Lara hadn't moved since she touched the statuette. She studied it with the precision of a surgeon and the patience of someone who's defused one too many bombs. Her fingers hovered just above the surface again, tracing invisible lines in the air as if she were mentally reconstructing its history.
"Your notes are… interesting," she said at last, her voice neutral. Too neutral.
I resisted the urge to make a self-deprecating joke about my handwriting. Barely.
"I aim to confuse and intrigue," I said instead, slipping just enough sarcasm into my voice to keep things casual. "Mostly confuse."
She didn't smile. Of course she didn't. But her eyes flicked toward me—just for a second. A glimmer of amusement. Victory.
She finally looked at me again, head tilted slightly. Studying. Calculating. Like she was trying to fit me into a category and none of them quite worked.
"You're not giving me everything."
There it was. The thing we were both dancing around.
"No." I admitted, because lying to Lara Croft on this precise point felt like a poor life choice. "But it's not because I don't trust you. It's because I don't know what I'm dealing with yet."
A beat of silence. Then: "And you want my help figuring it out?"
"I was kind of hoping you'd do most of the heavy lifting, yeah." I grinned. "You've got the brains, the resources, the fighting skills... I've got a really persistent sense of curiosity and a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. And the money if needed."
Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"I don't work with people who lie to me," she said again, this time quieter. More of a warning than a threat.
"Good thing that I'm just selectively honest, then."
She stared at me for a long moment, and I knew exactly what she was thinking: there's obviously a big secret behind. Which meant she was buying into it.
She tapped one of my sketches, the one with the five tridents. "You've been to a lot of places. None of them exactly... tourist hotspots."
"That's kind of my thing," I said. "I like weird. Especially if it comes with a chance of tetanus."
Her eyes narrowed just enough to make me wonder if she was mentally updating her assessment of me from eccentric adventurer to possible lunatic. Fair.
"And you just happened to stumble onto ruins in every coastal region you visited?"
"Apparently the ocean and I have a thing." I gave her my best innocent face. "It's mutual."
Lara didn't laugh. Not that I expected her to. She had the kind of gaze that could make a confession crawl out of you just to get away from the silence.
"You're looking for something," she said, calm, cool, and razor-sharp.
"I'm not sure what gave it away. The frantic note-taking? The obsessive research? The unwashed hair?"
"I mean it," she cut in, voice low. "You're not just wandering. You're following something. A trail."
I shrugged. "Let's say I've had some... persistent coincidences."
"Coincidences don't draw this many tridents," she said, eyes locked on mine. "Five different cultures, five different oceanic regions, all using the same core iconography? That's not coincidence. That's intentional."
Her voice had shifted. Less skepticism now. More challenge. More dare me to believe you.
"And if I told you they all came from the same place?" I asked.
She didn't blink. "I'd tell you to prove it."
I hesitated. Just long enough to be interesting.
"Let me guess," she said, leaning slightly forward. "You think it's Atlantis."
'Bingo.'
The way she said it — half mockery, half warning — told me she'd heard that name before. Probably a dozen times. Probably from half-mad treasure hunters who smelled like whiskey and conspiracy theories. I couldn't blame her for being skeptical.
"I think… legends start somewhere," I said slowly. "And if the same myth shows up across the globe, maybe it's not so mythical."
She tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle she was starting to regret opening.
"Do you believe in Atlantis?" she asked, almost casually.
There it was. The trap. One wrong word and I'd be the next crazy stamped in her mental file.
I smiled instead of answering.
"I believe in evidence," I said. "And I believe that these ruins weren't built by chance."
She stared for a moment. Then, as if shifting tactics, she circled the table, fingers ghosting over my sketches again. "So what do the statuettes do?"
"Decorative? Mood lighting?" I shrugged. "Haven't found the 'on' switch yet."
She shot me a look that could have frozen lava. "You're deflecting."
"Yes. But charmingly."
She leaned in, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate. "What are you not telling me, Arthur?"
Too close. Too direct. I should have walked away. Should have shut up.
Instead, I said, "It might be connected to my pendant."
And just like that, the air changed.
She froze, eyes narrowing like a hawk locking onto prey. "Your pendant."
I mentally slapped myself. Nice job, idiot.
"It's probably nothing," I said quickly. "Just a hunch."
