Oliver Smarts ducked under the frayed rope strung across the mouth of the dig. The rope was his line in the sand. No one followed him past it. Inside, the exposed dig face waited—layered rock streaked with ice, fossil shapes hinting through the dirt. Somewhere in that wall was the DNA sample the Prehistory Zoo needed. He stepped onto the cracked floor. Dust shifted under his boots. The shattered ground was a map of old stress, every fissure a warning he couldn't read fast enough. The sensor clipped to his belt chirped once. Then it shrieked. Oliver froze. The little metallic box flashed red across its display. His hardhat sensor pinged in answer, a second alarm layered over the first. The eastern wall. The same wall that killed the worker last week. He didn't run. Running cracked things. He stepped backward along his marker line, slow and even, eyes on a dust trail sliding down the rock. A pebble dropped. Then a handful. He cleared the rope just as the ceiling inside groaned and a section of the dig face sheared away in a dry roar. When the dust settled, Oliver was outside, shaking, empty-handed. The site had not killed him. It had also not given him what he came for. He wiped his mouth and looked at the collapsed face. The samples were still in there. So was the risk. He would have to go back in another way.

Oliver came back at dawn with his briefcase in hand. The metal case held empty vials, padded foam, and a backup sensor. He set it down outside the rope and crouched beside his geological reader. The screen warmed up and began drawing the dig in cross-section, layer by layer. He watched the map build. Lines of stress bloomed across the eastern wall in angry red. One safe corridor lit up in pale blue. It curved past the fossil shelf where the samples waited. It also ran straight under the cracked eastern face. Oliver tightened his jaw. There was no other route. The collapse had sealed every other path. He rigged a second rope along the blue line and clipped small sensor nodes to it every few steps. Each node would chirp if the wall above shifted by a hair. He took the briefcase under one arm. He ducked the boundary rope again. The corridor was narrow. Cracked floor crunched under his boots. He kept his shoulder away from the eastern wall and moved fast. At the fossil shelf, he popped the briefcase open, chipped two frozen shards free, and sealed them into a padded tube. A single empty test tube clinked against the foam beside them. A sensor node behind him chirped. Then another. Oliver clamped the case shut and ran the corridor out. He cleared the rope as fine dust began sifting from the ceiling. He had the samples. The eastern wall was still standing, but barely — and the corridor he'd used was already beginning to close.