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The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 14 | "Don't look down."

Cornwall’s dramatic cliffs have nothing on the emotional terrain. The scenery’s gorgeous, the footing’s questionable, and tensions - of multiple varieties - are reaching new heights (literally).

masterlist ✨

Prev chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

CW: blood, near-death experience, vertigo triggers, canon-typical injury detail, unrelenting tension.

Word count: 8k. This is lore-heavy. i'm very sorry x

You are never following one of Scott’s ‘easy’ routes again.

Not because the path isn’t beautiful - it is. Postcard beautiful. Wild cliffs, moody sea, the faint outline of some craggy ruin carved into the rock like it grew there. The sun is angling low over the horizon, painting everything in a dusky gold. You’d admire it more if you weren’t actively trying not to die.

“There’s a trail,” he’d said, all bright-eyed excitement and lopsided charm. “Just a little scramble. Nothing serious.”

He hadn’t mentioned the wind. Or the fact that the ‘trail’ is less a trail and more a half-eroded ledge with zero railings, no ropes, and a generous drop into a frothy, jagged-kissed sea.

You’re halfway up the path now - if it can be called that - fingers clenched tight to a slick chunk of weather-beaten stone, the ocean roaring below like it’s goading you into slipping. Scott is already ahead, reaching a hand back every so often like he’s expecting you to grab it. You don’t. Not because you don’t trust him. But there’s something performative about the way he moves, like he knows exactly how he looks doing it. Typical pretty boy.

Sam’s behind you. Closer than you expected. You can feel him at your back - not crowding, but definitely ready to catch you if you fall. You’re not planning on falling.

You’re also not planning on thinking about what happened two nights ago. Or what didn’t happen.

This is the first location on the manifest. The one Sam flagged in that grainy scan from the archives - a set of coordinates scrawled in faded ink, buried between a shipping entry for silver flatware and an ominous note about “special materials in sealed crates”. William Campbell’s name. Mai’s too, in newlywed ink. Everything else on the list - a townhouse in Wiltshire- where Scott found the necklace, A West London warehouse, a half-collapsed estate in Sussex, and of course, the dreaded manor in Chatham (God, Chatham… you still aren’t sleeping well), you’ve already chased down between the three of you. Nothing concrete. Just fragments.

Before the return to Jordan to chase Mai’s past, you might as well see if your good friend William Campbell’s left anything behind to remove a little ‘wild’ out of the goose chase.

Despite the excitement, you do not like this.

There’s no fucking rope. There’s no barrier. No health and safety warning. No convenient, cartoonish crash mat to catch you if your boot slips. Just ancient Cornish granite and the vast, grey-blue expanse of ocean waiting below, ready to pulp your spine if gravity so much as blinks in your direction.

You cling to the jagged slope, breath a little shallow, palms sweating. You’re trying not to look down. Which only makes you more aware of how much there is to look down at.

“You alright?”

Sam’s voice drifts up from behind you – not loud, but close enough to feel like it’s in your ear. He’s taking up the rear, at your request. Something about him being the least likely to let you die.

You nod, though you know he can’t see that from this angle. “Fine. Totally fine.”

“You sound it.”

“Just basking in the serenity of the English coast.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him. You hear the crunch of his boots as he shifts closer. “Need a hand?”

“No, I-” Your right foot slips half an inch and your stomach nosedives. “Actually, yes. Please. Fuck. Please.”

You brace instinctively against the slope, expecting the weight of your body to pull you backward. But then his hand is there - a little cold, but solid against your lower back, steadying you with a comfort that belies how hard your heart is thundering.

“Gotcha,” he says, low and certain.

Yes. He most certainly does ‘gotcha’. That’s the problem.

You take a breath. Nod again. “Cheers.”

“You’re doin’ fine.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Ten more minutes of this and we’ll be back on flat ground.”

“You say that like this was a good idea to begin with.”

“What are you talkin’ about? You begged to come with.”

You scowl up at the cliffside, then throw a glare over your shoulder. “That’s a conspiracy.”

His laugh is warmer this time - and for half a second, it softens everything: the rock, the wind, the stitch forming in your side. Even the awkwardness that’s festered ever since the store cupboard near-kiss (because that’s exactly what that was, you keep telling yourself) - through the long drive to Cornwall, all the way to leaving the hotel this morning. Almost enough to distract you from the next part of the climb, which requires stepping up onto a narrow ledge that’s… questionably shaped at best.

You’re nearly there. The path narrows again - more ledge than walkway now - until finally, Scott halts ahead, braced against the slope beside a weather-beaten chunk of wall that juts out from the cliffside.

“This is it,” he calls over the rush of wind, one arm gripping a protruding slab of rock for balance. His other hand disappears into a pocket, tugging out a small flashlight. “Door’s up here. Mostly buried.”

You squint upward. Sure enough, you catch the edge of what might have once been a door, though now it’s so sealed and flush with the cliff that it looks like part of the natural stone. Just above it, the rock has eroded enough to form a jagged opening, barely a foot wide.

It doesn’t look like an entrance. It looks like a mistake. A glitch in the landscape.

“Are we…” you breathe out, “supposed to squeeze through that?”

“Unless you’ve got dynamite in your rucksack, babe, yeah,” Scott says, reaching down toward you with a grin. “Give us your hand. I’ll pull you up.”

