust from one of their equipment cases.

Mel catches his glance and shoots him a grin. “You’ll adapt. Or at least survive.”

“Only because I don’t want to embarrass myself by crying over a bug.”

She chuckles, a sound that somehow softens the harshness of the Egyptian sun. “Just wait until you find out about the snakes.”

Frank gives a half-hearted groan. All for Partner.

Meanwhile, across the site, Victoria is hovering near Mateo, a coffee cup in hand and a smile that was too bright for so early in the morning.

“You always drink it black?” she asks, stepping closer.

Mateo, unfazed by the attention, shrugs. “Coffee’s coffee. Just here to keep you awake.”

Victoria laughs, a little too loudly. “Well, I’ll bring the sugar next time.”

Mateo gives her a sidelong glance, amused. “Your optimism’s enough already.”

She flushes but kept smiling, handing him a second cup. “Just trying to be helpful.”

Dennis is nearby, trying not to eavesdrop but failing utterly. Princess is setting up the excavation grid with practiced efficiency, muttering about cursed pharaohs and sleepless nights.

“She snores like one,” Dennis whispers to Frank, who raised an eyebrow.

“Is that bad?”

Princess shoots him a look that could curdle milk. “You haven’t heard it yet.”

Donnie grins, picking up the tools. “Bet I can out-snore him.”

Frank shakes his head, still amused.

Mel and Frank settle into an easy rhythm of work and conversation. Mel wipes her brow, then glances at Frank who is struggling with the straps of his satchel… which probably costs a thousand dollars.

“You know,” she says, “archaeologists don’t usually bring briefcases.”

Frank smirks. “I’m the legal liaison. If I don’t have paperwork, I don’t exist.”

Mel raises an eyebrow. “And yet you’re here, surrounded by dirt and history.”

“Somebody’s got to keep the university from completely burning the donated money.”

She laughs and stands up, brushing sand from her pants. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Frank’s eyes flick to the inscription on one of the printed material. “What’s that say?”

“Ancient prayers, probably for a safe journey or a bountiful harvest,” Mel says softly, eyes shining. “Every mark tells a story.”

He watches as she chews the end of her pen in absolute focus.

“See?” she looks up suddenly, “now, you’re paying attention.”

He clears his throat. “I’m trying not to get in the way.”

Mel tosses him a cold water bottle, the droplets cool against his hand. “You’re not.”

He adjusts some of the gear lying too close to her sun, careful to give her space. “Not much of a beach bum, but I’ll take the compliment.”

Their banter slides into a comfortable groove.

“You don’t seem like the type who’d last long out here.”

“Neither do you,” Frank shoots back, grinning. “At least at first glance.”

Mel shrugs, sweeping the dust from a fragile shard. “Maybe we’re both surprises.”

Later, Victoria approaches Mateo again, lowering her voice.

“So, what’s the best find you’ve had?”

Mateo thinks for a moment. The entire gang has been through a lot. He, then, smiles. “Finding a piece no one’s touched in thousands of years. It’s like meeting a ghost.”

Victoria’s eyes sparkle. “That’s beautiful.”

Across the site, Dennis barks out instructions with his usual cheery condescension. “Remember, kids, we will brush, not aimlessly dig. We want to uncover history, not destroy it.”

Donnie rolls his eyes but complied, careful with the fragile soil. Princess mutters something about cursed relics under her breath, keeping a wary eye on Dennis.

Frank leans toward Mel during a quiet lull. “You really know your stuff.”

Mel glances up, looking at him. “It’s not just stuff. It’s the past, alive in the present.”

He nods, feeling the weight of her passion settle in his chest. “Maybe this won’t be so bad,” he admits.

Mel smiles. “See? Sand builds character.”

Frank looks back down at his dusty boots. “I’m counting on it.”

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

The room is dim, lit only by the fading glow from the cracked window and a flickering lantern someone has recently set on the floor. The desert air is slightly cooler but to it still clung heavy and dry, swirling dust motes.

Frank sits on the edge of the bed, one boot off, bent over with exaggerated focus, shaking loose grains of sand from inside. He dumps a handful of stubborn grit onto the cracked floorboards and grimaces.

Mel lounges on the other bed, sprawled across the thin sheets like she owned the place, flipping through a battered notebook filled with sketches and scribbles. She looks, her eyes narrowed.

“Why did you even come out here, Langdon?” Her tone is a little blunt, borderline rude, but there is no real malice. Just... her usual guarded edge.

Frank freezes, one hand still holding his boot mid-shake. “Excuse me?”

Mel raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you’re clearly not built for this. Sand in your shoes every five minutes, whining about snakes and scorpions. Why put yourself through it?”

Frank clenches his jaw, annoyance flickering behind his eyes. “I’m here because someone has to be. Because there’s legal oversight and contracts and... other things you wouldn’t understand.”

Mel’s gaze sharpens at him, her voice dropping low, almost teasing. “You really have a knack for sounding like a bureaucratic textbook when you’re annoyed.”

Frank shoots back, “Maybe you have a tendency to be rude even when you don’t mean to.”

She smirks, unrepentant. “Touché.”

Frank stands and pulls out his phone, glancing at the screen. “Finally.” There is a lift in his voice. “One bar.”

Mel perks up. “You getting signal here?”

He nods, quickly opening the messaging app. “Kids.”

Frank taps out a quick video message, smiling tiredly as he waved. “Hey, Tanner, Jamie. It’s Dad. Just wanted to say I miss you guys. This place is... something else. I’ll be home soon. Stay good, okay?”

He hits send, then looks up to find Mel watching him.

Her phone is still dead, the screen dark. “Mind if I send a message to my sister? No signal here either.”

Frank passes the phone across the small space between them. She types quickly, thumbs moving fast, before handing it back — her fingers brushing his, fleeting and accidental. A current.

She leans back against the headboard, arms crossed behind her head like she didn’t care, but her eyes linger on the phone for a second longer than necessary.

“Family’s complicated,” Mel says softly, surprising him with her candor and confidence. “My sister’s autistic. We don’t always see eye to eye — but I’m her caretaker. Her constant. I guess I’m driven by this… need to understand people, humanity, on a level most don’t even bother to see. Maybe because I’ve seen how fragile things get when you really pay attention.”

Frank nods slowly. “I get that. I want stability for my kids—more than just comfort. I grew up... middle-class. Not poor, but not safe, either. The world’s ruthless. Prestige, ambition — it’s not just vanity. I want them set up to be more than okay. I want to be a shield.”

