I never believed in divine signs—until I saw the body.

They called me in as a consultant, just another lecture in Paris. But when Captain Fache led me into the Grand Gallery and turned on the UV light, I knew this was no ordinary crime scene. Jacques Saunière, the Louvre’s curator, lay dead in the center of the room, his limbs stretched in perfect proportion—like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Around him, written in invisible ink, was a jumbled sequence: 1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21. A Fibonacci sequence, out of order.

And then I saw it—'P.S. Find Robert Langdon.' My name. Left for me. Or for the police.

I didn’t know then that I was being framed. That the numbers were a key. That the paintings around me—The Mona Lisa, The Virgin of the Rocks—were hiding secrets centuries in the making.

Now, as sirens wail outside, Sophie Neveu, a cryptographer with haunted eyes, whispers, 'They’re tracking you. Fache thinks you killed him. But I think my grandfather was trying to send you a message.'

She hands me a small red key. 'We have to move. Now.'

The question isn’t just who killed Saunière.

It’s what he died protecting.