#prettystringbean

Chapter 2: In Our DNA

Word Count: 1968

Eight weeks had bled into the typical frantic rhythm of a Columbia University semester. For Amira, the strange alert on the Outreach portal had faded into the background, relegated to the "unexplained technical anomalies" file of her brain. She focused her energy on thermodynamic problem sets, coffee-fueled study marathons with Ronda, and the growing pile of research papers for her AFAM elective. Life was back to being manageable, back to being normal—or at least the version of normal she had managed to cobble together since her return.

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In the Oakland Outreach Center, however, the silence was absolute, but the data flow was violent.

The command center was a quiet expanse of matte-black surfaces and ambient, soft-light interfaces. N’Jadaka sat at the primary console, his posture relaxed, though his eyes never left the cascading streams of biometric data. He wasn't just managing a program; he was curating a network. He had spent years in the Outreach program ensuring that the diaspora was no longer just a collection of displaced memories, but a documented, protected, and connected people.

​"Alert," the AI, Griot, announced. Its voice was a synthesized, perfectly modulated tone that filled the room, as polished and calm as the architecture of the building itself. "Discrepancy identified in the New York node. Subject: Amira Jenkins. Subject status: Undergraduate, Columbia University. Genetic anomaly detected: Golden Tribe sequence identified.”

N’Jadaka’s fingers stilled over the haptic controls as the data synced. He didn't react with shock; he leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking slightly in the quiet. He had seen thousands of files, but he knew this sequence. It was the genetic signature of the royal house—the very people who had spent decades looking down on his father’s struggle.

"Griot," he said, his voice flat. "Pull the security archives from the New York Outreach Center. Cross-reference the last forty-eight hours."

A holographic display shimmered to life, showing the chaotic lobby of the center. He narrowed the search parameters, scrubbing through the footage until she appeared.

He tapped a command, freezing the frame, and zoomed in. He didn't look at the metadata or the ID number; he just stared at her face, letting the image sharpen. He traced the line of her nose, the way her eyes caught the overhead light—features that had been buried in old, restricted family dossiers he’d spent his life memorizing.

N’Jadaka frowned, leaning into the monitor. He watched her for a long moment, ignoring the technical data on the screen. He zoomed in on a frame where she had tipped her head back, laughing at something her friend had said. It was a completely unguarded expression—the kind of shift he’d only ever seen when T’Challa thought no one was watching.

In that fleeting movement, the resemblance was undeniable. The way the light caught the bridge of her nose, the relaxed set of her jaw, and that specific spark in her eyes—dark, sharp, and unmistakably familiar.

"Shit," he breathed, the word hitting the quiet room like a physical weight.

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he traced the features. They were T’Chaka’s eyes, only without the weight of the crown behind them. It was the same look T’Challa wore when he was finally done playing King for the day.

"Well, damn," N’Jadaka murmured, a ghost of a wry, humorless smile touching his lips. "You got his eyes, girl. You got his eyes all the way."

He didn't give himself time to dwell on the history. He grabbed his encrypted Kimoyo beads, the connection opening almost instantly to the palace.

"Aye, T," he said, his voice dropping into a tone that was all business. "We’ve got a situation."

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In the heart of the Golden City’s royal laboratory, the air smelled of ozone and synthetic minerals. T’Challa stood before a holographic lattice, adjusting a recalibration sequence. He looked up, his expression open and attentive as his cousin’s face materialized in the projection.

"N’Jadaka," T’Challa said, his tone warm and familiar. Beside him, Shuri was busy calibrating a sonic stabilizer, humming a melody to herself. "You wouldn't be calling on an encrypted channel if this were a routine status update. What is wrong, cousin?"

"You're right," N’Jadaka replied, his tone stripped of its usual bravado. "The system just flagged an LTC student in New York. The marker is specific. It’s not just Wakandan, T'Challa. It’s royal line specific."

T’Challa’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from calm curiosity to a sharp, intent focus. "Royal line? N’Jadaka, is this your way of telling me you have a sibling or maybe a child I don’t know about?"

"Don't go pinning this one on me, big cuz," N’Jadaka said, a hint of his usual cynicism returning. “That DNA sequence is all you. It’s coming straight from the main branch."

Shuri, who had been analyzing a separate component of the sequence nearby, poked her head into the frame, her eyes dancing with mischief. "What, T’Challa? You had another child and didn't tell me again? Really? Are we just going to start a collection now?"

T’Challa didn't crack a smile. "Shuri, this is not a joke. N’Jadaka, run the cross-reference again. This doesn’t make sense."

Shuri was already moving, her fingers flying across the interface, isolating the markers with a speed that made the air shimmer. As she parsed the complex data, her playful expression vanished, replaced by a cooling, clinical dread.

"It’s not possible," Shuri murmured, moving toward the display. "I’ve run every algorithm we have. These sequences are exclusive to the royal line. It is physically impossible for someone to possess these outside of the family unless—"

"Unless it's a direct descendant," T’Challa finished. He stepped into the light of the hologram, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful.

"I'll run a comparative scan," Shuri said, her voice tight, almost shaky. "If it's a fluke, we’ll know immediately."

She synced the data with the royal database, but the system flashed a harsh, warning yellow. T’Challa, his face set in a mask of grim concentration, reached out, placing his own palm against the scanner. He needed to be sure. He needed to eliminate the possibility that this was an error in the system’s interpretation.

“Syncing,” Griot reported. “DNA match confirmed: 23.4% affinity. Probability: One shared parental match.”

She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She looked at her brother, her eyes wide. T’Challa pulled his hand away from the scanner, his chest rising and falling with sharp, rhythmic breaths. The "shared parental match" didn't point to N’Jadaka. It pointed directly to their father. To T’Chaka.

"Send me everything," T’Challa commanded, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that rattled in his throat. "Images. Location. Status."

Within seconds, a video file pulsed onto the display. It was security footage from the NYC Outreach Center. Amira Jenkins walked onto the screen, laughing at something a friend had said, her posture relaxed, her eyes bright and intelligent.

On the massive display, the image sharpened as she tipped her head back, the motion catching a sliver of light that traced her features in a way that made T’Challa’s breath hitch. Behind him, Shuri made a sharp, choked sound—a rare, unfiltered gasp—as she stepped closer to the screen, her eyes darting between the girl’s face and the DNA sequence still glowing on the secondary monitor. It was the way the light hit her jawline, the distinct set of her brow—features that belonged in their own family portrait, not in a student’s dorm room in Manhattan.

T’Challa leaned in, his gaze fixed on her face, his features hardening as the reality settled into his bones. Beside him, Shuri took a sharp, unsteady step toward the console, her hands hovering in the air as if she could brush away the image to reveal a mistake. But the pixels remained, clear and unmistakable. The way Amira tilted her head, the specific arch of her brow—it was an echo of a life they thought they knew perfectly. It was the face of a sister they hadn't known existed, pulled from the archives of their own history.

N’Jadaka’s voice came back over the line, now entirely devoid of humor. "You see it, don't you? She’s got the look. If you’re going to move, move fast—she’s too sharp to be shadowed for long."

T’Challa stared at the screen, his hand resting heavily on the console, his palm flat against the cool surface. "Do not alarm her," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "I’m not ready to take this to my mother. It would crush her to know the truth about him. I need to understand the scope of what he left behind before I bring this home."

"Understood," N’Jadaka replied. "I’ve got two of your Dora Milaje on the ground in New York. They’re laying low. They’ll keep her safe, and they’ll be shadows. I won't let anything happen to her while we sort this mess out."

T’Challa didn’t respond immediately. The royal lab felt suddenly claustrophobic, the walls closing in with the weight of a life his father had kept hidden. 

T’Chaka had been the King, the protector, the man of unwavering honor. And yet, there she was, walking around in Manhattan, living, breathing proof that the man T’Challa had spent his entire life trying to emulate had been a stranger to his own family.

"Keep them at a distance, Erik," T’Challa said, finally breaking the connection.

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T’Challa stood on the stone balcony of his private chambers, the night air of Birnin Zana cool against his skin. In his hand, a crystal glass sat filled with a dark, aged spirit—a sharp, grounding contrast to the clinical, ozone-heavy air of the royal laboratory he had just departed. Below him, the city glowed with the soft, pulsating hum of vibranium-integrated architecture.

He watched the lights, but his mind remained fixed on the lobby in New York. He kept replaying the way the girl—Amira—laughed. It was an easy, unguarded sound that felt utterly foreign in the solemn atmosphere of the palace. The realization was a stone in his gut, a cold, dense weight that no amount of duty could shift. He hadn't told his mother. How could he? She was still grieving the T’Chaka she remembered—the pillar of honor, the man of unwavering integrity.

The sliding door behind him gave a soft, rhythmic hiss. He didn't turn; he knew the cadence of her steps. Nakia moved to the railing beside him, her presence a steadying anchor in a night that suddenly felt adrift. She didn't press him; she simply waited, her gaze following his out toward the horizon.