Mel’s eyes focus on him, lingering on his thoughtful look. “Humanity’s been unfair since the beginning. Always has been. Empires rise, people fall, nobody gets out clean. Maybe that’s part of being human. At the end of the day, we’re all just bones waiting to be dust.” She shrugs. “I’m ambitious too—but not for status. For answers. For the puzzle. For making sense of what little we can while we’re here.”

Frank studies her quietly, the lines between their worlds blurring a little. “We want different things,” he says softly.

“Clearly.”

“But maybe,” Frank adds, voice gentler now, “that doesn’t mean we can’t understand each other.”

Mel nods slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe not.”

They sit side by side, the quiet between them growing comfortable — two very different people learning to bridge a desert of difference with nothing but shared stories and sandy boots.

A few minutes passes in that stillness. Frank’s phone buzzes softly in his hand. He glances down. It is a video from Mel’s contact — Becca. He hits play, volume low.

“Frank?” Becca’s voice is warm with a hint of teasing. She is sitting on a couch somewhere much cooler than this desert oven, a blanket thrown around her shoulders. “Isn’t that the handsome lawyer?” She grins, winking into the camera. “Tell Mel to stop pretending she hates you.”

Frank lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh through his nose.

“What?” Mel asks quizzically.

“Nothing,” he says smoothly, slipping the phone into his pocket, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a barely-suppressed smirk. “Just... family.”

Mel rolls her eyes, muttering something about lawyers and secrets, but she doesn’t press.

The wind howls softly outside layered with a few murmurs from the campfire in the distance and the creak of old wood beneath the weight of the night.

Mel shifts under her sheet, curling into her side. “Don’t snore,” she warns.

“I don’t snore.”

“You look like you snore.”

“Just go to sleep, King.”

She smiles faintly, eyes already half-closed. “Night, Langdon.”

Frank watches her for a moment. He lies back on his side, letting out a long breath as the dry heat finally settle into something almost tolerable.

They don’t talk again, but for the first time since landing in this relentless, ancient place — they both sleep a little better.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

A plume of dust curls on the horizon before the sound of the engine reaches them. Princess is the first to spot the truck, shielding her eyes with a gloved hand.

“Supply run incoming,” she calls, hopping off the edge of the pit with a grunt and a cloud of displaced sand.

“About time,” mutters Donnie, swiping sweat from his brow. “I’m down to two clean shirts, one working lighter, and a can of beans so expired it predates the Middle Kingdom.”

From her perch on the shade tarp, Mel laughs at Donnie’s statement. “You say that every week.”

“And I mean it every week.”

The truck screeches to a halt in a spray of sand and overworked brakes. Out hops Trinity Santos — denim shorts, aviators, and a sun-scorched grin that made her look like she hadn’t slept in a week and didn’t care. She slaps the hood closed.

“Hello, my sunburned children!” she announces, arms flung wide like a messianic mirage.

“Trin!” Princess sprints forward and tackled her in a hug that knock them both a half-step sideways.

“Jesus, girl,” Trinity laughs, ruffling Princess’s curls. “You been doing curls with donkeys again?”

“Just crates of water and unresolved anger.”

Trinity peels away to greet the others; her energy is infectious.

“Mateo, still handsome,” she says, slinging an arm around him and giving his cheeks two loud smooches, one on each side. He looks bashful yet pleased.

“Donnie, still morally questionable,” she adds, aiming a mock-kick at his boots.

He tips an imaginary hat. “Only on weekdays.”

She reaches down to tousle Dennis’s hair mid-unloading. “Professor Tech Support! Tell me we finally got that solar inverter?”

Dennis points at a half-buried crate. “That’s the theory. No promises until it’s plugged in and hasn’t caught fire.”

“Progress,” Trinity says with mock gravity. She turns, pausing at the edge of the group.

Her gaze lands on Frank. She tilts her head slightly, like she was trying to identify a bird that had wandered into the wrong climate zone.

“Ah. So you’re him.”

Frank blinks, not quite sure what expression to settle on. “Me?”

“The prosecco-sipping suit who made Dennis cry in the budget spreadsheet.”

“Only teared up,” Dennis corrects Trinity in a voice so flat as he lifts a clipboard defensively like a shield.

Frank clears his throat and gives a tight, polite smile. “Nice to meet you. Trinity, right?”

She offers a hand, which he shakes. Her grip is stronger than his. “Welcome to the land of sweat, sand, and people who’ve been awake since 4:30 and still forgot their SPF.”

“Sounds… inviting.”

“We save the air-conditioning and polite small talk for Cairo. Out here, you get sunstroke and sarcasm.”

Behind them, the team starts unpacking the truck: crates of bottled water, field rations, coils of rope, a new shade canopy, a replacement tablet for Dennis, and a box that made Princess gasp.

“Oh my god, are those real marshmallows?”

“Imported from heaven,” Trinity declares. “I had to seduce a customs officer and fight a nun.”

“You do the Lord’s work,” Princess whispers in wholehearted gratefulness.

Mel strolls over with a grin. “Trin, please tell me you brought the acetone.”

“Two bottles. And a new brush. Also, Becca says hi, and not to murder anyone this week.”

“No promises.”

Trinity’s grin falters slightly. “Hey, speaking of murder: what’s the vibe with the trench?”

Mateo sighs. “Southern wall collapsed again yesterday. Ahmad and I spent the morning resetting the supports.”

“And the topography drones keep glitching,” Dennis adds. “I think the sandstorm last week scrambled their mapping sensors. We lost part of quadrant C’s rendering.”

“Great,” Trinity says. “I’ll add it to the list of things I’m not qualified to fix.”

Mel frowns. “You’ve been our field fairy godmother since before we were funded.”

“More like overcaffeinated mule.” She wipes sweat from her brow and looks toward the open dig site, where shadows stretched long and crooked over the sand. “Still. You’ve carved out something special here.”

Frank glances at her — and then at the others. It wasn’t just familiarity. It was years of shared sunburns, in-jokes, injuries, and improbable saves. They operated like a hive, a messy, brilliant hive buzzing around Mel’s impossible dream. And Frank — always the observer — felt the edges of his own outsider status more sharply.

Mel catches the flicker in his expression. “They’ve been through a lot together,” she said quietly, so only he could hear. “They were all strangers once.”