You reach - only for your fingers to brush air. The last step is too steep and you lose your footing.

“I can’t-”

“I’ve gotcha,” Sam says behind you.

You glance back as he crouches low, steadying himself against the cliff wall.

And then his hands are on your thighs. Not tentative. Not shy. Firm.

Your brain short-circuits and you let out a strange noise as his fingers veer rather close to your ass.

You grab for a handhold on instinct as his palms press up, squeezing just enough to lift, hoisting you bodily as you scramble for height. You’re suddenly very aware of the strength in his grip, the flex of his fingers digging through the fabric of your leggings, the way the motion drives you upward like you weigh nothing at all.

He exhales as he pushes. “C’mon. Go.”

You half-stumble, half-clamber, boots scraping rock until Scott catches your forearm and yanks you the rest of the way. You land awkwardly on your knees beside him, heart in your throat, though whether it’s the climb, the view, or that handsy little boost, you’re not entirely sure.

“Thank you, ladies.” you mutter, breathless.

“Don’t mention it,” Sam calls, hauling himself up with an ease that shouldn’t look that good in such a wind-slick outfit. “Pleaded.” He repeats, an accusatory finger wagging in your direction just to remind you that this is all on you. “Don’t you forget that.”

You keep your eyes on the stone, willing the heat in your face to subside before it becomes obvious.

Sea spray gusts upward in a sudden burst from below, cold and briny against your cheeks. You’re high up now - way too high, and the wind rolls through the narrow outcropping like a wispy reminder of your own mortality. The chapel wall, if you can call it that, is half-swallowed by cliff and salt abrasion. Salt and lichen veins the stone. The remnants of a door frame are only visible where the lichen breaks, revealing lines that could have once been wood. It’s impossible to tell.

“You weren’t kidding,” you murmur. “It’s completely sealed.”

“Mostly,” Scott corrects, thumbing his torch toward the warped hole where erosion has gnawed a way through the stone.

You lean toward it. It’s narrow. Uneven. The size of an old chimney chute, maybe. But just barely passable.

“Reckon we can get in one at a time,” Scott says. “Might need to shuffle.”

“Shuffle?” you echo, glancing toward the black, dripping cavity.

He shrugs. “Or wriggle. Shimmy. Writhe. Pick your verb.”

You huff a breath, glancing cautiously at the edge and peering in. Darkness. Dust. You’re not tall enough to see much else.

Behind you, Sam makes a low sound of reluctant amusement. “You goin’ first?”

“Yeah, c’mon. Ladies first,” Scott says with a smirk.

You give both of them a look.

“Go on then,” Scott says, tone bright. “We believe in you.”

With a grumble, you plant one hand just beside the opening and test your weight against it. It holds. Not comforting. Just… not immediately fatal.

“Alright,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “This is fine. Totally fine.” Sea spray must reach this high, or maybe the inside’s just that damp. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for your dignity.

You brace a knee on the flatter ridge, fingers finding a seam in the rock above the opening to lever yourself up. It’s awkward, as predicted, your boots scraping, your hips twisting - and the boys are not helping.

“Looking graceful, darl.” Scott says dryly.

“I’m sure I am.” You grit.

“Oh yeah. Very Cirque du Soleil.”

You grunt as your knee slips slightly on the slope and you have to shuffle higher, gripping a jut of stone above the hole with both hands. “Eat shit, Scott.”

“Might be more your style, from the looks of things!” he chirps back.

Sam, to his credit, stays silent. That’s somehow worse.

You growl through your teeth and launch yourself the last half-foot upward, planting both palms and wiggling - yes, wiggling - your way into the narrow hole like a badly-shaped cork. Your shoulders catch first. Then your hips.

God. This is humiliating.

“I think I’m stuck,” you announce, face mushed against the cold stone just inside.

Scott laughs. “You’re not stuck.”

“No, I- I might be stuck.”

Behind you, Sam coughs pointedly. “If you’d prefer I push, I’d be happy to assist-”

“I swear to God-” you snap, and he giggles. You flush hot. Prick.

You steal a breath and boost yourself up on your forearms, shoulders squeezing tight to enter further. Your legs follow in a slow, undignified scrabble, boots scuffing against the stone as your hips wedge awkwardly in the narrowest point. You huff. It does not feel cool or sexy. You grunt. It echoes.

“Almost there,” Scott calls.

“Thank you, Scott!” you snap, feet still hanging out the entrance. “What would I do without your sage updates?”

Your boot jerks as you plant your toe against the lip of the stone. You push, grunt, and finally wedge your torso fully inside. The boys are left with a perfect view of your lower half; bent, boots scuffed, thighs twitching.

“I hope you’re enjoying the view,” you mutter loudly, accidentally smacking your elbow against the stone as you yank yourself further into the small tunnel. “Ow! Dickhead!”

Scott guffaws. Sam sounds like he’s choking on his own tongue.

You suck in a shallow breath and keep crawling, elbows dragging against damp stone. You have to turn your head sideways to avoid scraping your cheek on the ceiling.

Then you drop. Just a foot or two - the floor dips abruptly, and your knees thunk against the slabbed stone hard enough to jolt your spine as you land clumsily.

You hiss through your teeth. “Jesus.”

“You okay?” Sam’s voice filters in behind you, now muffled by rock.