"Your son is asleep; he wanted to stay up to say goodnight to his Baba," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "You have been pacing for an hour. What troubles you, my love?"

T’Challa took a slow sip of his drink, the glass clicking lightly against the stone railing as he set it down. He looked at her, his eyes searching, reflecting the turmoil he’d been trying to contain.

"I have spent my life honoring a ghost," he said, his voice raw. "I thought I knew the breadth of my father's legacy, the depths of his responsibilities. But it seems my father had more secrets than I ever imagined possible."

Nakia tilted her head, her expression softening with concern. "A secret? T'Challa, if it is about N’Jadaka—"

"It is not about the program," he interrupted. "It is about the bloodline. There is a young woman in New York. She carries our blood, Nakia. My father left a path behind him that no one was meant to follow, and now, it has led right to our door." He leaned heavily against the railing, his exhaustion finally showing. "If he could hide a life in Brooklyn... what else was he hiding?"

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Next chapter is coming out soon. Please follow me on Tumblr @PrettyStringBean to stay posted on any updates!

Masterlist

Summary: Amira Jenkins didn’t ask to be a royal secret. She just wanted to finish her degree at Columbia. But when a mandatory DNA test links her to Wakanda’s elusive Golden Tribe, her quiet life is traded for the scrutiny of a throne she never knew she belonged to and the truth about a father she never truly knew.

Status: In Progress

Main Characters

King T’Challa Udaku -> Chadwick Boseman

Queen Nakia Shauku -> Lupita Nyong'o

Prince Toussaint (T'Challa Udaku II) -> Divine Love Konadu-Sun

Princess Shuri Udaku -> Leticia Wright

Queen Ramonda -> Angela Bassett

Prince N'Jadaka Udaku (Erik Stevens) -> Micheal B. Jordan

Chief M’Baku -> Winston Duke

Amira Jenkins→ Flo Milli

Tanya Jenkins → Erika Alexander

Nia Jenkins → Muni Long 

Ronda Samuels→ Coco Jones

Ade Ìlọ̀rí→ Damson Idris 

Minor Characters

Zola -> Adut Aketch

Brandon-> Rome Flynn

Kemi-> Thuso Mbedu

Chapters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Author's Note: I made you guys wait a whole month for the next update. I feel it's only right I make up for that by giving you three new chapters for the four weeks you had to wait. Seems fair right? Yeah, methinks so too. Here is chapter 6, please enjoys!

Chapter 6: Who Is She?

Word Count: 2526

The late August humidity of Manhattan clung to the city, a thick, stifling heat that made the concrete groan. Amira walked alongside Tanya and Ronda through the bustling, sun-drenched streets of SoHo. Amira’s braids were pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail that swayed with her pace. She had opted for her contact lenses today; the heavy frames she usually had to push up her nose were tucked away, leaving her vision sharp and unobstructed.

"You’ve been vibrating at a frequency that’s making me nervous, Amira," Tanya remarked, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow as they paused by a bistro. "Six credits of summer intensive, plus the senior capstone? You’re trying to squeeze three years of life into six months. You know the world didn't stop because we did."

"She’s acting like she’s chasing a horizon she can’t even see," Ronda chimed in, grabbing Amira’s arm to pull her toward a window display filled with silks and linens. "Girl, relax! And don't think I haven't noticed how Ade has been hovering. He’s been looking at you more often than he looks at his own textbook—making excuses to walk you to the subway, checking in twice a day. It’s getting a little desperate, don't you think?"

Amira rolled her eyes, a sarcastic, practiced smirk pulling at her lips. "Ade? Please. He’s just a friend, Ronda. A friend who apparently thinks I can’t navigate the L-train on my own without his esteemed company."

Ronda scoffed, turning back to the store. "He’s a distraction, baby. A cute one, but still a distraction. Focus on the finish line. That internship program in Oakland—the one that’s going to give you those final credits and set up your graduation next spring—that’s the real prize.”

Amira looked down, her mind drifting to the obsidian disc hidden deep in her bag. She didn't want to lie, but she couldn't explain the weight of the mystery she was actually carrying.  They spent the next few hours in a comfortable rhythm—grabbing iced coffee and ducking into air-conditioned shops. It was a perfect, ordinary day, the kind of day that felt like any other.

The sun eventually dipped below the skyline as the hours bled into one another, taking the bustling energy of the day and surrendering the city to a velvet, starless night. Ronda went straight to bed hours ago, the heat of the day having drained her, while Amira retreated to the kitchen wearing her silk bonnet and oversized cotton pajamas. She needed her glasses so she slid them onto the bridge of her nose, the world sharpening into focus as she sat at the island. The disc sat in the center of the marble, casting a soft, persistent golden glow that seemed to breathe, illuminating the intricate carvings on its surface.

She leaned against the cool marble island, the city lights pressing against the high-rise windows and pooling in the corners of the sleek kitchen. She squinted at the projection hovering just above the stone. Every time she shifted her angle, the map adjusted, revealing deeper layers of the New York power grid and the intricate, arterial flow of the subway lines. But there were anomalies—golden nodes of energy that pulsated with a life of their own, nodes that didn't correspond to any power station, transformer, or electrical grid she had ever documented.

"What are you?" she whispered, her voice raspy from exhaustion. She reached out to touch one of the nodes, but her hand passed right through the light. It wasn't a hologram; it was something else—something that existed in the space between her eyes and the object, a bridge between two worlds she wasn't sure she was meant to touch.

She tapped her fingers against the table, trying to track the movement of the light. It was rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat. She had spent the last several hours trying to map the nodes, but the complexity was staggering. It wasn't just data; it was a map of something sentient, something that existed underneath the concrete like a sleeping giant.

She glanced at the clock on the stove: 4:15 AM. Amira rubbed her eyes, the fatigue finally hitting her like a physical weight, settling into her bones. She had an early start tomorrow, and the sheer mental drain of decoding the disc was starting to give her a throbbing, relentless migraine. She carefully moved the disc from the laptop charger to the center of the wooden table. It felt warm, but the hostile, jagged static of earlier had smoothed into a steady, gentle thrum. It felt… settled. Like a predator that had finally decided she wasn't a threat.

She stood up, stretched, and headed toward her bedroom, leaving the living room bathed in the disc's quiet, golden light, a lighthouse in the middle of a dark, sleeping city.

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Thousands of miles away, in the Golden City, the royal breakfast chamber was bathed in the crisp, golden light of mid-morning. The table was laden with a traditional spread: steaming, sourdough platters of injera, bowls of spiced, slow-cooked misir wot, and glasses of fresh-pressed mango and tamarind juice that stood alongside silver pots of fragrant, spiced coffee. The air smelled of berbere spice and morning dew. Nakia sat beside Toussaint, guiding his hand as he practiced eating with his fingers, the rhythmic tearing and scooping of the bread a gentle, grounding ritual.

"Kumkani wam," Okoye said, her voice low. She projected a holographic map of Manhattan, the dense grid of the city suddenly punctured by a pulsating, violet-gold aura.

T’Challa’s hand froze mid-reach, his gaze locking onto the vibrating energy map. His appetite vanished. Shuri, seated across from him, glanced at her brother; her face went stony, her fingers tapping a nervous, complex rhythm against her own thigh. She shifted her posture, her eyes dropping to the table, her silence deafening.

Nakia looked up, her keen eyes tracing the tension in T’Challa’s shoulders and the sudden, heavy shift in the room's atmosphere. She noticed the way the light seemed to dim around the table as the energy scan persisted. Sensing the weight of the conversation to come—the kind of political and familial minefield she knew too well—she leaned in, whispering softly to Toussaint. With a gentle, maternal nudge, she guided him away from the table. Toussaint looked at his father, sensing the change, but Nakia led him firmly into the adjacent garden, her expression composed but shielded, ensuring he was far from the reach of these shadows.

Ramonda watched them go, then turned to her son, her brow furrowing. She did not need to see the map to know the peace of the morning was shattered. "An anomaly in Manhattan?" she asked, her voice calm but sharp, carrying the authority of a Queen Mother who had seen too many secrets in her lifetime. "The borders are secure. The world is at peace. Yet, you both look as if you have seen a ghost."

"It is nothing, Mother," T’Challa said, his voice clipped, failing to meet her gaze. He waved a hand, and the projection vanished, but the air remained ionized. "A technical glitch in a remote sector. I will handle it."

Ramonda set her hand on the table, her posture tightening with deliberate, quiet precision. She did not touch the food. "I've seen how you act when it's just a technical issue, T'Challa. You would have directed Okoye to Shuri's lab before the projection finished loading. So, why go to you now? And why is she keeping her eyes on her plate instead of telling me what the scan really is?"

Shuri didn't look up, her shoulders tensing beneath her robes while T’Challa’s silence stretched thin. Ramonda didn't need a shouting match to know she was being lied to; the heavy, practiced weight of their secrecy was answer enough. She rose from the table, her expression unreadable, and walked from the room without another word, her footsteps echoing like a tolling bell.