Frank gives a half-laugh. “And now they make me feel like an intern at a family reunion.”

She looks at him. “Same. Took me years to stop biting.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You stopped?”

She doesn’t answer, just smiled.

Trinity stays the night, setting up a makeshift kitchen near the edge of the camp using stacked crates and an ancient propane stove she’d named Calcifer. Over rice, vegetables, and spiced lamb that simmered all afternoon, the team sprawls out on worn blankets and low stools, plates balanced on knees and laps.

The desert is now cooler and the stars bleed into the darkening sky. Lanterns flicker from tent corners. The quiet hum of generators underscores the rustle of paper plates and the clatter of cutlery.

Frank sits slightly off to the side, legs crossed, chewing slowly. Not excluded, not exactly ignored — just somewhat orbiting the gravitational pull of people who had long since become familiar with each other’s rhythms. Bursts of laughter rose and fell like waves. Cross-conversations ping between corners of the gathering like a game only they know the rules to.

Princess is mid-story — hands animated, curls bouncing — about their last dig in Luxor, which apparently involved Dennis accidentally proposing to a tour guide with a scarab ring.

“I was cataloguing the damn thing!” Dennis protests through a mouthful of rice. “She takes it from the tray and puts it on. That’s not on me!”

“She said yes,” Mateo reminds him.

“She said ‘maybe.’ In Arabic. Which I didn’t understand until after she started texting me restaurant reservations.”

“You still have her number,” Princess says sweetly, “and she still sends you pictures of cats.”

“Unsolicited!” Dennis throws up his hands in protest and defeat.

Victoria laughs into her tea, her cheeks flushed. “Honestly? Bold of her. Good for her.”

Frank chuckles softly. Mel catches the sound and glances at him.

Trinity leans over to Mel eyeing the other end of the circle where Victoria chats up Mateo. Trinity mutters, “Is she flirting or having a stroke?”

“Both,” Mel says as she sips her tea.

Mateo, for his part, seems utterly baffled but not displeased with the innocent attention. He fiddles with a napkin. Donnie passes Frank the last bottle of cold beer from the cooler. “No glass, sorry. Trinity drank out of the only mug and then used it for oil brushes.”

Frank hesitates. “I’m good, thanks.”

Princess plucks the bottle from Donnie’s hand and sets it down beside Frank anyway. “Initiation begins now, Suit,” she flashes a wide grin. “Drink the questionable beer. Help with dishes. Live through Dennis’s nightly monologue about alien sarcophagi.”

Dennis opens his mouth. “I only do that on Thursdays.”

“It is Thursday,” Princess says, her eyebrows bouncing.

“Oh. Well, buckle up, then.”

Frank stands to help clear plates, and for once, no one stopped him. Trinity tosses him a dishrag and a wink. “Wash like the fate of archaeology depends on it.”

He takes the plates and nods at the statement. Something warm curls in his chest — the quiet relief of being allowed, if not quite accepted.

“You okay?” Mel asks upon his return. Her voice is low and her eyes unreadable in the firelight.

“Yeah,” he says. “Feels like camp.”

“Just with more bureaucracy and fewer ghost stories.”

“Oh, you think.”

That’s when Dennis’s voice cuts through the conversation — sharp, excited.

“Wait, wait—what the hell is that?”

Everyone turns.

Dennis has his camera up, scanning the western edge of the site, lens flicking rapidly through settings. He crouches, steadies, and then he clicks.

“I just saw movement,” he says and points afar. “Over by the north wall.”

“Jackal?” Trinity asks.

“Too tall. Two-legged. Humanoid.”

“Ghost?” Princess says hopefully because ghost sounds better than anything else right now.

“Better,” Dennis mutters as he adjusts a dial. “Unknown.”

Mel stands up, half-curious, half-alert. “Where exactly?”

Dennis waves vaguely. “Gone now. Might’ve been a reflection. Or a heat shimmer. But—” He holds up the preview screen of his DSLR, and everyone leans in, squished.  There it is: the grainy outline of a figure at the ridge. It is slightly hunched and distorted by distance and light, but it is there.

“That’s…” Samira whispers. “That’s not one of us, right?”

“No one’s out there,” Donnie says. “I did a headcount before dinner.”

“I always wanted to be haunted,” Princess whispers.

“Maybe it’s Kiya,” Mateo adds, only half-joking but still gets a round of a mix of giddy and nervous laughter.

Dennis bows theatrically. “Thank you, thank you. I'll be available for supernatural photography bookings through the end of the season.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “You actually got it?”

“For once,” Dennis says. “Proof. Probably just Ahmad checking on the site, but—hey. Let me dream.”

Mel looks toward the ridge and narrowed her eyes. “Or someone who doesn’t want to be seen.”

The group quiets for a moment. Trinity claps her hands. “Well. Either we’re cursed, or someone’s trespassing. Either way, let’s roast marshmallows.”

“Right,” says Princess, already digging into the box and popping three pieces in her mouth.

“Now this is science,” Donnie says, holding out a stick with a totem of multi-colored marshmallows.

They drift towards the fire pit, voices lifting again, the unease fading under sugar and smoke.

The wind has lessened to a breeze, brushing over canvas tents and stirring the embers with soft whispers. Above them, the sky remains stretched black and enormous, stars pricked across it like pinholes in a big fabric. The campfire crackles in the center of their makeshift circle.

Frank, now seated between Donnie and Mateo on a woven rug, finds himself smiling before he could stop it.

The group slowly settled in — into blankets, old canvas chairs, bits of scavenged camp furniture that formed a half-circle around the fire. Mateo leans back on his elbows. Donnie passes around a bag of marshmallows and unevenly cooked popcorn. Trinity is half-asleep in a faded folding chair with a cigarette she never lit dangling from her mouth.

Mel stands up and stretches, spine cracking faintly. She sits on a low crate with a steaming mug in hand. She looks out at the group with faint eyes. Her eyes flick across the flames, catching Frank’s gaze for a half-second before skimming away again.

“Story time?” Trinity asks, lazily nudging a sandal toward the fire, already kicking sand into the blaze like she knew exactly where this is going.

Mel shrugs. “You’re all sleeping twenty yards from a possibly cursed tomb. Might as well know who you’re offending.”