There’s a wet sound as your palm hits something slick.

You pause. Frown. Lift your hand. Slime. Seaweed, maybe, or lichen slicked with moisture. It sticks faintly to your skin. “Ugh.” You wipe it on your thigh and switch your torch on.

“Are we good to follow?” Scott calls, “Or am I gonna crawl face-first into your ass?”

“Har - har.” you deadpan. “Come through… but, fair warning. It smells like a… teenage boy’s bedroom.”

“Evocative.” Sam replies, punctuated by a soft grunt as he begins to hoist himself through the hole. “Can’t wait to-” another grunt, “huff that into my lungs.”

“Doesn’t usually bother you.” You retort, pushing upright, half-crouched. Scott laughs as Sam drops into the room behind you, his own torch following suit as he purposely nudges your shoulder.

Two, then three beams of light play across the room. It’s wider than expected given its exterior. Maybe twenty feet at its longest point. Stone walls, some collapsing inward; low ceilings, sea mist creeping in through hairline cracks in slate, beading on surfaces and making everything shimmer in the damp. The floor is slick - you bet yourself a fiver that you’ll slip within the next ten minutes - it’s partially carpeted with debris.

Scort rises behind you, brushing damp grit from his knees as he lifts his head, eyes scanning the space while Sam’s torch beam swings wide, catching on the crumbling edge of what might’ve once been a pulpit.

“So this is where they came first once they were married?” He says. ”The hell’s a church got to do with anything?”

Scott hums in response. “This is the first location listed on the manifest. Mai, William. Did a little digging on the drive. Apparently this place came with the land he staked out after the marriage happened. Part of some coastal ‘retreat’, let’s say.”

“If my new husband brought me here and told me it was a coastal retreat, I’d arrange chemical castration.” You mutter, heading past rows of rotten pews.

“Heh.” Sam sniggers, “Explains the shipping records. Trunks of belongings. Silver. Linen. There’s a port nearby. Must’ve been their first stop before Campbell went full ‘property empire’.” He turns to Scott. They continue discussing theories, and you try to follow. You do. But your attention drifts.

Your boots squelch over soft debris as you trail away from them, deeper toward the front of the chapel. The air thickens slightly, the smell sharpening into something faintly metallic.

You scan your torch along the wall. There’s a faint glimmer where moisture beads along carved stone. You’re not sure why it draws you, but it does. The altar ahead is barely intact, its edges warped and leaning, like it’s been tilting toward collapse for a century.

Your steps slow. There, just beyond the altar’s base, you catch a seam in the floor.

You step closer. Shine your torch down. It’s subtle - barely visible beneath the grime and moss - but a hinge peeks out from the stone. Rusted. Half-buried.

There’s something beneath this.

Your breath stills.

“Guys,” you call, voice low but carrying. “Come take a look at this.”

Footsteps crunch behind you, fast. Sam appears first at your side, eyes narrowing as he tracks your light.

“Is that a door?”

Scott joins a second later, already crouching down. ”That’s not ominous at all.”

You exchange a glance. Then, slowly, all three of you lower into position.

Whatever’s down there, someone wanted it sealed.

Sam runs his fingers over the groove. “There’s somethin’ behind it. Hollow space.”

Scott joins him, shoulder-to-shoulder - you step back as they pry at the small gap; “Bit of leverage and- shit, okay-”

After a minute of effort, and your ‘help’ reduced to holding the light towards them, with a grating scrape the stone shifts. There’s a hiss as trapped air escapes, Then the slab gives way just enough to tilt upwards, revealing a recessed frame in the floor.

You shine your torch down, over their shoulders.

Stairs.

Dangerously narrow - steep enough that they’re essentially a ladder. Hewn directly into the stone, each already thin step worn into uneven curves from years of salt-water erosion. They disappear into darkness.

Sam stands, exhaling. “This looks fun.”

“Looks foreboding.” You murmur.

“Better than a dead end.” Scott mutters, then glances at you with a grin, “Ladies first?”

You frown up at him, “Very chivalrous, mate, but you’ve already used that one. It’s your turn.”

He presses a hand to his heart, brows furrowning dramatically. “You wound me.”

But before either of you can quip further, Sam crouches and starts down off his own accord.

“Hope neither’a you two are claustrophobic.” He calls up after a few seconds.

Scott shrugs and follows not long after. Great.

You hesitate at the lip of the opening, crouched with your torch clutched in one damp palm, the cold stone slick beneath your fingertips. Sam disappears not long after he speaks, swallowed by shadow, torchlight with him.

You’re alone for a moment. Just you and the dark maw of the stairwell, yawning downwards like a throat. You angle yourself in. Instantly it’s heavier. Wetter. The air clings to your clothes and cloys in your mouth as you grip the frame and swing one leg down to the first step.

Your gut pitches in the way it used to when you were a kid about to go down one of those soft-play death slides. You immediately feel your boot skid slightly on the salt-worn surface and your heart lurches.

Again, no handrail. No rope. Just chipped stone and a steep descent with no guarantee of safety on the other end.

These guys are fucking nuts.

You say a quick prayer to whatever powers that be and then enter slowly. One boot after the other, each step taken sideways, shoulder braced against the slick, mossy wall. The torch in your hand bounces erratically, casting twisted shadows down the passage and briefly lighting the back of Scott as you begin to catch up.