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T’Challa retreated to his private communications suite and signaled a secure, encrypted line. A flicker of static, and then N’Jadaka’s face appeared in the shadows of his home in Oakland. It was 2:30 AM; N’Jadaka’s locs were neatly tucked into a silk loc sock, but his eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was a raw, gravelly rasp from sleep.

"You had one job, Erik," T’Challa hissed, his voice trembling with rage. N’Jadaka’s jaw clenched hard at the name, a muscle pulsing in his cheek. "Watch her from a distance. Ensure her safety. I did not tell you to hand her Wakandan technology—least of all that disc! You gave her an unshielded legacy piece. She is unsupervised and—"

"She’s a genius, T’Challa," N’Jadaka cut him off, rubbing his face. "If I didn't give her a puzzle, she would have started tearing apart her own life to find answers. She’s too damn smart to be given busy work and you know it."

"She is a civilian!"

"She's our blood," N’Jadaka snapped back, his eyes flashing. "Look I fucked up, I get it. The shielding must have degraded. I’ll get it handled. In the meantime Aneka and Ayo are watching her in New York. They’ll secure the asset, neutralize any tails, and I’ll clean up the signature." 

“N’jadaka-” 

“I said I’d handle it, now let me sleep I’m tired as fuck and I have meetings tomorrow” 

N’Jadaka cut the transmission. 

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After breakfast ended abruptly, Ramonda went straight to the secure archives. She moved through the space with the grace of a woman who had survived coups and the dusting of half the universe, but her heart hammered a rhythm of pure dread. She was draped in a sunset-orange silk wrap that felt far too vibrant for the shadows she was currently hunting.

She didn't have a specific file in mind, but she knew the patterns of her family’s deception. She started with the "N’Jobu" protocols—the digital breadcrumbs T’Challa had left when he finally brought the truth of his uncle to light. From there, she traced the access logs to an older, restricted sector linked to T’Chaka’s final years.

She opened the logs from 1994, the year her husband had returned from a prolonged solo mission in the States. She remembered him coming back different—distracted, haunted, his movements measured as if he were guarding a secret that could break the world. She had blamed herself for his distance back then, thinking she had failed him as a wife.

She searched for any biometric tethering related to that time and found a series of deep-background dossiers—surveillance files T’Chaka had compiled on a woman named Tanya Jenkins. When she cross-referenced the current Manhattan energy signature with the royal bloodline, the system flickered and confirmed a tethered link. The room felt as if it were spinning.

She exited the archives with a cold, terrifying stillness. She marched to T’Challa’s private office, her orange silk snapping like a flame in the hallway, and slammed the dossier onto his desk.

"Explain," she commanded. "Who is she?"

T’Challa looked at the file, then at his mother, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat. His voice was low and pained as he laid out the truth: the 1994 mission and the woman T’Chaka had encountered.

"Is she the reason behind the energy breach in Manhattan?" Ramonda demanded.

"I don’t know—not entirely," T’Challa admitted. "I am still investigating. So far, we know her name, her family, where they work, and that she has a daughter."

"Daughter?" Ramonda whispered. The word felt like a physical weight. "Well, why does she have a War Dog cloaking disc? A familial one, at that?"

"Amira," T’Challa replied softly. He swiped his hand across the desk interface, finally bringing up the full profile—the DNA results and the photographs. "The alert is likely coming from her school—"

"School?" Ramonda interrupted, her eyes widening as she stared at the screen. "She’s school-aged?"

"She’s in university," T’Challa said. "Columbia. She’s finishing her senior year."

Ramonda froze. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, far more violent than a simple affair. She did the math in her head—the cruel, unrelenting arithmetic of a wife. She looked at the image of the girl laughing off-camera. It was the details that gutted her—the specific, deep-set dimples that only appeared when T’Chaka was truly amused, and the rich, dark mahogany of her skin that was a shade identical to his own. She saw the high, regal cheekbones of the Golden Tribe and that unmistakable, piercing intensity in her eyes. It was a face Ramonda had loved for thirty years, staring back at her from a stranger’s body.

"She’s younger than you," Ramonda said, the air in the room seeming to vanish. "She has a War Dog cloaking disc that is currently pinging... and she is younger than you."

T’Challa offered a silent, agonized nod.

Ramonda looked at the screen again, the dates burning into her mind. T’Chaka had come home from America in ’94. He had sat at her table, slept in their bed, and presided over the birth of their daughter in ’98—all while knowing he had another daughter, a first-born girl, growing up in the very city he had just left.

He hadn't just stumbled; he had lived a double life. He had looked at Shuri in her cradle and knew, with every beat of his heart, that he had abandoned his true second born to the shadows of the outside world.

Ramonda’s composure shattered. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of his desk, forcing her throat to remain open as she breathed through the white-hot agony. She wasn't just mourning a husband; she was mourning the thirty years she spent believing they were a partnership of equals.

She straightened, her gaze hardening into a mask of regal survival. Without another word, she turned and stormed out.

She reached her private chambers and locked the door. Only then did the composure fail. She looked at herself in the mirror; the white of her isicholo now felt like a lead weight, a symbol of a purity and honor that had been a lie. She let out an agonizing cry—the sound of a heart breaking into ten million pieces, her soul feeling as if it were being sucked from her body in real time.

T’Challa knew. Her own son, her heart and soul, had kept this from her. She sat in the dim light, mourning for what felt like the third time. This time, she mourned the version of her husband that she thought was grounded and honorable, the marriage she believed was sacred, and now, the son who had learned to hide the truth just as well as his father.

How was she supposed to forgive a man who was already dead? A man who had left behind a life, a child, and a legacy that was currently pulsating in a Manhattan apartment? She looked at her own hands, shaking slightly. She realized now that the crown didn’t just carry power; it carried the debris of every secret ever kept in the dark. For the first time in her life, Ramonda felt truly, devastatingly alone.

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Author's Note: Hi guys! PrettyStringBean here. Thank you so much for being so patient with this next chapter. I hadn't realized how much time had gone by since my last post and lost track of time. I wish I posted on April 13th because that is our main character's birthday 🎂. Anyway enough excuses, here is the chapter.

Chapter 5: All We've Got

Word Count: 2633

The humidity in Bed-Stuy that September was heavy, pressing down on the asphalt like a physical weight. Tanya Jenkins walked the three blocks to her apartment, the fluorescent lights of the community clinic still burning behind her eyelids. At twenty-six, she knew every crack in the sidewalk, and she knew the cast of characters who inhabited her corner of the world.

She saw him near the corner bodega—the spot where the neighborhood’s trouble usually congregated.

He stood perfectly still, which was the first thing that set her off. He was easily six-foot-two, his frame filling out his jacket in a way that spoke of lean, dense muscle rather than the hunched, desk-bound posture of the students Tanya was used to seeing on the subway. He was clearly a grown man—easily in his late thirties—wearing a crisp, clean jacket that hadn't seen a day of subway grime. He was studying a map as if he were deciphering a coded message.

Tanya didn't walk past him. She crossed the street, her keys gripped tight in her hand.

"You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes, and you aren't waiting for a bus," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the street noise. "You’re not from here, and you’re clearly looking for something you shouldn't be. Who are you?"

The man turned. He didn't look caught; he didn't even look surprised. He simply shifted his weight, his expression settling into a mask of polite, slightly confused embarrassment. When he looked at her, his eyes were the color of deep, roasted coffee—dark and intense. But beneath that intensity, there was a profound, hollowed-out sadness—a heavy, weary grief that seemed to haunt the depths of his gaze. It was a look Tanya recognized from the clinic—the look of a man carrying a tragedy he couldn't name.

Then, he offered her a smile. It was a soft, practiced thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes just enough to make them look warm. His teeth were startlingly white against his dark, smooth skin—a bright, disarming contrast to the shadows lingering in his eyes. To Tanya, it felt like a costume—like he was manually assembling a face to put her at ease. It was too rehearsed, too careful.

But then, he didn't tense up. He didn't puff his chest or reach for his waistband. He just looked... tired.

"I’m lost," he said, his voice smooth and measured. He reached into his bag and pulled out a battered textbook, his movements sluggish, almost burdened. "I’m a graduate student at Columbia, working on a project about urban community development. I’m looking for the community center on 4th, but I think I’ve taken a wrong turn. I feel like a bit of an idiot standing here for so long, honestly."

Tanya stared at him, searching for the tell—the hidden weapon, the badge, the predatory edge. But all she saw was the exhaustion. The "costume" she sensed didn't feel like a disguise for a killer; it felt like the armor of a man who was just trying to hold himself together through a miserable day.

He’s not a threat, she told herself, the sharp edge of her suspicion dulling into something more like empathy. He’s just a man having a rough time. She felt a sudden, foolish pang of guilt for her own aggression.

"Oh. Man," she said, her shoulders dropping as she let out a breath. "I... look, I’m sorry. It’s just, things have been tense on this block lately. It’s hard to tell who’s who anymore."

"I understand," he said, his tone unbothered, his eyes flickering with a momentary, genuine softening. "I’m Will."