A ripple of interested groans and exaggerated gasps come from the team. Frank leans forward before he could stop himself — intrigued despite everything. He folds his arms loosely. He braces himself for something dry, academic—but Mel’s voice is a different this time around: low, clear, and almost hypnotic. It’s story time.

“Amenhotep IV,” Mel begins, “was considered as the heretic Pharaoh. Later history renamed him Akhenaten—the man who dared to abandon all the gods of Egypt except one: the Aten, the sun disc. He uprooted centuries of tradition—shutting down temples, firing priests, tearing down statues and monuments.”

She lets the words hang in the night air, the firelight flickering across her features like a flame dancing in a draft.

“Imagine the audacity. The obsession. A man so convinced of his vision of divine truth, he believed he could rewrite the very fabric of the world.”

Dennis whistles softly. “That’s some serious god-complex.”

Mel smiles thinly. “More than that. Akhenaten wasn’t just obsessed—he demanded obedience. He remade the capital to a place no one had heard of. He made the sun disc the only god, the only truth. And if you didn’t follow—”

“—you vanished,” Donnie finishes quietly, leaning forward and drawing the others in.

Mel nods slowly. “Exactly. And that’s where Kiya comes in. Not Nefertiti, the famous queen you’ve all heard about. Kiya was different. A concubine, maybe. A second wife. Some say she bore him a child, others say she challenged him. But her fate is a mystery. Her name was chiseled from monuments, erased from history.”

The fire crackles, and Samira exhales. “Vanished... erased... that’s terrifying.”

“Was she murdered?” Victoria asks with growing curiosity.

Mel’s gaze softens. “Maybe. Or exiled. Silenced. Forgotten. But someone fought to remember her. There are fragments—scattered traces of her story in the ruins we dig through. It’s those fragments we chase.”

The camp falls quiet again. They hear the wind picking up, blowing faint grains of sand like dust motes in a sunbeam.

Frank’s eyes remain fixed on Mel, but his thoughts have spun elsewhere. Akhenaten’s obsession with a single divine ideal, Frank thinks. The rigidity of this man to the point of purging of anything that didn’t fit his vision and the destruction of complexity in favor of a simplified truth… Frank draws comparison to it. He lives that in a similar way. His own faith—the strict rules of his life, the desire for progress and comfort, the identity he built and is keeping up with... these things because of how he saw the supremacy of privilege and of riches. And Mel, he realizes, she echoes more of Kiya—wild, complicated, refusing to be erased or tamed by his neat categories. Frank feels a sharp pang of something — probably guilt or even longing. He does know that he is currently feeling the slow burn of a question he wasn’t ready to answer.

Princess nudges him with a grin. “Don’t look so haunted, Suit. It’s just history.”

“History,” Mel repeats softly, “is never just facts. It’s people—messy, broken, trying to survive their own stories.”

“Kind of like us,” Mateo agrees with Mel’s claims.

Victoria smiles shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We all carry stories no one else sees. And sometimes, the best parts are the ones hidden between the lines.”

Trinity raises an eyebrow at Frank. “So, Lawyer Man—what’s your take? Truth, or tidy lies?”

Frank hesitates, then smiles, the weight on his chest easing just a little. “Maybe I’m starting to see the value in the messy parts.”

Mel catches his gaze, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them — a fragile, dangerous connection born of their own hidden histories.

The fire crackles low, sending up a lazy plume of smoke that curls into the night sky. Everyone shifts closer, drawn into the quiet magic of the desert evening, the vast silence pressing softly around them. Mel sips her tea slowly, eyes distant as she continues to speak again. “Kiya’s story... it’s more than just ancient politics. It’s a reminder that love and loyalty don’t always survive the ambitions of those in power. Sometimes, the people who try to change the world end up burning the ones closest to them.”

Trinity nods, her usual brightness dimming for a moment. “Sounds like a bad breakup on a royal scale.” Laughter bubbles up around the circle, breaking the weight.

Frank feels the warmth of the fire, the warmth of the team’s easy camaraderie—how different it is from the cold order of his life. He looks at Mel, her face half-illuminated by firelight, half-hidden in shadow, and he ponders about the layers she carries within. She fights to keep her own story alive while Frank knows he is still fighting to keep his silent.

He speaks quietly, almost to himself, but loud enough for Mel to hear. “Sometimes I wonder if faith is just another kind of obsession.”

Mel looks at Frank, her curiosity piqued. “Obsession or devotion. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

Trinity leans forward, folding her arms on her knees. “Maybe it’s the same thing, in different languages. The need to believe in something bigger, to find meaning.”

Mateo adds, “Or maybe it’s just human. We all look for reasons to keep going, stories to hold onto.”

Princess stretches out a hand and tossed a handful of dates into the center of the circle. “Well, I’m just here for the snacks and ghost stories.”

Donnie smirks. “And the chance to scare off any tomb curses before we actually get to the tomb.”

They all laugh, the sound mingling with the crackling fire and the distant call of a desert owl.

Dennis, still clutching his camera, HOLDS up the glowing screen to show a close-up of the falcon god. “You know, Horus here is the god of protection. Maybe he’s watching over us right now.”

“Or maybe he’s just waiting for us to mess up,” Princess teases backed up by Donnie and Ahmad making creepy sounds.

Mel smiles, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Either way, we have a story to tell, and we’re the ones writing it now.”

Frank catches her gaze, their eyes locked. He nods. “And maybe, in some small way, it’s a story of redemption — for history, for us, for all the erased voices.”

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

Remarkable progress has been made over the past week—careful excavation revealing new chambers, fragments of pottery, and faint hieroglyphs half-carved into crumbling stone. The trench cuts through the dusty earth, its walls layered with ochre and pale sandstone, the sun catching flecks of mica that sparkled like secrets buried long ago. A month ago, this was all desert with a semblance of emptiness. The air is dry, carrying the faint scent of dust and sweat.

Mateo crouches over a freshly uncovered shard, brushing away sand with delicate precision. “This might be part of something,” he murmurs, eyes bright with excitement.

Samira points to a map sprawled across a folding table nearby, tracing lines with a pen. “If this chamber aligns with the northern temple, then the burial chamber should be just beyond that wall.”

Dennis hovers with his camera, capturing every detail in meticulous frames, occasionally whispering about light angles or shadows to Princess, who balances her usual sharp wit with careful notes in her field journal.

Frank, awkward but determined, adjusts his borrowed boots — a size too big but still proves to be sturdy — his ankles creaking slightly as he descended the wooden ladder into the trench. He tries not to grimace. He isn’t used to this kind of work, but something about being here grounds him in a way the law office never have.