But she wasn't buying it. Her gaze dipped to the chain around my neck. "Let me see it."
I took a step back. Casual. Light. Like we weren't tiptoeing on the edge of a cliff.
"It's… delicate," I said, voice smooth. "And personal."
She didn't push. Not yet. But the look in her eyes told me I'd just handed her a new puzzle piece. One she wasn't planning to let go of.
"Well then," she said, straightening. "Let's focus on the facts for now. The ruins. The languages. The tridents."
"Happy to," I said, like I hadn't just tripped every alarm bell she had.
I could feel her watching me as I started gathering the notes again, pretending to be casual, pretending this wasn't the moment everything shifted.
Because now she wanted answers.
And I had no intention of giving them.
At least not yet.
She didn't move from her spot, didn't blink, but somehow her presence felt closer. Like she could unzip my skull and rifle through my thoughts if she stared hard enough.
"So… this pendant of yours," she said, her voice deceptively light. "Just a family heirloom, or something more Atlantean?"
I made a show of checking my watch. "Wow, look at the time. Almost tea o'clock. Do you want sugar, or just more wildly speculative accusations?"
Her lips twitched, amused but not backing off. "You know, Arthur, I've met con men who were less evasive than you."
"Thanks. I take pride in my evasiveness. It's artisanal."
She stepped to the side, keeping her eyes on me like a panther circling something very edible. "You don't deny it though. The connection. Between the ruins, the tridents, your pendant…"
I ran a hand through my hair, feigning a tired sigh. "It's not that I'm denying it. It's just… complicated."
"Complicated is my middle name."
"I thought it was 'don't-touch-my-artifacts-or-I'll-shoot.'"
She smirked. "That one too."
I hesitated. I didn't want to give her anything. I shouldn't give her anything. But something in her gaze made silence feel like an answer all on its own.
So I cracked. Just a little.
"I've written it all down," I muttered, too low, too fast, and looking like I was instantly regretting it.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Sorry. What was that?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just… thinking out loud."
But my gaze flicked — one of those micro-movements you think no one will catch. Toward my bag, sitting half-zipped on the side chair. The journal was inside. The second one. The one that mattered.
Lara noticed. Of course she did. She could track a falcon by the twitch of a feather — what made me think I could sneak a glance past her?
But she didn't say anything. Not directly. She just smiled, slow and smooth like she'd tasted blood in the water.
"I suppose," she said, casually turning her attention back to the sketches, "that your research must be… extensive. You strike me as the obsessive type."
"Only mildly. I once alphabetized all my movie tickets by emotional trauma."
"Let me guess. 'Titanic' was filed under 'delusional hope'?"
"And water damage."
She chuckled — actually chuckled — and for a second, I almost relaxed.
Almost.
"So," she continued, "let's say someone were to read this… research. This documentation of yours. What would they find?"
I tensed, just enough to notice. "A lot of bad handwriting and even worse coffee stains."
She gave me a look. "But if they really read it… if they looked past the sarcasm and distractions?"
I smiled, sharp and bright. "Then they're clearly masochists."
The pressure was back, subtle but constant, like standing waist-deep in water just before a wave hits. I needed to get out before I drowned.
I stood up, doing my best impression of a man who wasn't absolutely trying to escape. "Excuse me a moment."
"Where are you going?" she asked, almost lazily.
"Bathroom. Unless you'd prefer I stay and make things awkward."
She didn't reply, but her gaze followed me the whole way — cool, calm, and just a little too knowing.
As I stepped out of the room, I could almost feel the moment she made her decision.
And I didn't look back. Because I already knew: She was going to read the journal.
And everything was about to change.
So, I didn't go far.
Just enough to be out of sight, but close enough to hear a chair shift. A soft intake of breath. The precise moment she took the bait.
I leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, heart drumming like a warning I was choosing to ignore. Not because I was nervous. No. Because this was the part where the magician disappears in a puff of smoke and the audience gasps.
She was going to open the bag. She had to.
I'd spent the past twenty minutes doing everything short of tattooing the word "Important" on the damn thing. The glance. The slip. The calculated dodge. The suggestion that the answers she wanted were just barely out of reach. I might as well have attached a neon sign that said Steal Me, I'm Mysterious.