"Tanya," she replied, her guard finally lowering. "You’re heading the wrong way, Will. You want to stay off 5th at this hour. Come on—I'm heading that way anyway. I'll show you."

___________________________________________

The Present Day: August 2024

The lab at Columbia smelled of ozone. Amira pulled her hand back as a thin wisp of smoke curled up from her laptop’s USB port. The screen flickered, blacked out, and then reset to the desktop.

She stared at the obsidian disc. It was warm—almost feverish to the touch.

She sat back, the frustration bubbling in her chest. She had been chasing the nature of this object for weeks, squeezing research time between her Summer Session B finals and the looming deadlines for her Senior Capstone. It wasn't just that the disc refused to interface with silicon; it felt hostile. Every time she tried to bridge the gap with a standard port, the hardware seemed to actively push back, rejecting the connection like a magnet repelling its opposite pole.

Think, Amira, she told herself, drumming her fingers against the edge of the desk. It’s an alloy. It’s got density, mass, and thermal output. It’s not magic—it’s just hardware I haven't decoded yet. She looked at her screen, where a dozen diagnostic tools sat idle. What if I’m asking the wrong questions? She stopped trying to force a handshake protocol and instead began running a low-frequency scan, looking for any latent signals. Don’t force the door, she thought, closing her eyes to shut out the buzzing lab lights. Just knock.

She reached out, her fingertips hovering just millimeters above the smooth, dark surface. The air around the disc felt charged, a static prickle that made the hair on her arms stand up. She didn't press; she waited, steadying her own pulse until it synced with the subtle, thrumming frequency of the object.

There. A shift in the thermal signature. A whisper of something moving beneath the surface—not data as she knew it, but currents. Flows.

Her vision blurred. The lab walls didn't vanish, but they became translucent. Overlaid on top of her workspace was a shifting, golden map of New York City. She saw the subway lines and power grids, but the real structure was a pulsating, hidden architecture of energy flows that threaded through the city like roots.

It was beautiful, impossible, and utterly baffling. It looked like a city under a city, a lattice of golden light that defied every law of thermodynamics she knew. She wasn't looking at code; she was looking at a living, breathing blueprint of the world itself.

___________________________________________

Thousands of miles away, in the Golden City, T’Challa stood on a balcony overlooking the lush, terraced gardens. Below, Toussaint was chasing a vibrant butterfly, his laughter drifting up like music and pulling a rare, genuine smile to the corner of T’Challa’s lips. This very garden was a marvel of multigenerational love, a traditional wedding gift passed down from King to Prince to gift to his bride—a living map of their family’s heart.

Beside him, Queen Ramonda emerged, her presence as grounding as the vibranium foundations of the city. She was draped in a structured, regal gown of deep indigo and gold, the intricate beadwork whispering softly as she moved. Her hair was styled in a tall, gold isicholo that caught the sun, framing a face that held both the sharp authority of a ruler and the infinite softness of a grandmother.

She stopped on his right side, her gaze dropping to the terrace. In the center of the garden sat a grand fountain, its basin lined with beautiful, hand-painted tiles that showcased the sleek motifs of Bast, the Panther Goddess, watching over the water. As Ramonda watched Toussaint, her expression transformed. Her eyes, usually so piercing, softened into something luminous and tender, her entire posture relaxing as she soaked in the sight of the boy. It was a look of pure, unadulterated adoration—a silent promise of protection that she had carried for generations.

T’Challa’s eyes drifted to the native Wakandan trees that anchored the terraces. One had been planted when Ramonda told T’Chaka she was pregnant with him, its trunk now thick and immovable. Another marked the day they found out about Shuri. Nearby, a smaller, sturdy tree reached for the light—the one Nakia and Ramonda had planted for Toussaint during the dark years of the Blip.

But his gaze snagged on a specific plant near the edge, one tucked away in the partial shade. It had been planted for N’Jadaka after T’Chaka killed N’Jobu—a living penance born of a King’s guilt.

"To be a King is not to be free," the memory of his father’s voice interrupted in T’Challa’s mind. "It is to be the anchor. Men of our blood do not choose the path that makes them happy. We choose the path that keeps Wakanda happy and the world from folding in on itself."

Ramonda turned away from the railing, her attention shifting entirely to her son, noticing his change of expression. The maternal warmth in her gaze didn't vanish; it tempered, becoming a steady, perceptive scrutiny.

"You look like a man trying to solve a riddle that has no answer," Ramonda’s voice broke the silence. She stepped closer, her hand resting firmly but gently on his arm. The contact was like an anchor, holding him in the present. "You are restless, my son. The councils are settled, and the borders are secure. What is this weight you carry?"

T’Challa looked at her—at her strength, at her unwavering faith in him—and felt the crushing weight of the secret. He was thinking of his father’s legacy, the burden of the throne, and the truth about a sister he didn't know he had.

"Just... the legacy, Mother," T’Challa said, his voice tight. It was a truth, even if it wasn't the whole one. "It is a heavy thing."

Ramonda searched his eyes, a flicker of concern passing through her—the intuition of a mother who knew her son better than he knew himself. She saw the turmoil beneath his composed exterior, the way he held his jaw, the shadow that refused to lift from his gaze. She recognized that he was holding back, protecting her from a burden he felt he had to carry alone. Slowly, she stepped back, her expression softening into one of grace and quiet understanding. She respected his boundary, even if it hurt to see him suffer. She didn't know the truth, and T’Challa knew that, for the sake of the crown, the time had to be perfect before he could burden her with the stain on his father’s honor.

___________________________________________

Back in their renovated Brooklyn brownstone, the kitchen was alive with the smell of roasting garlic and the warm presence of Aunt Nia. Nia sat at the massive oak table, scrolling through her phone. Her elegant, silver-streaked afro caught the afternoon light that poured through the tall, south-facing windows.

"An internship in Oakland?" Nia said, a grin stretching across her face. "Amira, that’s huge! You're gonna make some real waves; I just know it. You’ve got your mother’s brain, but thank goodness you’ve got a lot more attitude than she ever had."

Tanya was at the stove, her movements stiff despite her best efforts to seem casual. She paused, her hand hovering over the pan. She looked at her daughter now and saw the same determination she’d seen in a stranger's eyes back in '94. The resemblance was uncanny.

"I have to go, Ma," Amira said, walking over to put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. "It’s an opportunity I can't turn down."

Tanya let out a slow, steady breath. She looked at Amira, seeing the promise of a future she hadn't dared to dream for herself. "I know," she whispered, her voice gentle and resolved. "You go. I’ll be right here."

Nia stood up, grabbed her coat, and winked at Amira. "And don't you worry, Tee Tee. If she gets in trouble out there, I’ve got contacts. The world’s big, but it’s still small enough for an Auntie to handle."

Tanya finally laughed, a genuine, startled sound. She realized that while she had spent years building walls around their little family, her daughter had been growing wings.

"I'm gonna head back to the apartment and start the real packing," Amira said, checking her phone. "Ronda already texted me three times about boxes. Love you, Ma."

"Love you too, bunbun. Be safe on the train," Tanya called out.

As the heavy front door of the brownstone clicked shut, the house fell into a heavy, thoughtful silence. Tanya didn't go back to the garlic. Instead, she sat at the oak table and opened her laptop.

She had done a quick search on "N’Jadaka Udaku" and the N’Jobu Outreach Centers. The man seemed legit—well-funded, high-impact, and clearly tech-forward. He had sent her a follow-up email after his initial meeting with Amira, a standard "Parents' Outreach" note with his direct line.

She began to type, her fingers sharp and rhythmic on the keys.

Subject: RE: N’Jobu Outreach Internship - Amira Jenkins

Mr. Udaku, I appreciate the information you sent over. Amira is very excited about the Oakland placement, but as her mother, I have some concerns. She mentioned a safety incident on the subway following her meeting with you. I'm a nurse; I deal in facts and outcomes. The fact is, moving across the country for a new organization is a lot of risk for a student in her senior year. I need to know exactly what the environment is like out there and why you're so intent on recruiting a student from NYC when you have Silicon Valley in your backyard. I need to be sure my daughter is as safe in your care as she is in mine. The reply came back surprisingly fast, as if he had been sitting by the terminal waiting for her to push back.

Subject: RE: N’Jobu Outreach Internship - Amira Jenkins

Ms. Jenkins, I respect the directness. Regarding the subway incident—we’ve flagged it with our local security and took it very seriously. It’s a reminder of why our centers exist: to create safer pathways for talent that usually gets overlooked. As for why Amira? I don't care about Silicon Valley. I care about the work I saw her doing in New York. She has a unique eye for structural integrity that we need for our new housing initiatives. To be honest, I made her a strong offer during our first meeting, but she didn't accept it right then and there. She told me she couldn't say yes without talking to her mother first. She respects you, Tanya. She wouldn't move an inch if it meant hurting you. To put your mind at ease, let’s do this: we’ll treat the first four weeks as a "Bridge Placement" trial. This contract is just for the last 4 weeks before her senior year—think of it as a trial run to get those final credits out of the way. If she does well—and I have no doubt she will—she will be invited again in the summer after she graduates next spring. If she still wants it by then, the job is hers. However, if after a month she isn't happy, or if you feel the situation isn't what we promised, she can head back to Brooklyn with her credits secured and no further obligation. I just want to give her the platform she deserves. I look forward to hearing your response, Ms. Jenkins.