Your ribs feel tight. Your backpack scrapes the wall and the ceiling dips low, forcing you to hunch - you wonder what the boys are doing, given they’re both about twenty feet tall.

The descent lasts what feels like forever.

No words pass between you. Breath, boots, stone - the occasional skid-and-gasp, boots stopping to assess if someone came a cropper. You count the steps - sixteen, then thirty, then too many to bother. Everything smells like earth and salt and stone, cold and sharp and old. At one point, you’re sure you feel the wall shift under your palm.

Thighs and knees burning, shoulders screaming at the joints, finally - the tunnel flattens and widens. The claustrophobia you weren’t aware you had unfurls itself from your lungs as you trot onto flat land.

It’s a cavern. Natural. Stone opening out into a great, hollow space, veined with quartz and sea-smoothed rock, ceiling arching high above in jagged stalagmites. Twilight spills in from somewhere - a gap in the cliff above or a distant sea tunnel - just enough to turn the walls a dusky blue, gilding the puddles on the ground with a silver sheen.

Moss glows on the wall opposite, phosphorescent and damp, coinciding with the drip drip dripping steadily from above.

“Shit.” You whisper, digging out your phone to take a picture.

“More than just a creepy old church, then.” Scott murmurs, shining his torch around. Sam takes a step forward, kicking a pebble. The cavern answers with an echo as it skitters across the ground. For a moment, the three of you just stand there, torch beams flickering.

Then, Scott moves. He skirts a shallow pool near the centre of the chamber and follows a slope carved along the side wall. Sam trails after him, and you follow, boots squelching over damp rock.

The passage narrows, then widens again, salt curling at the back of your throat. Getting a comb through your hair is going to require militant attention tonight.

Ahead, Scott raises his torch, the beam stretching over a walkway. Narrow, rotting, suspended over a sheer drop. The sea churns below it. As does your stomach.

“Rustic.” Sam mutters, eyeing the planks.

Scott tests the first few with his boot. They creak, bow a little, but hold. Sam peers over the edge with a smirk that essentially tells you that this is child’s play to him.

One by one, they cross. Scott first, then Sam, keeping it slow and steady. Sam turns, beckoning you.

You swallow thickly and place your foot onto the first plank with cautious precision, wincing as the wood groans beneath you. It’s damp. Even slimier than the steps. Compromised is a word that makes sense. You force your breath to slow, locking your gaze on the slats ahead. Not the gaping spaces between them, the churning, rock-filled sea below, or the twenty metre drop that will surely work your spine to a pulp if this thing gives way.

Scott’s nearly across, “Don’t look down.” He calls lightly, “It’ll psych you out.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t look down, I’ll just fall through th-”

CRACK-

A sharp, splintering pop ricochets through the cave as your right leg drops out from under you, the plank quite literally crumbling beneath your boot. The rest of your sentence breaks into a ragged, broken gasp that hooks Sam’s attention instantly.

Your hips slam against the edge, left knee smacking into your chest, palms slapping against sodden wood as your torch rolls off the side and-

You watch it fall, stunned - just long enough to see the pale beam of light spinning down, down, down, until it disappears with a splash that you can’t even hear. Your breath stalls, a soft, sharp, close-mouthed whimper slipping out as your vision goes white around the edges.

And that’s when you realise how far up you really are. The sea is foaming, black, seemingly endless, and your stomach turns inside out.

You try to push yourself up, but the other plank - where your knee slammed down mere seconds ago gives with a low, splintering crack - you scream; a sharp, animal sound that tears from your throat as the wood somersaults into the same fate as your torch.

Both legs drop, swinging into open air, boots flailing uselessly for purchase on nothing.

Your ribs smack the edge of the wood, pain exploding through your torso. Your arms- God, your arms - burn as you claw for the next plank, nails catching on splinters, palms sliding.

Sam’s voice is panicked when he calls your name, “Hang on - hang on!”

“She’s going-!” Scott shouts from the far side, already heading in your direction. You hear the skidding of his boots on gravel, then a sickening silence as he hesitates.

“Don’t-” Sam barks, “Stay there - it won’t hold us both.”

You can’t breathe. Your arms are shaking, legs nothing but dead weight swinging in the salty spray rolling up beneath you. You don’t even realise you’re crying until the salt hits the corners of your mouth. You can’t tell what’s seawater and what’s you. You can’t-

THUD.

Sam hits the deck, landing on his chest.

“Hey- HEY! Hand. Gimme your hand-” He calls, forcing your attention away from the drop and up to him. You can’t respond.

You shake your head- not at him, but at yourself. You can’t lift your arm. Can’t shift your weight. Your muscles are shot, stiff with terror. Your fingers slip a little and you dig them further into the sodden wood.

“I- I can’t-” you manage, barely a whisper.

One hand is already gone, scraped raw, trembling at the edge. The other won’t hold for long. You’re not strong enough. You know it. If you let go, if you reach for him, you’ll fall before you ever touch him. Your elbow slips a few inches and your entire body lurches. The edge of the plank bites into your ribs, grinding bone against wood.

Your head spins. You slip-

His hands clamp around your forearms just as your grip finally gives.

Your breath tears out of you in a ragged sob. You can’t even process what’s happening - just pain, panic, pressure as Sam pulls.