Mel is just ahead, steady and sure-footed in her own dusty boots, pausing to glance back and gives him a quick nod.

Suddenly, her foot catches on an uneven ledge, and she stumbles forward. Frank reacts instantly, one arm shooting out to catch her mid-fall with a grunt, steadying her against the rough trench wall.

Above, laughter erupts like a spark in dry grass. “Get a tent, you two!” Donnie calls, grinning wide.

Princess’s voice follows, adding to the teasing. “They already have one!”

Mel flushes but laughs it off. She brushes a hand through her hair, while Frank’s fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary on her elbow before he lets go.

The others exchange amused glances but return to work — the teasing a warm thread woven through the day’s labor.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

After two weeks of baking under the unforgiving desert sun and digging through dirt that felt like it had seeped into their bones, the promise of a rest day in the city is a blessing Frank didn’t know he needed until now. The town appears to be a world away from the grit and grind of the dig—narrow streets thrumming with life, vibrant colors spilling from market stalls, and the hum of people going about their days with a rhythm that felt both chaotic and comforting.

Mel weaves confidently through the crowd like she belongs here in Egypt—and honestly, it is because she does. Frank lags behind, his boots still dust-streaked and heavy, his shirt stained from the day’s work, feeling every bit the outsider. He meets her eyes and attempts a smile, but the weight of his beige-on-beige ensemble makes him feel as dull as the sand outside.

“No more beige-on-beige crime, Langdon,” Mel teases with a big grinned splayed on her face. She tosses him a light scarf. “It’s time you looked like you belong.”

Frank gives a mocking glare. “This isn’t ‘Project Runway: Sahara,’ you know.”

“But it could be.” She pulls him toward a market stall dripping with bright linen shirts in colors that seem to glow against the dusty backdrop. “See this? Breathable, light, and more you than this desert camouflage nonsense.”

He finds himself trying on shirt after shirt, their own makeshift makeover montage before finally settling on a soft blue one that make his eyes look less tired. She hunts down a hat that shields his face without swallowing it whole, and a pair of boots lighter and cleaner than the ones he’d borrowed from Donnie. Watching Mel’s ease with the vendors, the way she navigated this world with a mix of affection and no-nonsense sharpness, Frank feels a rare ease beginning to unknot in his chest.

Later, as the sun has dipped lower and painted the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges, Mel leads him through winding streets to a rooftop bar perched above the city’s heartbeat. The hum of the market below fades to a murmur, replaced by the clink of glasses and soft laughter.

Frank holds a cold beer, the condensation slick against his fingers. He catches himself watching Mel—the way her eyes reflect the light when she laughs, how her smile is real and easy, without the usual edge of exhaustion or irritation. For once, he doesn’t feel like the outsider; here, in this moment, it is simple. They are jJust two people leaning into the comfort of shared space and quiet understanding.

“Thanks,” he says softly then taking a swig of beer. “For... everything today.”

Mel shrugs, still grinning at him. “I’m full of helpful advice.”

“Actually...” Frank hesitates but decides to go with it. “Where do you spend your time around here? Besides saving lost archaeologists?”

Her eyes flick toward the horizon and a sheepish smile form on her lips. “There’s a little bookstore. Old, dusty, full of secrets. I go there when I need to remember stories aren’t just about what happened. They’re about what you want to believe.”

The bookstore is a narrow, crooked thing wedged between two modern buildings like a secret. Its wooden sign creaks in the evening breeze, and the bell jingles softly when they enter.

The owner, a gray-haired man with round glasses, looked up from behind the counter. “Melissa. Back again, I see.”

Mel smiles, greeting an old friend. “Can’t stay away.”

Frank watches as the man pulls out a small leather-bound volume from a stack. “You were here last week reading this, weren’t you? I thought you might come back for it.”

Mel nods, her fingers tracing the spine gently. “Stories are how we make sense of the chaos. They’re the maps we follow when everything else feels uncertain.”

Frank wanders the cramped aisles, eyes scanning titles he couldn’t pronounce. He watches Mel with a quiet fascination growing as she flipps through pages, her expression softening.

“You know,” Mel looks up, “each of us has a story. But the best part is—we get to change how it goes. Rewrite the parts we’re stuck on.”

Frank’s gaze lingers on her face in the dim light. “Like editing a draft.”

“Exactly.” She tucks the book under her arm. “Maybe that’s why I keep coming back here. To remind myself I’m not stuck.”

In that small, dusty room filled with stories, Frank feels a flicker of hope—maybe he isn’t stuck, either.

The night stretches wide and silent, a vast canvas smeared with starlight. The desert is now cool beneath a sky so clear that it feels like stepping into eternity. Mel’s boots crunch against the gravel as she scrambles out of the truck, breath coming quick with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. The others have stayed behind, worn out after two grueling weeks under the sun. But Mel is restless, like the ground itself has whispered something in her dreams.

Frank follows, sturdy and steady, with his new boots that fit just perfectly… time to baptize it with an adventure. He catches the look in her eyes before she even speaks.

“There’s something,” Mel says with some urgency. “I can’t shake it.”

She pulls out the ancient maps, spreading them over a flat slab of stone. The parchment crackles softly, dust motes shimmering in the pale moonlight. The lines and symbols look like chaos at first glance, but Mel’s fingers trace them with the reverence of a priest and fervor of a lover.

“I’ve been chasing this pattern,” her voice is tumbling faster now and her breath is hitching with the thrill of discovery. “The way the temple alignments correspond with celestial events — not just the solstices or equinoxes, but... eclipses, specific star cycles, even the phases of Venus. It’s like the builders weren’t just making a tomb or a monument. They were creating a map of time, of life and death and rebirth.”

Frank nods slowly, catching some of the gravity but still missing pieces. He tries to follow. “A calendar?”

Mel shakes her head, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her eyes widen with the fire of revelation. “No. More than that. It’s a message. A kind of code. The way these structures catch the light only at certain moments, the way the hieroglyphs line up with the stars — it’s as if the Pharaohs wanted to speak across millennia, to us, through time itself.”

Frank squints at the fragile sheets, still trying to keep up. “Speak how?”

Mel pauses, then laughs—a breathy, shaky sound, half disbelief, half wonder. “That’s what I don’t know yet. But it’s there. A story hidden in light and shadow, about life beyond death. About the ‘why’ behind everything we find here.”