Tanya stared at the screen, her chest tightening. She felt a sharp, sudden pang of guilt that tasted like copper. Amira had been sitting on a six-figure promise, a life-changing "yes," just because she was waiting for her mother's permission. She had been holding her breath, waiting for Tanya to catch up to the future she was already building.

Tanya realized then that she had been so focused on keeping Amira safe that she hadn't noticed she was becoming the very thing holding her back.

She sighed, the tension in her neck finally beginning to ebb. "Perhaps, just perhaps," she murmured to the quiet kitchen, "it is finally time to let her fly."

___________________________________________

Author's Note: Ohhh so we finally get a sneak peek of how Tanya and Will meet. Also, what is going on with that disc and WHY is it a map of NYC? We shall see soon. As always thanks so much for reading. It's fitting that we're getting a bit of her POV on Mother's Day of all days. Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there. Follow me on Tumblr @PrettyStringBean for updates.

Chapter 4: All Eyez on Me

Word Count: 3660

The steam from the bathroom mirror was the only thing standing between Amira and a total mental collapse. It was Sunday—wash day. In the hyper-manicured, climate-controlled silence of the Manhattan high-rise she shared with Ronda, the ritual was her only remaining tether to reality.

She stood before the vanity, the mirror fogged into a soft, impenetrable white. She took a deep breath, letting the humidity hit her lungs, and plunged her hands into her hair. The sensation was immediate and grounding. Her fingertips worked the thick, honey-scented conditioner into her scalp, the coils responding to the moisture with a familiar, springy resistance. This was a private architecture—a complex system of twists, loops, and growth that she understood perfectly.

As she massaged her scalp, her mind drifted to her mother. She’d spoken to her mama briefly on the phone earlier, but she’d kept the conversation light—the weather, the upcoming semester, the price of groceries. She didn't want to bring up the DNA results or the "Golden Tribe" flag she’d glimpsed in the system. Her mother had already lived through the soul-crushing pain of Amira vanishing during the Blip; she didn't need to hear that her daughter was now caught in some labyrinthine bureaucratic situation involving a foreign superpower. She didn't want to be a burden.

When she finished, she didn't reach for a towel. Instead, she grabbed a soft, oversized cotton t-shirt, gently blotting her edges and squeezing the excess water from her 4C coils. She took her time, letting the rhythm of the process reset her frazzled nerves.

When she stepped out, her phone lit up on the counter. She swiped it open.

Subject: Re: Ancestral Research Project - Grade Posted

Miss Jenkins, your structural analysis of the Outreach Center’s load-bearing variables is—to put it mildly—unprecedented. I have not seen a student identify the resonance frequency issue in ten years. We need to discuss the implications of your work immediately. An 'A' does not begin to cover the complexity of what you’ve unearthed. —Dr. Davis.

Amira felt a flush of genuine triumph. She wasn't crazy. The structural defiance she’d observed wasn't a mistake in her math; it was a feat of engineering that Dr. Davis had finally acknowledged. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a breakthrough. She checked her other notifications, finding the reply from N’Jadaka Udaku.

Miss Jenkins, I agree. Let’s talk about that design. The Daily Grind on 125th, Tuesday at 2:00 PM. It’s quiet, and the roast is better than anything you’ll get on campus.

___________________________________________________

The Daily Grind was a sanctuary of exposed brick, low-hanging Edison bulbs, and the deep, rich scent of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe that seemed to cling to the dark wood of the tables. When Amira pushed through the heavy glass door, the bell chimed, and she immediately spotted the corner booth—a pocket of shadow that felt both private and intentional.

Mr. Udaku was already there. He looked strikingly different from the blurry headshot on the foundation’s website. He wore a dark, form-fitting charcoal sweater that highlighted the powerful breadth of his shoulders, and his long, freeform locs were pulled back into a neat, professional style tucked into a silk loc sock. He carried a casual, predatory stillness—a quietness Amira had only ever seen in field researchers, or perhaps soldiers who had forgotten how to fully relax.

"You’re right on time," he said as she approached. His voice was a rich baritone, smooth but with an underlying rasp.

"I didn't want to keep you waiting, the project looks too important for that," Amira replied with a warm, professional smile. She slid into the opposite seat, setting her leather messenger bag on the bench. "I’m really grateful you made the time, Mr. Udaku. I know how busy the foundation's rollout has been."

Mr. Udaku leaned back, a low, genuine chuckle bubbling up from his chest. "N’Jadaka," he corrected, his expression softening. "My daddy didn’t even call himself Mr. Udaku, and I’m definitely not starting now. Please, keep it informal. We’re both builders here."

He took a slow sip of his coffee, his dark eyes studying her over the rim of the mug. It wasn't the look of a bored executive; it was the look of a man searching for something specific.

"I’ll be honest with you, Amira," he began, setting the mug down. "When your email first hit my desk, I thought you were just another ambitious student looking for a line on a resume. But then I actually looked at the redlines you sent over. And then," he tilted his head, "I spent the last two nights looking into your undergraduate portfolio. Your work on the urban irrigation models in Harlem? That was bold."

Amira felt a flush of genuine surprise. She reached up to push her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose—a nervous tic she couldn't suppress. "You saw the irrigation project? That was... that was just a passion project for a local non-profit. I didn't think anyone outside the community board actually read the technical report."

"It was genius," N'Jadaka countered. "Most engineers look at a broken system and try to patch the holes. You looked at the foundation and realized the whole thing needed to be rerouted. I like your fire, Amira. I like your attention to detail—the way you poke at the math until it gives up its secrets. You have a passion for fixing things that most people are content to let stay broken."

As he spoke, he moved further into the light of the Edison bulb above them. Amira caught the way his brow furrowed as he watched her—a ghost of a gesture that felt hauntingly familiar, a deja vu that sent a shiver down her spine, though she couldn't place why.

N'Jadaka, for his part, went silent for a heartbeat. In the dim light of the cafe, the resemblance was jarring. He saw the way she held her chin with that innate, regal stubbornness, and the sharp, inquisitive spark in her eyes that mirrored the royal fire of a family she didn't even know she belonged to. She looked so much like the people across the ocean that it was almost painful to witness. It was a face that belonged in a palace, not a SoHo coffee shop.

"I’m not just here to talk about your feedback," N’Jadaka said, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "I’m here because I want that brain of yours on my team. I want to offer you the Lead Engineering Internship for the Oakland Outreach Center. It’s a full-ride fellowship, relocation included. You’ll be working directly under me on the structural implementation."

Amira froze, her breath hitching in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the words sank in. This wasn't just an internship; this was a career-defining leap. "Lead... Lead Engineering? Mr. Ud— N-N’Jadaka, I’m still finishing my senior capstone. That’s a massive responsibility for someone who hasn't even walked across the stage yet."

"And you're the only one I’ve met who’s actually qualified for it," he said with a confident, final nod. He slid the folder across the table, the gold-embossed logo catching the light. "So, what do you say? Do you want to keep critiquing the math from a distance, or do you want to help me build the future?"

Amira’s fingers hovered over the folder. The weight of the offer was life-changing, a literal golden ticket, but the ingrained habits of her life—the ones that kept her grounded—pulled at her.

"This is... it’s more than I expected," she said, her voice steadying as she looked back at him. "I want to say yes right now. But I don't make moves this big without talking to my family first. Specifically my mom. She’s been the one pushing me through this degree, and I need to run the relocation details by her before I sign anything."

N’Jadaka’s face shifted slightly. The stillness in his eyes sharpened for a fraction of a second, a fleeting moment of pure, intense calculation. The mask smoothed back into place before she could even wonder what the tension meant.

"I respect that. Family is the foundation of everything we’re trying to build in Oakland," he said, his voice dropping into a reassuring, resonant tone. He leaned forward. "And look, we can start slow. This contract is just for the summer—think of it as a trial run to get those final credits out of the way. If you do well—and I have no doubt you will—you’ll have a guaranteed, six-figure position waiting for you the second you throw that cap in the air next spring."

He tapped the folder with a blunt, scarred finger. "It’s a low-risk move with a high-stakes payoff, Amira. Take the contract. Talk to your mother. But don't let the fear of leaving home stop you from claiming what you’ve earned. This isn't just a job. It’s a legacy."

Amira nodded, the "summer trial" framing making the move feel like a strategic leap rather than a permanent desertion. "I understand. I’ll call you by Monday."

"I'll be waiting for the call," he replied, his gaze steady.

The moment was perfect, a peak of professional triumph, but as the adrenaline settled, Amira felt that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. She glanced toward the door. Two women stood flanking the entrance, draped in vibrant crimson wraps. Their heads were shaved clean, and they held themselves with a lethal, upright posture. At their sides, partially obscured by the heavy fabric, were the tapered, metallic ends of spears.