“C’mon, c’mon, I’ve got you, sweetheart- hold on-”

Your body screams in protest as he drags you upward, the splintered wood scraping every inch of your front. Your stomach rakes against the jagged edge, shirt snagging, skin grazing beneath the fabric. A deep, fire-hot line carves along your ribs and you cry out, voice cracking, breath hitching violently in your chest.

The bridge groans under the strain of your combined weight, and a jolt from the last plank preventing you from plummeting has you loosen from his grip slightly.

Sam grits his teeth, muscles straining as he shifts his hands higher - one arm locked under your shoulder, the other yanking you up by your elbow. You choke on a gasp as your chest clears the beam-

Then you’re up.

You slam down onto the deck beside him, flat on your stomach, heart hammering like it’s trying to claw through your ribcage. The walkway wails beneath you, louder now, warning you both: not much time.

“Shit,” Sam hisses. “Shit- this is gonna go-”

You barely have time to lift your head before he latches onto your forearm again and hauls. You yelp as your limbs scramble for traction, but he doesn’t give you time to panic. He throws his weight sideways, dragging you with him.

Scott, halfway turned back toward the walkway, gets yanked by sheer instinct - his foot slips, one hand scrambling for balance before he crashes down onto the stone just ahead of you. He lands hard on one knee, breath punched out of him, but doesn’t hesitate - he’s already spinning, already crawling toward the edge to look back, wide-eyed, just in time to see the bridge give way.

You hit the ground hard, skull smacking against stone. Blessed, unmoving stone.

You’re gasping, dizzy, half-crushed beneath something warm and heavy. You blink, dazed, trying to push yourself up - only to realise that Sam is very much still on top of you.

His face is inches above yours. His chest heaving. Eyes wide. One knee grazing your hip, the other pressed right between your thighs. His other hand is still locked tight around your wrist, breath heaving like he’s just sprinted through hell. You freeze for half a second - mostly because you physically can’t do anything else.

The sound is violent. Wood splintering. Planks snapping like bones. A spray of debris clatters across the stone beside you both, and you flinch instinctively. Sam shifts protectively over you until the echoes die.

Then… quiet.

Scott crouches at the edge, arms braced on his thighs, just staring. Slack-jawed. The bridge is gone. Just open space now.

Your breath stutters. Chest tight. Your arms are trembling and your skin is scraped raw, but none of it registers quite as loudly as the aftermath of panic.

You drag in a breath. Then another. It comes out shaky and shallow.

Sam lifts his head, looking down at you.

His brow is furrowed, that rough, frightened look he gets when he doesn’t know how to fix something. His pupils are wide. Gravelly dirt smeared along his jaw and just beneath the semi-healed cut from the fight in the pub. His thumb shifts slightly on your sleeve.

“You’re okay,” he says. “Yeah?”

You nod. Sort of. But your face is already folding in on itself, your mouth twitching like something’s caught behind your teeth. He grimaces as if bracing for the tears he sees coming before you even know they’re there.

You shut your eyes tight and tilt your head back against the stone.

“Not my finest hour, that.” You manage breathlessly, just as a few stray tears slip past your lashes in a warm, uninvited swell. Your chest jerks slightly with the effort of keeping it down, and you swipe the tears away with the heel of your palm in a brash attempt at pretending they were never there.

“Thank you,” you rasp.

He shakes his head before you can finish. Like he’s swatting it away. No need. Doesn’t matter. His jaw twitches once, and he just holds you there for a moment longer, palm still on your arm, the weight of his body still a shield between you and the memory of the drop.

Then he exhales. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice softer as his eye contact begins to falter. “Okay, I’m- I’ve overstayed my welcome here.”

It’s an attempt at levity, but it lands quietly. Like he’s asking permission to let go now that you’re safe.

He rolls off to one side with a strained grunt, groaning as he hits the stone beside you. You instantly mourn the warmth.

You both lie there, gasping, blinking up at the stalagmites above you.

A shadow falls across you.

Scott.

His face is pale, eyes wide, hands braced on his knees as he exhales shakily. “That-” he gestures to the splintered void where the bridge used to be- “was the most horrifying shit I’ve ever seen.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just extends both hands- one to you, one to Sam.

“Come on. Let’s get you up before I cry too.” You nod and take his hand. “You alright?” he asks, voice quieter than you’re used to. His grip is firm and warm as he hauls you upright and you nod again. You sway a little once you’re on your feet but both of them hover close, just in case.

“Fuck that bridge,” you mutter after a minute.

Sam nods immediately, pout and frown welded together on his face like he hasn’t decided which one he’s committing to.

Scott crosses his arms, eyes flicking toward the shattered remains of the walkway now floating somewhere far below.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Fuck that bridge.”

You sniff, rubbing at your face again. You breathe - slow, steady, in through your nose, out through the awful, damp cave air. Eventually, your hands stop shaking. Your knees still ache and your ribs are going to be a bruise buffet tomorrow, but your vision is no longer tunneling and your spine is, in fact, intact.

Only once you nod - decisive and clear-eyed - do the three of you start moving again.

As you walk, your boots scrape against the damp stone and your pulse slowly begins to recede from your ears. It’s only then, in the lull, that the weight of what just happened actually lands.

Sam saved your life.

