I chuckled.

  That stupid, nervous laugh men make when they realize they've probably made a mistake but decide to pretend reality will correct itself if they keep smiling.

  "Charity… relax."

  She stood with her back to me, shoulders still, breathing slow. A jagged piece of the plate stayed in her hand like it had signed a lease there.

  "Lanre You said her name wrong."

  I swallowed.

  You'd think a man smart enough to chase buried gods across West Africa would be smart enough to pronounce one name correctly.

  You'd think.

  "Tell the girl I'll be back—"

  "Her name," Charity said quietly, turning her head just enough for me to see her eyes, "is Darasim. And you'll regret it if you forget it."

  Silence spread across the kitchen.

  The dangerous kind.

  Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the quiet moment where the room politely informs you that you are now walking on glass.

  I grabbed my helmet and moved for the door.

  "Tell Dara I'll be back."

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  The door slammed behind me.

  Inside, Charity exhaled slowly and stared at the broken porcelain.

  Back then I thought that was the end of it.

  Back then I was an idiot.

  I stepped into the hallway and slipped my phone from my pocket. The call came instantly.

  Bad timing has a reputation to maintain.

  "Hello?"

  A man's voice slid through the line. Calm. Bored. The way people sound when other people's lives are simply tasks on a list.

  "I hear you've found something."

  I nudged a vase with my foot.

  It tipped.

  Shattered.

  Tonight clearly had a theme.

  "Yes," I said, excitement creeping in despite myself. "The locals believe it's the resting place of a deity. We may finally prove—"

  "Lanre."

  The interruption cut clean.

  "Details bore me. Get to the site. Show results. You're the only one excited about the dolls idiots pray to."

  Click.

  I stared at the dead phone.

  My stomach tightened.

  Something was moving tonight.

  And it wasn't just me.

  Behind me, a shadow shifted.

  I looked down first.

  The vase lay in jagged pieces. White petals scattered across the floor like they had been politely murdered.

  Then I looked up.

  Charity stood there.

  Hair falling across her face. The shard of broken porcelain still in her hand, catching the hallway light like a tiny blade.

  "You're getting a new one," she said calmly.

  I forced a smile.

  "Of course."

  "With flowers."

  "Of course."

  She stepped closer.

  The shard touched my throat.

  I froze.

  Sudden movements are discouraged when your girlfriend is holding what used to be dinnerware against your jugular.

  "Pick your calls," she said quietly. "It's reassuring."

  My smile trembled.

  I love her, I thought.

  In hindsight that sentence had the same energy as a man admiring the ocean five minutes before a tsunami.

  Charity lowered the shard slowly. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

  "Come back early," she whispered.

  I didn't.

  And if I had known what waited in that excavation pit, what woke up under the dirt, what it would do to the city, to her, to me...

  I would have stayed.

  Not because I'm noble.

  Because sometimes the end of the world starts in kitchens like this, with broken plates and the wrong name spoken at the wrong time.

  And stupid men tying their boots anyway.