They weren't looking at the menu. Their eyes were locked on her—unblinking, clinical, and intensely protective. They watched her as if she were the most precious, volatile asset in the room.

Why are they staring? she wondered. Why does it feel like I’m under a microscope?

"Don't mind them," N'Jadaka said, drawing her attention back to the table. "They're just here to make sure the foundation's newest investment stays safe."

She nodded as she stood up, sliding the heavy folder into her messenger bag. She felt the eyes of the women in red track her every movement as she adjusted the strap over her shoulder. They didn't move an inch, but the air around them felt charged, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.

As Amira walked toward the door, she offered a small, tentative nod to the two sentinels. They didn't nod back. Their expressions remained as stone-cold as the statues in a cathedral, their unblinking focus following her until she pushed through the glass door and back into the sweltering Manhattan heat.

She walked toward the subway, clutching her bag to her side. The contract felt heavy, but her heart was light. She couldn't wait to see the look on her mother’s face when she told her that her baby girl was officially the Lead Engineer of a multi-million dollar foundation—even if it was only for the summer.

Once inside the train, she found a corner seat and opened the flap of her bag, intending only to double-check that the contract folder was secure. But as she pulled the leather aside, she noticed a secondary, smaller pocket she hadn't utilized—a velvet-lined sleeve tucked into the back of the bag. N’Jadaka must have slipped something else in when he handed her the portfolio.

Curious, she reached in and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a microfiber cloth. She carefully unwound the fabric, and her breath hitched.

Resting in her palm was a disc of pure, polished black obsidian. It was roughly the size of a coaster but possessed a weight that felt impossible for its dimensions. It wasn't just a stone; the surface was etched with microscopic, geometric lines that caught the flickering fluorescent lights of the subway car, glowing with a faint, iridescent violet hue.

There were no buttons, no ports, and no visible battery. It felt cold—so cold it was almost searing—but as she ran her thumb over the center, a pulse of warmth radiated back, vibrating against her skin like a low-frequency hum.

A puzzle, she realized, recalling N’Jadaka’s words about "poking at the math."

She was so engrossed in the disc that she almost didn't notice the shift in the car’s atmosphere. But as the train screeched around a curve, she looked up, her gaze instinctively drifting toward the reflection in the dark subway window across from her.

Standing near the sliding doors was a man in a nondescript gray jacket. He wasn't looking at a phone or a book. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes fixed on her bag. When their eyes met in the reflection, he didn't look away with the usual New York awkwardness. He simply stared, his expression as clinical and unmoving as the women in the cafe.

Amira’s blood turned to ice. She quickly rewrapped the disc and shoved it deep into her bag, her hands trembling. She didn't look back at the reflection. She kept her eyes on the dirty linoleum floor, her mind already racing through potential conductivity tests and spectral scans. Whatever this was, it was the key to the living organism architecture N’Jadaka was building in Oakland—and apparently, it came with a shadow.

___________________________________________________

Later that afternoon, she met Ade at a bookstore in the Village to return some textbooks. The aisles were narrow, crowded with towering stacks of philosophy and history.

"So, the Director of Wakanda's Outreach wants you to go to Oakland?" Ade asked, pulling a heavy copy of The Wretched of the Earth from the shelf. "Amira, that’s quite the development. A summer internship at a place like that... it's a huge boost for your resume. You’ve worked harder than anyone else on this project; you deserve to be recognized."

Ade’s tone was supportive, his eyes kind. He looked at her for a moment longer than necessary—a flicker of something unreadable—before he shook his head and returned to his books with a normal, easy smile.

Amira smiled back, feeling a bit of the tension leave her shoulders. It was good to be seen as an engineer again, and not just "the girl who was blipped." But as they turned to walk toward the checkout, she caught a glimpse of their reflection in the street-facing glass. Her heart stopped.

Across the street, standing by a newsstand, was the same man from the train. He wasn't even pretending to browse the headlines; he was looking directly at the bookstore’s front door. In the daylight, he looked even more out of place—clinical, watchful, and entirely too still for the frantic pace of a Village sidewalk.

She turned to look, but he ducked behind a stack of papers.

Amira felt a deep, uncomfortable tightness in her chest. She grabbed Ade’s sleeve, her grip firm and urgent.

"Ade," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Don't turn around. But we need to leave. Now."

"Why? What’s wrong?"

"There’s a man," she said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He was on the train, Ade. He followed me here. He’s waiting for us to leave."

The bookstore exit felt like a portal—one moment they were surrounded by the dust and stability of academia, the next they were thrown into the cold, damp rhythm of a New York evening. The adrenaline surged through Amira, sharp and electric. She didn't know who the man in the gray jacket was, but the way he had moved—the way he kept his eyes locked on her from across the street—was enough to tell her that her day had shifted from her great interview to something much darker.

As they pushed through the service door into the narrow alleyway, the city felt suddenly hostile. Ade stopped near the mouth of the alley, his posture shifting from casual friend to something broader, more protective. His eyes flicked back to the street corner where the man had been standing. "Amira, hold on. Who is that?" He took a step toward the street, his jaw set. "If someone is stalking you, I’m not just going to let it slide."

"No, Ade," Amira said, her voice sharp. She reached out, grabbing his arm. "Don't. Please."

Ade hesitated, his protective instinct warring with her demand. "Amira, we don't know who he is. If he’s following you, he needs to know he’s been spotted."

"And if he’s just a creep, or worse, you confronting him makes it worse," she countered, her pulse finally beginning to level out. She couldn't let him be a variable in this; she couldn't let him be the one to pay the price for her fear. "I’m not trying to be a hero, Ade. I just want to get home. Please, stay out of this. If they’re watching me, they’re watching you now."

Ade searched her face, seeing the raw, unadulterated fear she was trying to mask with logic. He took a slow breath, his shoulders dropping. "Okay. Let me at least walk you back home. After that, I definitely don’t want you walking alone, and it’s getting dark."

Amira nodded.

The walk from the bookstore to her high-rise was a blur of shadows and shifting reflections. Every car that slowed down made Amira’s skin crawl; every pedestrian she passed felt like a potential threat. When they finally reached the building, the sight of the polished marble lobby felt like a miracle.

The doorman—a familiar, towering figure in a crisp navy uniform—nodded as they entered, but the safety of the lobby didn’t stop the frantic thrumming in Amira’s chest. They rode the gold elevator in a silence that felt heavy, the vertical climb giving her no comfort. When they finally stepped out onto the quiet, carpeted hallway of her floor, the normalcy of the hallway—the smell of someone’s dinner, the muffled sound of a radio—felt entirely alien.

They reached her door, and Amira fumbled for her keys, her fingers shaking so hard she nearly dropped them. Ade stood behind her, his posture rigid, his eyes constantly flicking toward the elevator bank, guarding the space behind her. 

"I'm here," Amira whispered, her hand finally finding the lock. She turned to Ade, her face pale under the soft hallway lights. "Thank you for walking me all the way up. I—I think I’m okay now. You should go home, Ade. Please."

Ade didn't move. He stood there, searching her face, his gaze lingering on the raw, unadulterated fear she had been trying so hard to mask with logic and composure all evening. He took a slow, heavy breath, his shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch, though his eyes remained watchful.

"Okay," he said, his voice low and steady. "But if you see him again, or if anything else feels 'off,' you call the police immediately. You hear me?"

"I hear you," she said, managing a weak, grateful smile.

Ade waited until she turned the key and the heavy door clicked open before he finally turned to head back toward the elevators.

Amira stepped inside and locked the door behind her—deadbolt, chain, and latch. She leaned her back against the cool wood, closing her eyes and finally letting out the breath she felt like she’d been holding for blocks. The apartment was bright, filled with the warmth of a half-eaten container of Thai food and the familiar, low-volume chatter of The Real Housewives of Atlanta playing in the living room.

Ronda was sprawled on the oversized green velvet sofa, a fork halfway to her mouth. She looked up, her expression bright and breezy, completely oblivious to the fact that Amira felt like she had just escaped a war zone.

"Girl, you are late! I thought you were gonna be here an hour ago," Ronda said, gesturing with a spring roll. "How was the interview? Did you get the internship? You have to tell me everything—this episode is boring as hell anyway."

Amira stood in the entryway, her bag still slung over her shoulder, her chest heaving. The contrast between her internal state and Ronda’s casual comfort was dizzying.

"I..." Amira started, then stopped. She looked at her best friend, the person who had held her down when the world went to dust, and suddenly, the fear felt too heavy to hold alone. "Ronda, I think I'm being followed."

Ronda’s smile vanished instantly, the remote dropping to the couch. She sat up, her entire demeanor shifting from carefree to alert. "What? Who? Amira, talk to me. What happened?"

Amira slumped into the nearest chair, dropping her bag. She didn't mention the women in her class or the way the Dora Milaje looked at her—she didn't have the energy to explain the madness of it. She just talked about the meeting with N’Jadaka, the man in the gray jacket, and the weight of the air that had been pressing down on her for days.

