Chapter 5

She hung up and immediately turned off her phone, hating herself for the hurt she'd heard in his voice. But Dr. Thorne's warning rang in her ears, and she couldn't risk becoming another cautionary tale found dead and alone, surrounded by research that had cost her everything that mattered.

Yet even as she dressed for work, she slipped the most relevant book into her bag. Just in case the cobra appeared again. Just to ask one or two questions. Just to understand enough to make the right choices.

The October night was crisp as she walked into the museum, the familiar weight of her security badge and keys grounding her in routine. Garcia nodded as she clocked in, but she avoided eye contact, afraid he might see the obsession already taking root behind her eyes.

"Quiet night so far," he said. "HVAC's still acting up though. Maintenance called—they're coming at 3 AM instead of waiting until Thursday."

Shantali's heart raced. "3 AM? They're fixing the vents tonight?"

"Yeah, emergency call. Something about pressure buildup in the Egyptian wing." Garcia squinted at her. "You okay, Cross? You look like you've seen a—"

"I'm fine," she cut him off. "Just surprised they're finally addressing it."

Maintenance coming at 3 AM meant she had less than seven hours to encounter the cobra again before they potentially disrupted whatever environmental conditions had enabled its appearance. The urgency coiled inside her like a serpent itself.

Her patrol route took her through the contemporary exhibits first—a deliberate choice to delay her return to the Egyptian wing. She needed clarity, needed to approach the canopic jars with a focused mind rather than desperate curiosity.

At midnight, David texted again despite her phone being off: *Came by the museum. Garcia said you're avoiding everyone. Please talk to me.*

The message appeared on her security tablet—a feature she'd forgotten existed. Museum communications could override personal device settings in case of emergencies. She dismissed the notification, guilt gnawing at her.

By 2 AM, she could no longer justify avoiding the Egyptian wing. Her footsteps echoed through the empty corridors as she approached the Ptolemaic collection, flashlight beam steady despite her racing pulse.

The canopic jars stood silent in their display case, cobra heads watching with ancient, unseeing eyes. No steam rose from the vents, no scent of jasmine filled the air. Just the musty silence of preserved history.

"Show me," she whispered, approaching the display. "Show me what I need to understand."

Nothing happened.

Frustration mounting, Shantali pulled out Dr. Thorne's journal, flipping to a page she'd marked: *The manifestation requires both electromagnetic resonance and the observer's psychological readiness to receive temporal insights. One cannot force the serpent's appearance through will alone.*

She checked her watch: 2:22 AM. Less than forty minutes before maintenance arrived.

A sound behind her made her spin around, flashlight raised defensively. David stood at the entrance to the gallery, his face half-shadowed.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"My shift," he said simply. "I traded with Martinez."

"Why?"

He stepped closer, the beam of her flashlight illuminating the concern in his eyes. "Because the woman I love is standing alone in a museum gallery talking to ancient pottery instead of to me."

Heat rushed to her face. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand." He gestured to the book in her hand. "What are you looking for, Tali?"

The question hung between them, honest and open in a way that made her defenses crumble. She wanted to tell him everything—about the cobra, the visions, Dr. Thornes worlds replayed in her mind about choosing love of what ifs.

“Was going to ask you this tomorrow night but I think right now seems more the right time, Tali I want you to move in with me?” David said more than asked.

Shantali stared at him, her prepared defenses crumbling against the earnest vulnerability in his expression. The book in her hands suddenly felt heavier, its warnings about obsession and lost love pressing against her consciousness.

"Move in with you?" she repeated, her voice barely audible above the building's ambient hum.

David stepped closer, moving into the circle of her flashlight beam. "I know it's not what you expected me to ask, but these past few days... Tali, I'm scared I'm losing you to something I don't understand." He gestured to the canopic jars. "Whatever happened here, whatever you're looking for—I want to be beside you while you figure it out, not watching you disappear."

The timestamp on her watch read 2:26 AM. Thirty-four minutes until maintenance arrived, potentially disrupting any chance of seeing the cobra again. Yet here was David, offering something real, something tangible—not smoke and prophecy, but partnership.

"I saw something here," she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Something impossible."

Instead of skepticism, his expression softened with relief at her honesty. "Tell me."

So she did. Standing among the ancient artifacts, Shantali described the jasmine-scented smoke, the cobra's manifestation, the visions of possible futures that had haunted her since. She showed him the thermal anomalies she'd captured, the electromagnetic readings, the passages about serpent smoke divination. With each revelation, she waited for him to dismiss her, to suggest psychological evaluations or stress leave.

Instead, he listened.

"You believe me?" she finally asked, her voice small in the vast gallery.

"I believe you experienced something profound," he answered carefully. "Whether it was supernatural or some kind of neurological event triggered by environmental factors—does it matter? It affected you deeply." He took her hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles. "What matters is what you do with it."

She glanced at the canopic jars, then back at David. "The texts say people who receive these visions become obsessed with understanding them, with controlling their futures. They lose everything that matters while chasing smoke."

"And is that what you want? To chase smoke?"

The question hit her like cold water. She looked down at Dr. Thorne's journal, at the desperate final words of a brilliant woman who had died alone, surrounded by research instead of love.