Not in the abstract, whimsical way people tend to overuse such a phrase, no- he literally launched himself across a rotting bridge, knowing full well it might collapse beneath him. No hesitation. No calculation. Just: you’re falling, and then he’s there.

With no regard for his own safety.

That thought lodges itself somewhere behind your ribs. Warm. If a touch jarring.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s not looking at you. He’s adjusting his torch on his belt, flexing his fingers like none of it meant anything.

But it did.

It did.

A pin drops inside you. Quiet, almost imperceptible.

You... like him. Not just in that he’s funny and charming and somehow manages to still look good despite the hair and with dirt on his jaw kind of way. It’s deeper. Sicker. More cloying. He’s under your skin. And not even death-by-plank-snap can knock him loose.

You swallow.

'Thank you' feels so painfully redundant now.

You’ll say something else. Later. When you’ve calmed down.

///

He shouldn’t have let her cross last.

He keeps walking, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the uneven path ahead. The cave passage curves, then dips, the incline just shallow enough that it’s easy to ignore the burn in his legs. Not that he’s thinking about that.

He’s thinking about the noise she made when the plank gave way. That sharp, choked-off gasp that’s still ringing somewhere between his ribs.

He’s thinking about how fucking fast it all happened. One second she was halfway through a sarcastic comeback, and the next she was gone - almost.

She could’ve fallen.

She should’ve fallen. If he’s being frank with himself, it's a miracle they both made it.

His hands curl unconsciously at his sides, like they’re still holding her - still trying to dig into something solid. He hadn’t even thought. Just moved. One second she was dangling, the next his chest was scraping the boards, his arms yanking her back from the edge like it was him about to go.

He shouldn’t care this much.

It’s not smart. It’s not helpful. But Christ - the way she looked up at him, blinking through tears, whispering thank you… He’d had to look away. Had to move, or else he might’ve said something so deeply, irreversibly stupid in the adrenal throe of it all, it would’ve ruined everything.

They round a bend.

Scott, mercifully quiet, flicks his torch forward and stops.

Sam blinks and looks ahead.

A door.

Actual. Physical. Wood-and-iron, a swollen portal built into the rock like someone got tired of all the drama and decided to install a solution.

Scott exhales through his nose. “Well. That’s anticlimactic.”

Sam lets out a laugh - a weak, unconvincing one - and scrubs a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the tension knotting between his shoulder blades.

Behind him, she slows to a stop.

He turns slightly to glance back.

She’s steady now. Quiet, still, but walking with purpose. Chin lifted. Breathing even. Wiping the last of the tears from her face with the back of her wrist like none of it meant anything.

She should be rattled. Shaken. Needing support. Instead, she’s just… carrying on. Wiping her eyes like it was a humiliating little stumble, not a near fucking death. And it kills him a little, how much he feels in that moment. How badly he wants to… to touch her again. Not to steady, or save - just to feel-

“Should we knock?” she asks, voice dry. There she is. His heart swells and his lips twitch. Fuck you, he thinks.

She has this talent. Her calm. Her resilience. Wit. This ability to make him ache and - fine, he’ll admit it - pine after her. From day dot.

He feels the restraint slipping again, thinning to tissue - the tight leash he’s kept wound round his throat from the second she’d joined this mess. It’s choking, pulled too tight - he wants to loosen it but he just knows the fallout will be equally as suffocating.

Scott steps forward and rattles the handle. It gives a pathetic jolt. Stuck. Swollen with age and sea-damp. He tries again. It budges a little, then stops with a sad clunk.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Scott mutters.

Sam eyes it, then angles his shoulder. “Are we really doin’ this the polite way?”

The door groans again as if begging them to end its misery.

Scott raises a brow. “You want me to destroy the heritage door?”

Sam shrugs, shifts his weight, plants his heel, and kicks. A welcome distraction.

He feels her eyes on him and hears the tiny pause in her breath when the wood buckles. He sniffs.

Scott grins. Sam steps back and goes again. One good boot to the frame and the wood splinters. Another, and it cracks wide, damp fibres tearing loose. A third- the majority of the door bursts inward.

Dust and rot billow out. The three of them stand still for a beat, cough, and exchange a glance. She lifts her hands and taps her fingers together in mock applause. The corner of her mouth lifts. It cuts straight through him. She climbs through the door’s remaining husk, looking back at him over a shoulder.

“Bravo.”

Sam huffs a breath, shaking his head - part exasperation, part I am on my hands and knees begging you: don’t do this to me.

“Well,” Scott mutters, gesturing to him theatrically, “After you, Rambo.”

Sam exhales through his nose, brushes a hand down his thigh, and steps through what remains of the doorframe.

The air is immediately colder on the other side. Stiller. Not as damp, but tinged with something older - a faint, musty metallic tang, like old pennies left to rust in the corner of a locked drawer. The light from his torch cuts through the haze, illuminating a low-ceilinged chamber carved directly into the cliff rock.

There’s shit everywhere. Cluttered to the stoney rafters.

Tables. Shelves. Crates. One sagging bookcase against the far wall groans under the weight of water-warped volumes. Scraps of parchment and broken glass litter the floor. A toppled oil lamp lies cracked beside a stone-carved desk.

Scott whistles as he steps around the remains of a broken stool.

But Sam’s eyes are on her.