Ronda listened, her face hardening with a protective, fierce intensity. When Amira finished, Ronda walked over and sat on the ottoman in front of her, taking both of Amira’s hands in her own.

"You're not going anywhere alone for a while," Ronda said, her voice steady. "And tomorrow, we are going to the police. We’re going to report this. You hear me?"

Amira nodded, feeling the first genuine wave of relief she’d had all day. She looked at her phone, sitting on the counter. She pulled out the small, obsidian-colored disc N’Jadaka had given her, the object pulsing with its steady, inexplicable light.

"What is that?" Ronda asked, her eyes narrowing at the strange, sleek technology.

"I don't know," Amira whispered. "He called it a 'welcome gift.' But I think it’s why they’re watching me."

Amira stared at the disc, the purple light casting long, weird shadows across the room. She knew that every effect had a cause—but as she sat in the safety of her home, she realized she was no longer just looking at a problem to be solved. She was looking at a puzzle that is hell-bent on solving her.

Chapter 3: Under Wraps

Word Count: 3522

The email hit Amira’s inbox on a Tuesday morning. It wasn’t the standard, sterile tone of the Outreach Center’s automated systems; it was personal.

Subject: The LTC program

Amira,

I was looking over the feedback from the New York site. You’ve got a sharp eye—most people just stare at the shiny tech, but you’re actually looking at how the place is built. I like that. We’re doing some internal adjustments to the program’s structure, and I’d like to pick your brain on the design. Let me know if you’re open to a sit-down.

—N’Jadaka Udaku, Director of Wakandan Outreach

Amira stared at the screen, tapping her pen against her chin. It felt less like a professional outreach and more like someone had been meticulously cataloging her specific, annoying questions. She closed the laptop with a definitive snap, the sound cutting through the quiet of the morning.

_____________________________________________________________

Two hours later, the air in the Columbia engineering lab was thick with the scent of soldering iron and stale coffee. Amira was hunched over a workstation, her eyes scanning the flickering data on a monitor. Beside her, Ade was frowning at a complex 3D rendering of a load-bearing beam, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

"The numbers just don't resolve, Amira," Ade muttered, his West African lilt sharpening as he jabbed a finger at the screen. "Look at the simulation for the shear force on this truss. I’ve run the model six times, varying the material density. By every law of physics we’ve been taught, this bridge should have collapsed two iterations ago. Yet, the model keeps projecting structural integrity."

Amira scooted her stool over, peering at the readout. "It’s not just the sheer force. Look at the resonance frequency here." She tapped a sequence of keys, pulling up the spectral analysis of the material. "It’s absorbing energy. It’s like the molecular structure is shifting to redistribute the load in real-time."

Ade leaned back, rubbing his temples. "That shouldn't be possible. Not with standard carbon-fiber composites. It’s like the material itself is 'thinking' about where the stress is going to be before it even hits."

Amira looked at the glowing blue lines on the screen—a perfect, stable structure that refused to break, despite the calculated pressure. It was an anomaly, a beautiful, impossible glitch.

"Maybe we're looking at it wrong," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Maybe we're assuming the material is passive. What if the design wasn't meant to hold the load, but to evade it?"

Ade turned to look at her, his eyes wide. "That’s a radical design philosophy, Amira. That’s not engineering—that’s survival."

Amira looked away from the monitor, her mind drifting back to the Outreach Center’s walls—the way they looked impossibly smooth, the way the security grid hummed at a frequency that made her skin crawl. The stress test on the screen was a perfect, infuriating metaphor. She was trying to calculate the weight of her own life, trying to find the "breaking point" of a reality that refused to follow the rules she’d thought she understood before the world turned to dust.

"Everything is breaking," she murmured, half to herself.

Ade reached out, his hand hovering near hers before he pulled it back, sensing the sudden, sharp shift in her energy. "You’re still thinking about that DNA glitch, aren't you?"

Amira didn't answer. She reached out and reset the simulation, watching the beam take the load again, perfectly, silently, and impossibly. "I just need to know why the math isn't working, Ade. If I can figure out the variable they’re hiding, I can solve the whole equation."

Ade watched her, a look of quiet concern crossing his face. He knew that look—the look of a scientist who had found a piece of data that defied every expectation. He wanted to tell her to leave it alone, to just finish the degree and move on, but he knew Amira. She wasn't the type to walk away from a mystery, especially when she felt the foundation of her world was shifting beneath her feet.

"If you need someone to help you bypass the administrative server to get the raw data," Ade said softly, "I’m in."

Amira smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks, Ade. But I think I have a direct line to the source now."

She looked back at her phone, still dark on the table. N’Jadaka’s email sat in her inbox like a landmine, waiting for her to step on it. She felt a strange pull toward the message, a need to know why the Director of the Outreach program was suddenly interested in an undergraduate student—and for a brief moment, she wondered if this had anything to do with her missing results. What could possibly be in her DNA, she pondered, that they were so determined to keep her from seeing? She was a long way from understanding the scope of what was happening, but she knew one thing for certain: nothing about that "glitch" had been an accident.

_____________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, in the Golden City, the fallout was being managed in the shadows. While T’Challa had set the perimeter—keeping his mother in the dark and his Council silent—Shuri remained in the lab, struggling to maintain her composure. She was supposed to be tuning the gamma-ray output for her gauntlets, but she could not steady her racing mind. The air in the lab, usually a sanctuary of innovation and cool logic, now felt pressurized, heavy with the weight of a history she thought was settled.

Frustrated, she set the hardware down on the workstation with a sharp clack. Her eyes drifted to a digital display nearby, showing Toussaint’s latest sketches of the city—simple, innocent lines drawn for his "Aunty Shuri." The childlike perspective of the charcoal-etched buildings contrasted violently against the jagged, clinical truth of Amira’s DNA sequence still glowing on the main monitor. She wondered, with a sickened curiosity, what he might draw for a new, unknown aunt. Would he even know how to draw a person who had been erased from their family tree before he was even born?

She felt a wave of nausea and fought to suppress a sharp flicker of resentment. Her father, the King, had been the architect of their rigid honor, yet here was a fracture in their foundation that defied every law of Wakandan transparency. She clenched her jaw, her fingers drumming a restless, syncopated rhythm against the cold metal of her gauntlet. "A secret sister," she muttered to the empty room, her voice brittle. "And you chose to let the world think we were perfect."

The sliding doors hissed open, and the quiet, rhythmic slap of T’Challa’s sandals against the stone announced his arrival. He moved with the grace of a man who carried the world on his shoulders, his expression uncharacteristically soft.

"You are vibrating with anxiety, usisi," T’Challa said, his voice calm, though his eyes darted immediately to the monitor where Amira’s data was pinned.

"I am vibrating with the realization that our father had a second secret life," Shuri snapped, spinning her chair around. "First Erik, and now this? What is this, umfowethu? A game of 'Who Else Shares Our Blood'?"

T’Challa sighed, moving to stand beside her. He looked at the name Amira Jenkins as if he were reading a poem. "She is not a secret, Shuri. She is a surprise. There is a difference."

"A difference? She has the markers, brother. She is Golden Tribe. Do you know what that means? It means she isn't just some distant cousin we can ignore."

T’Challa offered a faint, strained smile, attempting to lighten the suffocating atmosphere of the room. "Well, technically, N’Jadaka wasn't a cousin we could ignore either."

Shuri let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, spinning around to face him fully. "That is a horrible example! He tossed you over Warrior Falls! Do not joke about this, umfowethu."

T’Challa’s smile vanished instantly, the reminder of her trauma grounding him. He looked at her, his expression softening into one of pure, unadulterated regret. "You are right, Shuri. That was in poor taste. Forgive me."

He stepped closer, his demeanor shifting from the King to the brother who had nearly lost everything. "My intent was not to make light of our past, but to acknowledge that we have survived the fires of this bloodline before. We are stronger now. I am stronger. And I will not allow Amira to be forged in the same suffering that defined Erik."

Shuri crossed her arms, her gaze lingering on the now-dark monitor. "We survived because we fought for what we knew. We have no idea what she is capable of. If she is truly T’Chaka’s daughter, she may possess a fire that we are not prepared to handle."

"Then we will ensure that fire warms her," T’Challa said gently, "rather than burns her."

Shuri stood up, her movement abrupt. She paced the length of the lab, her hands waving toward the projections. "And you think it stays that way? You think the elders will look at her brilliance, her engineering mind, and see anything other than a challenge? You are the King, T’Challa, but you know how they think. If she is your equal in intellect—and the simulations suggest she might be—you have just introduced a variable that disrupts the entire equilibrium of the royal house."

T’Challa moved to block her path, his presence grounding. He placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "You are afraid," he said softly.

"I am replaced," she whispered, the confession catching in her throat. She looked down at the metal table. "I have always been the one you relied on. The one who understood your mind. If she comes here... if she finds out who she is... do I become the 'other' sister? The one who was already here? I don't know who I am without being the only one you look to for the truth."

