Chapter 18: The Vault

18. The Vault

The pull was unbearable.

Philip had driven past the National Museum more than five times in the last week, each time feeling something—no, someone—tugging at his soul. A whisper that hummed through his skull, gentle but persistent.

So this time, he parked the car and went in.

The museum was quiet, half-empty. Tourists browsed slowly, faces glazed with the mild interest of those who wouldn’t remember half of what they saw. But Philip wasn’t here for them.

He followed the call.

Room to room, display to display. He kept walking. Nothing stood out—until he reached a steel door in the far corner of a dusty corridor. It was clearly off-limits, unmarked except for a red warning sign: Authorized Personnel Only.

He stood there for a while, listening.

The gem on his forehead was warm.

Then a soft voice interrupted him. “Sir, that area’s restricted.”

He turned to see a young woman with short braids and a skeptical smile. Her tag read Tolulope.

“What’s in there?” Philip asked, nodding toward the door.

She gave a small shrug. “Storage. Old stuff. Fragile, some broken. Not open to the public.”

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He paused, then slipped her some cash. “Can I take a quick look?”

Tolu hesitated, eyes darting around. Then sighed. “We can’t go down there during work hours. You want to see it, you wait till closing.”

Philip smiled. “Half now. Half after.”

She took the money.

That evening, after the last visitor left and the lights dimmed, Tolu met him near the back hallway. She looked nervous, glancing over her shoulder as she led him through the winding staff corridors.

“You know,” she said, “most of the stuff down here is junk. Old vases, broken tools. Not worth all this effort.”

“I just really love artifacts,” Philip replied with a calm smile. “You never know what might be valuable.”

She rolled her eyes but said nothing more.

At the far end of the underground storage, behind layers of dust and crates, they reached a large metal gate—industrial, reinforced, and oddly out of place.

Tolu pointed. “Those ones behind the gate? That’s the special section. Stuff the university and foreign researchers come to study. We barely touch those.”

As they stood there, Philip’s gem pulsed—soft at first, then rapidly, like a heartbeat. He didn’t need confirmation. Whatever had been calling him was in there.

But he kept his face calm. “I’d like to come back. Every two days, maybe? We can check out a few artifacts each time.”

Tolu raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

He smiled. “Very.”

“…As long as you’re still paying, sure.”

He got her number. Promised to call before each visit.

And so, the routine began.

Every two days, Philip returned. Tolu let him in. They poked around crates and cases while she chatted about her dreams and boredom, and he scanned the vault like a general preparing for war.

He studied the angles. Measured the hinges of the gate. Noted where the cameras were. Considered options: fire to melt it down, telekinesis to rip it free. Time. Timing. Silence. Escape routes.

After two weeks, he had a plan.

By now, Tolu had made more money than her monthly salary for a year. She laughed more when he came around. Said he smelled like the sky after rain. She started calling him Shege—a playful way of saying segun he had told her his name was segun . He didn’t mind. It kept things light.

She thought he was eccentric.