She’s already fished her phone from her pocket, thumb brushing over the screen, flashlight blinking on with a soft glow. She moves slowly, angling the beam into corners, across surfaces. He notices the slight shake still present in her hand, the way she clenches her jaw each time she steps over something unstable.

He stays near. Not obviously, but enough to shadow her light with his own, letting it catch details hers might miss. It’s not protectiveness, he tells himself. Just good teamwork. She’d scoff if he hovered. He knows this.

She pauses beside a crate stacked with torn maps and sea charts, trailing her fingers along the edge before lifting one page with care. Sam watches her brow furrow as she studies the marks, her head tilting ever so slightly - and he feels the urge again to step closer. To lean in. To ask what she sees and let their shoulders brush.

Instead, he angles toward a crate half-wedged under a warped desk. Kneels. Pulls it forward with a grunt and winces as a cascade of mouldy papers and one dead rat fall free.

“Jesus-” he mutters, swatting the smell and kicking the carcass away with a grimace.

Scott moves to the far end, sifting through a set of warped books stacked under a weighty iron candlestick. A few fall apart at his touch. “More gambling shit,” he mutters. “Property deeds. All sorts. Campbell was here, alright.”

Sam finds a bundle of letters tied with blackened twine, the ink long bled into the page. He pockets one absently - something to revisit later. His eyes flick to her again.

She’s crouched now, running her light along the floor, fingertips skimming an edge of paper near a waterlogged trunk. She’s saying nothing, but he can feel the concentration rolling off her. She frowns, looking for somewhere to balance her phone so she can look at two torn sheets of parchment in more detail.

Sam side-eyes her as she does so, mindlessly thumbing through more tedious records that don’t actually pertain to anything. She laughs to herself, standing back up again, and, finally deeming it acceptable to give her his full attention, he turns, mouth opening to ask her what she’s found-

“Oh, shit.”

Scott’s voice slices clean through the quiet, high with intrigue.

Sam straightens, eyes narrowing as Scott crouches near a deep crack in the far wall. His hands are braced on the edge of a warped crate when he drags something out with a grunt.

A box.

Metal. Shoebox-sized. Dull silver, its surface spotted with rust and sea age. Sam squints at it as Scott hauls it onto the desk beside the ledgers with a dull clunk.

“It says Mai on the top,” Scott says, grinning now, running a thumb over the faint engraving.

“Arabic.” His finger traces the delicate script. “And this-" A recess just beneath the name. Floral detailing etched into the curve.

Sam steps forward. So does she.

"You think-" she starts,

He catches the shape a second before she does.

Scott glances at her, then gestures to her chest. “The necklace.”

She stills. One hand lifts automatically to touch the locket resting against her collarbone.

She hesitates only briefly, fingers curling around the chain. Then she lifts it over her head and crosses the short distance to hand it to Scott.

She turns away without ceremony, moving back toward the scattered parchment she’d been studying. She picks up her phone, the flashlight sweeping lazily over the cluttered floor.

Scott, meanwhile, holds the necklace up beside the box.

It’s the same shape. Same size. Same etched detail in the metalwork. A perfect fit.

The necklace clicks into place with a satisfying snugk. Its petals seem to expand, digging into grooves in the recess, locking itself into place.

A reluctant mechanical whir follows, then a soft pop as the metal box yields.

Sam leans in alongside Scott as the lid creaks open, the scent of old paper and oxidised metal blooming out into the air.

Inside: a scroll of parchment, bound in a ribbon, its edges browned but the ink startlingly preserved - rich, dark Arabic numerals and script still stark against the yellowed page.

Beneath it, a sepia photograph. Faintly curled. Sam lifts it gently by its edge. A couple.

Elegant. Posed. The man is tall, thick-browed and handsome, with a guarded intelligence behind his eyes. The woman at his side is younger, luminous - all soft cheekbones and calm, knowing beauty. They’re unsmiling, but proud, expressions merely a marker of the period.

Emaan and Layla. Taken before Mai was born.

Shit.

He passes the photo to Scott, who studies it with an acclaim Sam doesn’t often see in him. “I think…” Scott murmurs, voice low. “This must’ve been meant for her. A parting gift from Emaan to Mai.”

Sam nods slowly. “Which would mean… the locket’s Mai’s.”

Scott glances toward the still-open box. Nestled beneath the photo and scroll are small keepsakes - a pressed flower. A ring, an old comb, its enamel flaking. A faded strip of ribbon, similar to the one tied in Layla's hair. All of it deeply personal. All of it virtually untouched by time.

Scott wonders aloud, brows pinched. “Why was it still in Campbell’s possession?”

“Think she ever got the chance to open it?” Sam murmurs, squinting at the script on the scroll.

“Maybe something happened before she could.”

A beat of silence.

Scott exhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the photo. “So what do we think happened to her?”

A sound distracts them both.

Soft at first - a strangled moan, followed by a sharper hiss. Behind them. Sam’s head jerks up immediately.

She’s doubled over, one hand clawed into her scalp, the other-

“Shit-” Scott moves fast, crossing to her, swinging his torch down. The beam catches a gleam of red.

Blood. Pouring from her nose, glinting wetly between her trembling fingers.

Her breath is ragged. Shallow. Like her lungs have forgotten how to fill. Sam’s on his feet instantly. He drops to a crouch beside her. “You with me? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are squeezed shut, mouth tight in pain, and when she tries to speak, it comes out as a garbled exhale.