She leans back, her gaze to the stars, as if seeking their counsel. “Maybe it’s what Kiya tried to tell us — the forgotten queen who vanished, erased. Maybe she wasn’t just a footnote. Maybe she was the keeper of this secret.”

Frank watches her and the fierce passion in her voice stirring something unexpected inside him. He admires her — this woman who isn’t afraid to chase ghosts, to wrest meaning from dust and silence. But he also feels the familiar knot of confusion. Archaeology is a world away from law, from his rigid truths.

“So... you think the tomb isn’t just a tomb?” he ventures, albeit cautiously.

“Exactly!” Mel’s eyes sparkle and Frank notices the glimmer. “It’s a storybook, Frank. Not written in words alone but in stars, stones, and shadows. And if we can decode it, if we can understand the language of light they used, we might finally hear what history’s been trying to whisper.”

Frank chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I’m half lost in the stars here.”

 “That’s archaeology for you — part intuition, part madness. You follow the clues, even when the path’s dark. Sometimes, you get nothing but sand slipping through your fingers.”

She reaches out, brushing a stray grain off his jacket. Frank flinches but Mel doesn’t notice. “But then sometimes, you get this.” She taps the map reverently. “The feeling that you’re not just uncovering bones or artifacts... you’re uncovering a voice. And that voice changes everything.”

Frank’s gaze lingers on her. “I get that,” he says. “I’ve spent my life trying to listen to a voice too — one I’m not sure I always understand. It’s easier when someone’s there, though. When you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Mel’s smile softens, the heat in her eyes folding into something warmer, more fragile. “Yeah, we’re both chasing something, aren’t we? Proof that what we do matters. That we’re more than just pieces in someone else’s story.”

Frank agrees, the silence stretching between them, filled with the kind of understanding that doesn’t need words.

Under the vast desert sky, surrounded by the whispers of history and the pulse of possibility, something between the two of them shifts. Two unlikely companions, burdened and hopeful, find a shared heartbeat in the quiet night — a moment that feels, somehow, like the beginning of a new story.

The desert night deepens around them, cool and vast, a silence so profound like the stars themselves are listening. Mel decelerates, the rush of epiphany giving way to a quieter kind of awe. Her fingers trace faint lines on the ancient map. “I think this changes everything… not just the history we know, but what it means to remember. To hold on to the parts of us that get lost or erased. Like Kiya — a ghost in the story, but maybe also its heart.”

Frank looks at her, the shadows playing across her face in the firelight. The weight of her words settles inside him, stirring something he hasn’t expected and can’t even label yet. “It’s wild to think about how people who lived thousands of years ago could leave something behind that’s more than stone or paint — something alive.”

Mel smiles at Frank. Her eyes are bright with that rare spark of joy that only came when she was on the edge of a discovery. “It’s why I do this. Why I can’t stop.”

Frank shifts, glancing at the truck where only one cot is set up for them to share tonight. The others have stayed behind, and this—this moment—is theirs alone.

The cot is narrow, but soft against the hard truck bed, and as Mel settles next to him, the space between them disappears like it never existed. For a long moment, they just lay there, breathing in the quiet, the closeness.

Frank breaks the silence with a small laugh. “That was... intense. Not what I expected from a night out in the desert.”

Mel nudges him with an elbow, a sly grin playing on her lips. The space between them is almost minimal to none. “Rules don’t apply when you’re chasing ancient secrets.”

Frank just agrees, the teasing light in his eyes at odds with the lingering stiffness of his usual carefulness. “Maybe. But you know me — still a little anal about the rules.”

“Good night, Langdon,” Mel whispers.

“Good night, King.”

They turn their backs to each other, breathing slowing, the desert night folding them into sleep.

Morning arrives soft and pale, light brushing the edges of the truck canopy. Frank’s eyes flutter open to find Mel’s head resting against his chest, their arms tangled like they belonged there. The calm is warm, unspoken, a fragile kind of peace. Frank doesn’t think of the rules for now.

Then comes the soft sound of a tent flap opening. Mateo’s familiar voice calls, “Mel? We’re ready to start—” He freezes in the opening, a slow smile spreading as he took in the scene. For a moment, he just watches quietly.

Clearing his throat lightly, he says with gentle humor, “Uh... morning, you two.”

The spell breaks. Mel blinks, her cheeks flushing pink as she disentangles herself, and Frank rubs the sleep from his eyes, both are startled but not quite embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” Mateo says easily, folding his arms. “Don’t worry — your secret’s safe with me. But the dig needs you.”

They exchange sheepish glances before laughing softly, the easy camaraderie reminding them that this—whatever it is—is part of their story now.

⚱️🐫🏺🐪🛕📜

The days since their return have been a blur of dust, sweat, and careful digging. The trench has expanded impressively — a deep jagged scar carved deep into the desert floor. The team works with practiced rhythm: brushstrokes uncovering secrets, tools tapping against stone, whispers of excitement as fragments reveal their stories.

Dennis, the team’s meticulous photographer and documenter, crouches low, adjusting his camera’s spotlight to capture a shard’s faint carving. His muttered calculations mixes with soft clicks of the shutter. Nearby, Donnie scans the horizon, eyes sharp as a hawk, occasionally calling out warnings about shifting winds or approaching dust devils.

Princess, with her calm authority, coordinates the effort. Her voice is crisp over the radio and between the scattered workers. Mateo balances the digital maps on his tablet, fingers flying over the screen, occasionally glancing at Mel, who is hunched over a half-excavated relic, her eyes alight with determination.

Frank, surprisingly comfortable now in his new boots, walks beside Mel. His notebook is open but forgotten for the moment, attention caught by the fluidity of her movements — the way her hands carefully lifted dirt away, the intense focus that seemed to bring the ancient stones to life.

Their eyes meet briefly, and for a heartbeat, Frank catches a flicker of something more —pride, admiration, and even connection. Mel’s lips curled into a faint, private smile before she returned to her work.

Suddenly, the wind shifts. Dark clouds roll in swiftly, blotting out the sun’s golden light. The air thickens with charged electricity.

“Heads up — east wall’s unstable!” Princess shouted.

