The British Museum was quiet that morning, the kind of silence that pressed against the glass cases and gleamed on the stolen treasures within. You stood in front of a display, your arms crossed, staring at a Wakandn artifact labeled with a description you knew was wrong.

“That’s not from Benin,” you muttered under your breath, the anger bubbling up as it always did. “And it’s definitely not from the 19th century.”

A voice behind you chuckled, deep and amused. “Finally. Someone who actually knows their history.”

You turned, expecting another historian, but froze when you met his gaze. The man wasn’t wearing a uniform, but there was something dangerous in the way he stood—relaxed, yet ready to strike. His eyes burned like molten gold, scanning you as if deciding what you were worth.

“I—excuse me?” you asked, stepping back slightly.

He smirked. “You’re right. Half the plaques in here are wrong. Whole place built on lies and blood. They don’t even bother to ask where this stuff came from.” He gestured at the case, his jaw tightening. “You ever tell anyone that?”

“Not that it matters,” you said quietly, lowering your voice. “No one wants to hear it. They just want to look at the shiny things and pretend they mean nothing.”

For a moment, something shifted in his expression. A spark of recognition. “Damn,” he said, almost to himself. “You really do see it.”

The silence shattered when a guard shouted, “Hey! Step away from the case!”

Before you could process what was happening, the man’s hand was on your arm—firm, but not rough. “You’re coming with me.”