T’Challa’s grip tightened, not in restraint, but in comfort. "Shuri, you are the foundation of my life. Nothing changes that. But look at her." He gestured back to the screen, where a frame of Amira laughing at her friend was frozen in time. "She is brilliant, yes. She is our blood, yes. But she is as much a stranger to our struggles as we are to hers. She has spent her life in Brooklyn, not the palace. She has seen the world from the outside in. We don't need to fear her; we need to welcome her and protect her from the very people who would turn her into a weapon."

Shuri looked at the screen again. The resentment was still there, a hot coal in her chest, but it was being tempered by the sheer, overwhelming reality of it all. "She looks like Baba," she conceded, her voice barely audible.

"She does," T’Challa agreed, a sad smile touching his lips. "And she has his drive. If we handle this correctly, we aren't losing anything. We are gaining a sister who knows the world in a way we never will."

"And if she’s not interested?" Shuri asked, her defenses still up. "What if she likes being Amira from Brooklyn?"

"Then we respect her choice," T’Challa said, his voice dropping into that commanding, royal register that brooked no argument. "But until she knows, she stays safe. No one touches her. No one dictates her path. The 'Golden Tribe' status is locked. As far as the council knows, it is a server error."

Shuri looked at him for a long time, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to bleed away. She reached out, swiping the holographic display of Amira’s data into a minimized folder, hiding it from the main view of the lab. "Fine," she muttered, picking up her gauntlet again. "But if she turns out to be as annoying as you, I’m taking my lab and moving to Jabari Land."

T’Challa let out a low, genuine laugh, the first one he had managed in days. "I think you’ll find, usisi, that you have much more in common than you suspect."

_____________________________________________________________

The lecture hall was an architectural relic of polished wood and echoes, a stark contrast to the sterile, vibrant reality of Wakandan design that Amira had been obsessing over for weeks. The tension in the room was a physical weight, exacerbated by the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Dr. Davis, a woman whose presence commanded the room like an anchor, stood by the projector. She began handing out the ancestral swab results—the culmination of a semester-long project. When Amira’s name was skipped, the silence in her head became deafening.

"Dr. Davis?" Amira raised her hand, her voice steady despite the prickle of annoyance. "I apologize for the interruption, but I think there’s been a technical error. My results still say 'Pending' on the portal."

Dr. Davis looked up from her tablet, her gaze sharp, intelligent, and deeply observant. "That’s unusual, Miss Jenkins. The system usually auto-generates those within forty-eight hours. I’ll look into it personally after class, but for today, you’ll have to present your findings based on the general research parameters."

Amira nodded respectfully, bowing her head slightly. "Of course, Dr. Davis. Thank you."

She walked to the front of the class, her stomach doing somersaults. As she pulled up her slide deck, she noticed two women standing in the back of the room. They weren't students. They weren't faculty. They wore dark, nondescript clothing that made them stand out more than if they’d worn giant red hats spelling out "We don't belong here!" One leaned casually against the doorframe, her gaze fixed on Amira with the unblinking, predatory focus of a hawk; the other tapped a rhythmic, silent beat against her thigh—a code, or perhaps just a nervous habit, but it felt intensely deliberate.

Amira shook off the distraction and clicked to her first slide.

"The Outreach Center is sold to us as a bridge," Amira began, her voice gaining strength as she found her rhythm. "But to truly bridge the gap, we have to stop viewing this as a one-way street. It shouldn't just be about Wakanda providing technology or resources to the diaspora. It has to be a reciprocal exchange of history, struggle, and innovation."

She navigated the slides with precision, outlining how historical and cultural commonalities could be woven together more effectively. "If the Outreach Center is truly about 'outreach,' then why is the feedback loop so restricted? Why are the architectural schematics of these centers more guarded than the average embassy?"

Dr. Davis cleared her throat, leaning forward, her expression thoughtful but challenging. "Miss Jenkins, that is a provocative framing. You are implying that the Wakandan outreach initiatives are fundamentally opaque. That is a heavy critique of a government that has single-handedly stabilized the global economy in the last decade. Are you suggesting they lack the intention of true equity?"

Amira met Dr. Davis’s eyes, holding her ground with the quiet confidence of someone who had done the work. "With all due respect, Dr. Davis, I’m not questioning their intention. I’m analyzing their engineering. If you build a structure with closed systems, you don't build it for exchange—you build it for containment. As a student of history, you’ve taught us that benevolence without transparency is just another form of power. My frustration is that every query I submit about the LTC system returns a 'Non-Applicable' tag."

Dr. Davis paused, a faint, impressed flicker crossing her features. "And what is your hypothesis for why that tag persists, Miss Jenkins?"

"If it’s not reciprocal," Amira fired back gently but firmly, "it’s not a bridge. It’s a gate. And I think we need to be very clear about which one we’re walking through."

The room went silent. Dr. Davis stared at her for a long moment, visibly weighing the argument. She nodded slowly. "A fair point, Miss Jenkins. One that requires further inquiry."

Before the conversation could continue, the woman by the door shifted. It wasn't a confrontational movement; it was the subtle, practiced reset of a guard switching stances. Her eyes tracked the room, indifferent and impenetrable, before settling for a fraction of a second on the back of Amira’s neck. There was no glare, no aggression—just a chillingly neutral assessment. She gave a microscopic dip of her chin to her partner in the back corner. It was a silent, rhythmic communication, a language of absolute precision that left no room for error.

Amira felt it then—a sudden, icy draft in the room, despite the windows being sealed. She glanced toward the back again, but the women were still, their expressions unreadable, as if they were merely waiting for a ride.

She turned back to the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. As she finished her presentation, she didn't feel the triumph of a good argument. The "Pending" status on her laptop gnawed at her, but she forced her shoulders to drop.

You are spiraling, she told herself, gripping her laptop case until her fingers ached. It’s just an error. People visit the university all the time. You’re projecting your frustration with the system onto two strangers who are probably just here for the next speaker. She tried to focus on the next student’s presentation, forcing her eyes to track their slides, but the words blurred into meaningless shapes. The dread in her stomach wasn't dissipating; it was settling, cold and heavy. No matter how much she told herself it was just paranoia, she couldn't shake the sensation of being watched—not just by the women in the back, but by the very air in the room.

_____________________________________________________________

The apartment felt like a tomb the moment Ronda left. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was heavy, pressing against the high-rise windows and pooling in the corners of their sleek, minimalist kitchen. Amira stared at her laptop, where the "Pending" status on her portal seemed to pulse in the dim light of the kitchen island. She knew she was obsessing over it, but she couldn't help it. She needed to take her mind off the stalled DNA test, but her books—usually a source of comfort—now felt like fragile barricades against a threat she couldn't name. She took a deep breath and grabbed her keys, her movements sharp and jerky. She needed to move. She needed to breathe something other than the stagnant, climate-controlled air of her own apartment.

Manhattan at night was a sensory overload—a thick, humid soup of exhaust, radiating heat from the pavement, and the low-frequency hum of a city that never actually slept. But as she hit the campus perimeter, the rhythm of the city shifted. The usual distant sirens and muffled conversations faded, replaced by an unnerving, hyper-focused quiet.

She fell into her stride, her sneakers slapping against the concrete in a steady, metronomic beat. But every few seconds, the hair on her arms stood up. It wasn't a noise. It wasn't a visual flicker. It was a pressure, a sudden, prickly weight on the nape of her neck, as if the air itself had become dense and watchful.

Paranoia, she told herself, forcing her lungs to expand. It’s just the stress. The presentation, the DNA test, the lack of sleep.

She slowed her pace, pulling the familiar trick of glancing into the dark shop windows as she passed. She saw nothing but the reflection of flickering streetlights and the empty, dark glass of closed businesses. There were no figures, no suspicious movements—just her own reflection, looking frantic and small.

She stopped abruptly, feigning a need to tie her shoelace. She leaned down, eyes darting to the sidewalk behind her. Empty. The street stretched out like a long, dark tongue, silent and undisturbed.

"You're losing it, Amira," she whispered, her voice sounding too loud in the stillness.

She stood up and began to jog again, but the rhythm was gone. The humidity felt suffocating, clinging to her skin like a damp shroud. Every shadow cast by the city architecture seemed to deepen, stretching and warping into shapes that shouldn't be there. A gust of wind rattled a nearby construction fence, and she jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She was alone—logically, she knew she was alone—yet she had never felt less solitary.

There was a quality to the silence that felt curated. It wasn't the natural absence of sound; it was a deliberate hush. She picked up her pace, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She felt the gaze of a dozen eyes, invisible and cold, sweeping over her. She knew, with a terrifying, intuitive certainty, that if she were to stop and turn around now, she wouldn't see a person—she would see a hunter. Somewhere in the dark, footsteps were being placed with a precision that defied sound, someone matching her pace, silent and lethal, waiting for a command that she didn't know existed.

She turned the final corner toward her building, her legs burning, her chest tight. She didn't look back again. She didn't dare. She simply ran, hunted by the feeling that the city had finally decided to notice her.