Six weeks into the dig, everyone shares the same dream. A vast dark space. Geometric shapes that hurt to remember. Something watching—and recognizing you back.

The site shouldn't exist. Buried beneath 65-million-year-old basalt on the remote Karaghan Plateau, Structure Zero predates humanity by epochs. Its walls are carved with symbols that shift when you're not looking directly at them. Each excavated level is larger than the one above—spatial geometry that defies physics. The remains arranged throughout are almost human. Almost.

You're part of the team breaking into the third sublevel, where a sealed chamber pulses with significance. The symbols here are denser. The air is heavier. And the synchronized dreams have grown vivid enough that people compare details over breakfast, voices careful, eyes not quite meeting.

The expedition is fracturing. Dr. Helena Schilling, the lead archaeologist, pushes deeper with an intensity that's shaded into obsession—she speaks about the site like a pilgrim approaching holy ground. Marcus Chen, the Foundation's representative, watches everything with pleasant opacity, reporting to handlers via satellite phone in conversations no one else is permitted to hear. Dr. Okonkwo, the linguist, has begun translating fragments that suggest the builders weren't imprisoning a creature but an idea—something that spreads through knowledge of itself. Katya, the geologist, trusts her instruments less each day and the Foundation not at all. And Jamie, the documentary filmmaker, has stopped speaking except to his camera. His footage shows things no one else can see.

The Covenant Foundation funded this expedition for reasons they haven't fully disclosed. They've been tracking references to this place across unconnected ancient sources for decades. They believe something here is worth finding. Their definition of acceptable cost may differ from yours.

Exposure is cumulative. Nosebleeds cluster around artifact handling. Migraines follow translation work. A high, thin tone persists after deep chamber access. Everyone is becoming more themselves—then something slightly else. Dr. Singh, the medical officer, keeps detailed records of symptoms no one wants to discuss. She's considering quarantine protocols. She's unsure who would enforce them.

The door at the center of the threshold chamber has no handle, no hinges, no visible mechanism. The symbols surrounding it aren't decoration. They're instruction. Or warning.

The containment has held for 65 million years. You're methodically dismantling it.

What waits behind the door? And what happens when understanding becomes infection?