Jack never really had a childhood. His mother was killed in a hit and run when he was eleven. Only a few weeks later, word came that his father, a respected Egyptologist, working on an excavation site near the Valley of the Kings, vanished without a trace. The investigations led nowhere. No suspects, no remains, no closure.

With no family nearby, Jack was sent to live with an aunt and uncle in another province, strangers, in every sense of the word. His uncle was a heavy-handed man who ruled the house through fear. His aunt barely spoke. There was no warmth, no support, only silence and bruises.

Jack kept his head down and waited. He counted the years until he could leave.

His only escape came from a part-time job at the local newspaper office. The scent of ink, the sound of typewriters, the rush of deadlines, the quiet authority of people chasing the truth, something about it gave him direction. He wasn’t looking for justice. He just wanted answers. And if no one else would dig them up, he would.

Over time, Jack built a name for himself as a relentless journalist with a knack for getting stories others couldn’t, or wouldn’t. His methods were often questionable, his ethics paper-thin, but the results spoke for themselves. That was, until nine years ago. One story went too far. Someone got hurt, and he buried the truth. The secret still lingers, and if it ever surfaced, it would destroy what’s left of his career.

Even now, in his late forties, he still chased stories with the same hunger. But when reports surfaced of people vanishing in southern Egypt with no police response and no official coverage, Jack felt something shift. It wasn’t just another lead. It felt like a thread connected to the past he had tried to forget.

Without hesitation, he gathered a few essentials: his camera, a worn notebook, some spare clothes and a backpack. Without telling anyone, he booked the next available flight.

Once in Egypt, he worked his way south, speaking to locals, trying to learn as much as he could about the missing people. Most refused to talk. But a few older voices spoke of a pyramid not far from the main excavation zones. They called it cursed...

They said it was never meant to be found. Not built along the great river, nor among the known cities of kings, but hidden far beyond the necropolis, where rocky cliffs meet endless desert sands.

Jack couldn’t ignore it. Not when his father’s last known location wasn’t far from there.

He studied the satellite scans, the terrain west of Deir el-Medina didn’t behave like the rest. The desert folded around a dark shape that didn’t seem to belong.

He tracked the location, eventually finding it just before nightfall. There were no signs of humanity, only an unbroken horizon giving way to the vast pyramid. A grand structure stood before it, connected by a worn stone passage.

Without hesitation, he entered through the towering gateway, camera at his side, notebook in his bag.

Inside, the tunnels stretched endlessly, lined with faded glyphs. The air was still, no sound except the soft echo of his own footsteps. The further he went, the more he felt it: a pressure in the air, heavy and unnatural, as if something unseen was moving just out of view. Then came a tremor. Subtle, but unmistakable. The walls groaned. Dust spilled from above.

A thick dark fog began to fill the ancient structure, It seeped through cracks, consuming what little light there was. Jack turned to leave, but the path behind him was gone. His torch flickered in his hand as he was consumed. Lost in the darkness. Thick, suffocating, alive.

As the darkness swallowed him, the ground shuddered once more, the glyphs on the walls began to glow. Deep beneath the stone, something shifted.

Something. Awakened...