And she would. She'd go for the second notebook — the one in the bag. The one I wanted her to read.
The 'real' one? The first one?
Still in my inner jacket pocket. Pressed against my ribs like a second heart. That one never left my side.
Because even a magician keeps his best trick close to the chest.
I straightened, exhaling slowly. The tension that had coiled around my spine started to unravel. Not completely — that would be reckless — but just enough for a grin to pull at the corners of my mouth.
She thought she was leading the dance. Cute.
But the music?
I was the one playing it.
-----------------------------------
(Lara Croft pov)
The door clicked behind him.
I didn't move. Just sat there, watching it, half-expecting Arthur to poke his head back in and deliver one last cryptic line before vanishing in a puff of ocean mist.
But no. Silence.
I turned back to the table. To the statuettes.
My eyes locked on mine. The jade-green fish, glinting under the museum lights. Its mouth frozen mid-scream — or mid-revelation — waiting for something to complete it. Something like a key.
I'd nearly drowned for that thing.
Not metaphorically. Not "Oh no, I'm in over my head." I mean literally almost drowned. In a half-submerged temple in the heart of the Venezuelan jungle, wedged between ancient coral and tree roots thick as my thigh. The locals called it 'El Santuario de los Silencios' . The Sanctuary of Silence.
Appropriately named. Especially after half the floor gave way and dumped me into a cavernous lake with no visible exit and air pockets that played hard to get.
The statuette had been resting in the mouth of a stone shark the size of a Range Rover. Naturally, I took it. Naturally, the entire chamber collapsed.
I barely made it out with the jade fish and my left boot. RIP right boot. You were loyal.
Getting out of the jungle had been its own nightmare, but Istanbul? Istanbul was where things got weird.
I'd arranged a private buyer. Neutral ground. Fancy vault beneath a posh museum. Except when I got there, they were waiting. No insignia. No names. Just perfectly ironed suits, body armor that peeked out from beneath collars, and earpieces that screamed "we know things about you your mother doesn't."
They moved like ghosts. Government-trained, I'd bet my last grappling hook on it. Not MI6. Not CIA. Something… quieter.
They didn't want the fish. They wanted me. Or maybe they wanted what I'd learned about it. I didn't stick around long enough to ask.
Rooftop chase. Explosives. Three-story drop into the Bosphorus. One very angry smuggler's boat captain.
But I got away. And I kept the fish.
Now here I was, staring at a second one. Same shape. Same eerie craftsmanship. And that man — Arthur — claiming he'd just stumbled onto it. Sure. Like I believe in coincidence.
My fingers drummed lightly on the table. Not impatience. Calculation.
He was hiding something. And I intended to find out what.
I leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the door like it had personally offended me. As I think of the current problem.
Arthur Curry.
Tall. Charming. With just the right amount of hesitation in his voice to make a lie feel like a confession.
He'd dodged every trap I'd laid like he'd rehearsed them in front of a mirror — and maybe he had. But he wasn't a professional. Not quite. He had tells. Little ones.
The way his fingers drummed the table whenever I mentioned the statuette. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth when I asked about the language on the ruins. And the way he pretended not to care when I pointed out the trident symbols.
Amateur mistakes. Or... calculated performances?
He had answers. Vague ones. Poetic, even. But they fit just a little too well. Like someone who'd read a story and was trying very hard to convince me he'd lived it.
And then there was the moment he slipped. One sentence. Almost nothing.
"I've written all down."
His eyes flicked to his bag. Not long. Just a glance. But in my line of work, that glance was a spotlight with sirens blaring look here.
I followed the line of sight. His bag sat neatly at the foot of the chair, zipper slightly open. No lock. No protective case. Just casually placed, as if it didn't contain the answers to half the questions I'd ever asked.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
And now, he was conveniently in the restroom. Giving me a window. A wide, open, gift-wrapped window.
It was almost insulting. Had he planned this? Left the bag like bait?
No. He didn't strike me as overconfident. Cocky, maybe. But not stupid. If anything, this felt... intentional. Like he wanted me to take it.
Still, he couldn't know for sure I would. But I would.
Of course I would.
He had me pegged from the start. And now, I had about two minutes to do what I do best.
Find the truth.
And maybe — just maybe — find out who Arthur Curry really is.