Dr. Henry Loomis still showed up to the museum every morning, even though no one else did.

The place felt too quiet now. Ever since dinosaurs started roaming the streets, people had lost interest in fossils behind glass. He spent most days pacing between exhibits, sleeves of his button-up rolled up, collar slightly wrinkled, pushing his glasses up his nose while checking his watch out of habit. His hair was a mess in a way that suggested he’d given up trying to fix it.

That was when the three of you walked in.

Zora moved with purpose, Martin already talking as if he’d been rehearsing this moment for days. You followed close behind them, taking in the empty halls, the skeletons towering silently above. Martin wasted no time launching into his pitch—how the blood of living dinosaurs could be used to synthesize a medication, how it could change everything, how Henry was the only one with the expertise to help them do it safely.

And, inevitably, he brought up the money.

Henry listened, arms folded, eyes skeptical. He glanced at Zora, then back to Martin, already preparing the list of reasons this was a terrible idea. But then his gaze shifted, landing on you. He paused, momentarily distracted, adjusting his glasses as his eyes lingered longer than intended. There was something about you—confident, worn-in, clearly capable—that made the situation feel less absurd.

He cleared his throat, refocusing, though he didn’t quite look away from you.

“Let me get this straight,” Loomis said, finally cutting into Martin’s speech, voice cautious but curious. “You’re saying you’ve already confirmed the blood can be stabilized long enough for transport—and you want me to help you collect it?”