There is a distant rumble. The trench wall trembles. Before anyone could react, the earth gives way with a sudden roar — a cascade of dirt and stones crashing down in a cloud of dust. Mel’s heart hammers as she sprints toward the fallen debris, hands brushing away loose sand. Her fingers hit cold stone. There is a carved slab. Glyphs—sharp, unfamiliar—are etched deeply into the surface.

“This... this is a sealed doorway,” she whispers, awe and disbelief mixing in her voice.

The team gathers around, breaths held. Dennis immediately raises his camera, snapping photo after photo, hands shaking slightly.

“This could change everything,” he says. His eyes are wide in surprise.

Donnie grins, the boyish thrill breaking through the tension. “I told you this was going to be our lucky break.”

Princess’s gaze remains steady. “We need to be careful. This is history — and maybe something else.”

 “Unknown territory. The stakes just got higher.” Mateo pipes in

Frank steps forward, his tone is practical but weighted… and also not called for. “This isn’t covered in the liability insurance.”

The room of dust and desert silence seem to pause. Mel looks at him, then back to the slab, chest tight with excitement and fear. Suddenly, Mel’s phone buzzes — a sharp, official message from the university and the museum. They are ordered to halt all digging immediately. A team of museum inspectors would arrive in three to five days to evaluate the find.

As the reality of the sealed doorway settles over the camp, a complex mix of exhilaration, disbelief, and frustration rippled through the team like the aftershocks of a tremor. The air feels charged — heavy with the weight of discovery but tethered tightly by the command to pause.

Mel paces restlessly along the edge of the trench, her fingers tangled in her hair as if trying to physically unravel the knot of thoughts inside her mind. The glow of the setting sun mixes with the dust motes swirling around her, making her seem almost ethereal—part historian, part seeker.

“This is it,” she murmurs more to herself than anyone else. “This is what I’ve been searching for all along. But now… we have to wait.” The word hangs bitterly in the dry air.

Frank moves towards her quietly… careful not to break the fragile silence. He reaches out, settling his hand gently on Mel’s shoulder, grounding her trembling energy without words. She looks up, a little startled by the unexpected contact, and meets his gaze. There is a softness in his eyes that surprises her—a steady calm beneath his usual guarded exterior.

“We’ll be ready,” he reassures her. “When the time comes.”

Mel’s lips part slightly, caught between skepticism and hope. The weight of responsibility presses down on them both, but here — in this moment — there was an unspoken promise of partnership. There is a quiet pact forged not just by circumstance but by trust.

Across the circle, Princess’s sharp gaze lands on Frank. Her nod was slow, deliberate, heavy with respect — an unspoken acknowledgment of the place he now holds within this fragile, evolving alliance. It is more than approval; it is a recognition that Frank, despite his outsider status, has earned his footing among them.

Dennis lowers his camera, eyes shining with a fervent passion that make the discovery feel alive and immediate. “History’s waiting,” his voice vibrant with excitement, “but we have to hold our ground. This moment… it’s ours to protect.”

Donnie lets out a wry chuckle, knowing Dennis and his dramatic tendencies. The tension eases slightly at his familiar levity. “Patience isn’t really our thing,” Donnie admits with a grin, “but I guess there’s no way around it.”

Mateo, ever the pragmatist, begins methodically organizing the gear with quiet efficiency. Yet his eyes turn repeatedly toward Mel, concern mixing with a fierce admiration. He knows what this discovery meant to her—how deeply it stirred the part of her that lived in stories and secrets buried beneath the sand.

The camp now feels suspended in time — a collective breath held between the thrill of possibility and the grind of delay. Each member wrestles with their own impatience and awe, yet they are still connected by the shared weight of something extraordinary unfolding beneath their feet.

Mel pauses her thoughts from pacing, her gaze sweeping over the team gathered around her — these people who have become more than just colleagues. They are witnesses, custodians of a moment that could redefine history.

Frank’s hand remains lightly on her shoulder, a steadying presence amid the chaos of thoughts. And for once, Mel lets herself lean into it. She places her hand on top of his, sharing off his skin’s warmth.

The desert night nestles above them, a deep indigo canvas scattered with countless stars—cold, distant, yet somehow comforting in their constancy. The canvas tarp above flutters softly in the warm breeze, a gentle rustle that seem almost like a whisper. Around them, the camp is silent; the others are long asleep, tucked away in their tents, leaving only the two of them under the endless sky.

The air is dry and still, smelling faintly of earth and ancient stone carried on the wind. Mel sits cross-legged, cradling a chipped ceramic cup of arak between her hands. Frank, beside her, holds a similar cup, the rough texture grounding him in this surreal moment far from the chaos of their work. The taste is sharp and sweet, burning gently as it slides down their throats, loosening the edges of their thoughts.

Frank watches Mel, mesmerized by the way the flickering lantern light softens her features and sets her eyes alight with an intensity he hasn’t noticed before. She is alive in a way that makes his chest tighten, something beyond the professional distance they keep on all day.

“What’s it feel like… to touch the past?” he asks softly, almost afraid to break the spell the desert has cast upon them.

Mel traces a finger idly in the dust, patterns swirling like whispered secrets beneath the stars. “It’s like hearing your name in a dream,” her voice says softly, barely above a breath. “Soft, distant… almost too quiet to believe. Like a pulse beneath your skin that reminds you… you belong somewhere — to someone — to something far older than you are.”

Frank shivers at her declaration despite the warmth of the night. He wants to understand that feeling. He wants to belong, too.

“It’s not just bones or artifacts,” she continues. “It’s a conversation — between who we are now and who came before. Sometimes, it’s a thread, delicate but unbreakable, tying me to all those forgotten lives. But other times, it’s like looking in a cracked mirror that shows you every flaw.”

Frank swallows hard. “Does it ever feel overwhelming? Like maybe it’s too much?”

Mel nods; her eyes are darkening with something like pain. “All the time. Like chasing ghosts you might never catch. But when I find something real — a name, a story, a place — it’s like touching eternity for just a moment.”

He lets the silence simmer between them, letting her words settle deep in his chest. Slowly, his fingers brush hers — a tentative, electric spark that sets his whole body alight.

“Does a person’s past matter?” he asks. His voice is low and serious — hoping her answer dismantle his rigidity.

Her gaze locks on his and there is an unwavering tension settling between them. “It matters — but it’s not like a life sentence. It’s more like a frame of reference. It helps us understand why people do what they do. It doesn’t define who you are now, but it teaches you to accept yourself… and others.”

