It’s been three years since I left the museum behind. I traded my flashlight for a camera, selling gadgets on TV with cheesy slogans and fake enthusiasm. But nothing felt right. Then came the call—Jedediah, panicked, whispering through static: 'Larry, the tablet’s here. Kahmunrah’s got us. You gotta come.'

I didn’t hesitate. Washington, D.C. at night is a city of monuments and shadows. I slipped into the Smithsonian like a ghost, heart pounding as I moved past silent halls filled with statues that should’ve been still—but weren’t. Inside the archives, I found them: Teddy Roosevelt, Sacagawea, Octavius—all frozen in place, surrounded by Kahmunrah’s army. He stood at the center, golden khopesh gleaming, the Tablet of Ahkmenrah glowing in his hands.

'You’re late,' he sneered. 'But perfect timing. I need someone to witness the dawn of a new empire.'

Before I could react, Custer charged—brave, reckless—and was taken. Then, from the dark, a voice: 'Need a distraction?' Amelia stepped out of a display case, grinning. 'Let’s give him a show.'

Now, crouched behind a replica of the Spirit of St. Louis, I have one hour to stop him. One hour to save my friends. One hour to figure out if I’m still the man who belongs in this world of living history.