Scott kneels too, brow furrowed. “She was fine a second ago-”

“Yeah, well she’s not now.” Sam snaps. She flinches. Her whole body convulses, Sam reaching to steady her by the shoulders.

"Hold this, darl'." He presses the locket back into her palm, shaking off his backpack. "Got some tissues somewhere in here - hang on."

He slings the pack from his shoulders, fingers diving into the front zip as Sam shifts closer, still steadying her with one hand against her shoulder.

Her breathing is fast - shallow - but beginning to deepen as her hand unclenches from her hair to take the locket, balling in a fist over her thigh.

Gradually, the rasp in her chest softens. Her lashes flutter open.

Sam’s gaze is locked on her. “Talk to me. What’re you feelin'?”

She blinks slowly, her face devoid of colour. There’s a pause before she shakes her head.

“I- I don’t know. I think it’s just the altitude. Or…” She winces, hand brushing her brow, “The climb. Adrenaline. That whole almost-plummeting-to-my-death thing. And I hit my head- again- when we landed. Could’ve rattled the… concussion.”

She says it lightly. Tries to, anyway.

Scott shoves a fistful of tissues in front of her. “Here.”

The blood still trickles faintly from her nose, but it’s slowing.

She nods her thanks, pressing them under her nose with a small sniff, blood streaking the fabric. She breathes again. In. Out. Slower now.

“I’m okay,” she mutters, though her voice still trembles. “Just… need a second.” She speaks again, voice thick and muffled through the tissue as she eases herself down onto a crate near the wall. “Something on those papers…” she breathes, head tipping back against the stone, “you might want to see.”

Scott’s already moving. He rifles through the scattered sheets where she’d been crouched seconds ago, fingers brushing away mildew-stained debris until-

“Shit,” he mutters. “No way.”

He lifts it carefully. Brittle. Yellowed. Spatterings of deep brown up one side of it - blood? Script faded but legible. He flips it gently, eyes scanning the pages with something close to reverence.

His lips move silently as he reads, brows tightening, murmuring through each line of faded Arabic.

Sam doesn’t move to follow.

He crouches beside her instead, one arm draped casually over his knee, but his voice is lower now, near her ear.

“Did the doctor say this kind of thing might happen?”

Her brow creases. She turns her head slowly, meets his eyes for only a second before blinking fast and looking away.

“Doctor?”

Sam’s jaw ticks.

She winces. Shuts her eyes. Shakes her head a little too quickly.

“No… but I suppose they didn’t know about how I’m currently spending my free time,” she laughs, too lightly. “Hanging off death-trap bridges wasn’t exactly covered in the aftercare.”

Sam nods slowly. Says nothing. She still won’t look at him, and with that, something inside him settles.

She never saw a doctor.

And now he knows for sure.

Before he can say anything more, Scott lets out a sudden bark of laughter.

“It’s the other half,” Scott says, almost to himself. “The other half of Emaan’s fucking letter. From the exhibition- holy shit… listen to this-”

He turns, flipping the page around, pointing to a line near the bottom with wide, eager eyes.

“He told her. Emaan told Mai where the inheritance was. Is.”

He pauses, scanning faster now, lips parting. His thumb presses beneath a set of faint, spidery coordinates written near the end. His expression flickers with realisation.

“He wrote down instructions for her.”

Sam rises to his feet, drawn to the paper by sheer gravity. His ribs still ache. His shirt is still damp from sea spray and sweat. But none of it registers as he steps in. Close enough to see the tremble in the parchment where Scott’s hands are barely keeping still.

She lifts her head too, slow, still pale. Her eyes find his before flicking away almost instantly. Sam swallows.

Scott gently pulls the scroll they found earlier from the shoebox and lays it next to the letter.

Side by side now- aged ink to aged ink- the parallels are obvious. Same hand. Same script. But the instructions are divided.

Scott traces each word as he reads aloud.

“Ingress.” His other hand darts out to point at the engraved locket she’s still holding in one hand. “This one’s clear.”

He moves to the next. “Key. That’s the cufflink. The one you found at the museum...”

Sam nods, jaw tight.

Scott shifts his weight, brow furrowed.

“Then… here. Ascent.”

He taps it once, frowning at the third line on both pages. “No idea what that means yet. But Emaan wrote it out across both documents- see? He's written here: ‘Ingress - in your possession’. ‘Key - one with me, one at’… and then there's more coordinates. Then we've got: 'Ascent '-” He pauses, squinting. “Just more coordinates here.”

Sam leans in.

The numbers are clear enough. Arabic numerals, crisp compared to the water-damaged ink on everything else. Somehow, the inside of the box had preserved them- this part of the puzzle left untouched by time.

“So, Emaan just… handed her the inheritance?” Sam questions, arms folded. “Must’ve been tryn’a make up for some major screw-up.”

“We’ll have to look it up,” Scott mutters. “See where it lands. But essentially… these three things will give us access to whatever's stored here-” He taps the coordinates on the letter.

"We've hit the fucking motherlode."

#ok sure I should be asleep right now but I FINALLY GOT AROUND TO READING THIS BAD BOY #love it as always #scott villain arc coming up next im calling it #sam drake #uncharted

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