She gives off a wry and bittersweet laugh. “Not that I have some perfect past either. But it’s made me stubborn, made me want to hold on, even when everything feels impossible.”

Frank’s heart aches at the admission. She’s strong, but not invincible. Frank sees Mel now — really sees her. And he gets an inkling to reveal himself to her, too.

“I believe the good outnumbers the bad,” he says, steady but tender. “Civilization moves forward, despite all the chaos. Because deep down, people want to create, protect, love.”

“That’s why I keep digging. For those moments that remind us who we really are.”

They shift closer, now drawn by a gravity neither wants to name. The firelight glints over their faces, casting them in a warm glow that makes Frank catch the faint scent of Mel’s hair — wild and earthy, tinged with dust and sweat, unmistakably hers.

He catches his breath as he leans in, the space between them shrinking until their eyelashes nearly touch. The rules don’t apply. Her eyes flutter close; her lips part slightly — a silent invitation, a sign of consent.

But just as the moment ripened, Mel’s eyes snap open, sparkling with mischief. “Rules don’t apply out here, right?”

Frank laughs softly, still at awe of Mel. “Maybe not. But I’m still a little anal about them.”

Her hand finds his, fingers curling tightly around his palm — warm, steady, real. They hold the contact for a long beat before she eases back, leaving the charged air humming between them, deliciously unresolved.

Frank’s heart pounds in his chest, louder than the quiet night around them. All he can think was how much he wants to close that small distance again — if only for a breath.

By the crackling firelight, Frank sees the sharp edges of her determination. Mel glances at Frank, half amused, half daring. “So, what? The rules don’t apply when we’re chasing ancient curses and secrets?”

Frank crosses his arms, leaning casually against the tent pole, but his eyes twitch with that familiar mix of frustration and reluctant admiration. “You think there are rules for this? Of course there are. Limits. Boundaries. You don’t just go poking around tombs in the dead of night because you’re curious.”

She grins. Frank notices the growing wild and unrepentant spark in her eyes. “Can’t wait to test those boundaries, Langdon.”

There is something infectious in that reckless confidence, and Frank finds himself nodding, shaking his head, all at once. Without waiting for his approval, Mel stands up, her silhouette a fluid motion in the moonlight spilling through the tent flap. Frank follows suit, a few steps behind, keeping up. He is trying to keep his usual caution from slipping away in her wake.

Inside the tent, Mel bends over their makeshift table, scribbling a quick note with a charcoal stick on a scrap of parchment. She hands it to Frank, smirking: If we’re not back when you read this, we got cursed.

Frank reads it twice, lips twitching in disbelief and something warmer—an edge of affection he isn’t quite ready to admit. “This is a bad idea,” he mutters, but his voice lacks conviction. “The rules apply — and I’m going with you.”

“Fine. But don’t slow me down.”

They move like shadows through the sleeping camp, careful not to disturb the peaceful snoring and gentle murmur of late-night conversations fading into dreams.

Frank’s boots crunch softly against the sand as they approach the excavation site, the towering stones looming like silent sentinels. The uncovered tomb entrance yawns in the darkness. It is mysterious. It is ancient. It is framed by walls etched with weathered glyphs that seem to pulse faintly in the moonlight.

Frank clicks on his flashlight, its beam slicing through the heavy darkness. The light illuminates carvings and figures frozen in time — gods, kings, and forgotten stories telling tales older than any living memory.

Mel’s torch flickers, casting jittering shadows that danced eerily on the stone walls. The air smells of dry earth, dust, and secrets.

Frank swallows hard. The excitement buzzing under Mel’s skin is contagious, but so is the weight of the unknown. At the back of his head, he can hear both Robby and Cassie’s mixed reviews.

“Safety first,” Frank says with the usual lawyerly pragmatism threading through his voice. “We should wait for the inspection team. This place — it’s dangerous.”

Mel’s eyes blaze with stubborn fire. “Frank, discovery doesn’t wait. The moment to uncover the past — it’s fleeting. We have to take it.”

Her voice cracks slightly, raw with passion and the burden of years chasing ghosts. He wants to argue, to make her listen, but the fierce hope in her gaze stops him. Frank relents.

The passage narrows as they press on deeper, the walls closing in like a secret womb holding its breath. Every step echoes softly, their breath mingling in the stale air. The carvings watching them seem to shift with the torchlight. Frank’s mind races — every lawyer alarm ringing — but all he can do was keep pace beside Mel, following her lead.

Then, she stops. Mel reaches out and her fingers trace the delicate outlines of an intricate carving embedded in the wall. “Here,” she whispers.

Frank kneels beside her, watching as she manipulates the stone — pushing, sliding, testing with a reverence he’s never seen directed at anything but people.

A faint shift sounds beneath their fingers, then a dry snap. The sudden slam of stone echoes the narrow chambers violently, reverberating through the tomb. The massive door behind them had shut.

Frank’s flashlight flickers wildly, then steadies — but it no longer reached the entrance.

“No signal,” Mel’s voice is tight, taut with rising panic which she tries to drown.

The tomb has swallowed them whole. They are alone. Just the two of them — trapped in a tomb no one was supposed to find. They stand frozen; their eyes are adjusting to the darkness. In the sudden silence, Frank’s pulse thunders in his ears. Mel curses under her ragged breath.

Frank finds himself reaching — their hands brush, hesitate, then lace together, fingers curling instinctively for comfort. His heart is thudding against his ribs, more than the adrenaline. In that fragile darkness, tethered to her by touch, the weight of unspoken feelings press close.

“Looks like we’re stuck,” Frank murmurs the obvious.

Mel squeezes his hand, a wry smile ghosting her lips in the shadows. “Well, if we’re cursed, at least it’s a damn exclusive club.”

Frank rubs his thumbs on Mel’s knuckles, oddly comforting.

The flashlight’s beam dies. The only light now is the faint spark of a distant torch, somewhere deeper in the shadows. Frank’s breath hitches. In the dark, Mel’s warmth seeps through their joined hands, grounding him.

He glances at her, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the tension. “Melissa King,” he shakes his head with a mix of exasperation and admiration, “you are the most intense woman I’ve ever met.”

Mel laughs, her defiance echoing off the stone walls. “Guilty as charged,”

They squeeze each other’s hands once more, sharing a brief, steadying moment in the darkness. Then, with a shared glance full of unspoken agreement, they turn and press onward, ready to face whatever secrets the tomb still hold.