WriterX:
Updates will come in tonight, thanks for your persistent passion to read!

can't wait am really enjoying the story.
I just finished reading that ur old Roger story, why did u stop, it was an interesting story.

Nightstorm:
can't wait am really enjoying the story.
I just finished reading that ur old Roger story, why did u stop, it was an interesting story.

Really, wow, I was really feeling the story coming together though I had a draft, it started going downhill. But hey, thanks, I will review it sometime soon.

CONTINUED



"It was the day before Amir disappeared, sir,"

Sanusi began, his voice heavy with the weight of the memory.

"Now, what my sister or anyone else may not have mentioned to you, because it seemed irrelevant at the time, was that Amir had stopped accompanying his mother to the market for a while—four months, to be exact. He had broken his left arm. It happened one night when he went outside to relieve himself. He claimed something—or someone—pushed him so hard that he fell and broke his arm. My sister always believed it was one of those two...those Obahs, who must have tried to harm the boy. So, do you think she was right?"
Sanusi paused, looking at the ASP with a question hanging in the air.

The Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, it's possible,"

he replied cautiously. Of course, he knew deep down that one of those ghouls could have been responsible.

It was exactly the kind of malevolent act they were capable of, but murder—that was something entirely different. He couldn't say it out loud, not yet at least.

"Anyway," Sanusi continued, his tone resigned, "during those four months, Amir stayed home alone. Naturally, I was against it. I even offered to have the boy stay with me whenever she went to the market. I had a shop on Igede Street, just two streets away from hers. The Obahs were not to be trusted, but my sister didn't want to burden me with her responsibilities. I tried to convince her, but she declined. Still, I made it a point to check up on Amir regularly. About a month ago, Amir finally regained full use of his arm, but even then, his mother continued to let him stay behind.

But the day before his disappearance, something happened. The boy came to my store in the afternoon, and he looked...terrified. There was a fear in his eyes that I've never seen before, as if something truly dreadful had occurred. But when I asked him what was wrong, he wouldn't say a word. He stayed silent the entire day. I took him back home in the evening, and guess who was there—the Obahs. Both of them, looking suspicious and keeping out of sight. When his mother returned, Amir was still too frightened to speak, even to her. She grew frustrated and let it go, but I advised her to take Amir along to the market the next day."

Sanusi's voice cracked with regret, and he sighed deeply.

"You see, sir, my advice got my nephew killed. I feel guilty, so guilty. If I had just kept quiet and waved goodnight, his mother wouldn’t have bothered to take him with her the next day."

Sanusi paused, his voice trembling.

"Something happened that day when Amir came to me, sir. You have to look into those two, the Obahs. I’m certain they had something to do with this gruesome murder of my niece."

Sanusi finished his tale, his words hanging in the air, heavy with emotion.

The ASP absorbed everything, letting nothing slip through the cracks. How well did he really know the Obahs? Francis had merely conducted a basic inquiry—asked a few questions, checked their alibis, and left it at that.

But this seemingly unconnected incident might hold the key to a far more sinister motive than mere jealousy. This, the ASP concluded, could be vital.

"My sister and her husband, they've given up on the case,"

Sanusi said, his voice quieter now. "They've accepted this as closure, but I want justice for Amir. Can you keep this between us for now? My sister might not be happy that I went behind her back to bring this up, but I believe the end justifies the means. If we catch the murderers, they won't be so unhappy about me digging into this. She's afraid to hope, but I'm not."

A few more words were exchanged, and the ASP promised to get back in touch with Sanusi. He assured him this would remain a private matter.

That way, if the lead didn’t pan out, he could quietly shelve the case without raising false hopes for Amir's mother.

When the ASP was finally alone, he made several attempts to reach Francis, but the inspector had become unreachable.

After multiple failed attempts, the ASP decided this was a job he needed to see through personally.

TO BE CONTINUED

WriterX:


Really, wow, I was really feeling the story coming together though I had a draft, it started going downhill. But hey, thanks, I will review it sometime soon.

ok thanks pls notify me when you do

CONTINUED



At Muken Global Constructions, Kunle and Black Jack watched as the pickup truck disappeared into the distance, merging with the flow of vehicles on the expressway.

It was then that they realized Lukas, the dog, had been barking. The officers turned around, their eyes following the sound, and began walking in its direction.

Lukas was no ordinary dog. He had been a gift from a work colleague who had raised him alongside other puppies after their mother, a police-trained dog, was tragically killed in an accident.

Despite not being professionally trained, Lukas had naturally integrated into the squad of detectives. With an uncanny nose for sniffing out clues and remarkable agility, he had become an indispensable member of the team.

Lukas had his own way of communicating. A single bark usually meant he was hungry, while two barks indicated he had discovered something significant.

The officers had learned to trust these signals, and today was no exception. They wasted no time and followed the dog, curiosity piqued.

"Lukas has found something. What do you think it is?" Black Jack asked as they quickened their pace.

"He’s probably found the killer or killers," Kunle joked, but Black Jack wasn’t amused. He had a deep belief in Lukas’s abilities, more so than anyone else on the team. He knew the dog was often onto something when he barked twice.

They arrived at the spot where Lukas had stopped, his eyes locked onto something on the ground. Kunle's face twisted in disgust as he realized the dog had led them to a pile of human feces.

Of all the sights he’d encountered in his career, this one was particularly repugnant. He stepped back, a frown creasing his brow.

"That dog of yours is crazy," Kunle spat, trying to rid himself of the unpleasant taste in his mouth.

"I don't think so. Look again," Black Jack pointed out. Lukas's keen eyes and nose were fixed on a set of faint shoe prints partially embedded in the sand.

"Lukas, sniff!"

Black Jack commanded, his curiosity growing. The dog lowered his nose to the ground, sniffing at the prints. Once he caught the scent, he turned and moved forward with renewed purpose.

"It probably just wants to show us another pile of crap," Kunle grumbled, the foul image still fresh in his mind. But he noticed that Black Jack was taking this seriously, so he decided not to argue further.

After all, Lukas had proven himself far more intelligent than the average canine in the past.

Lukas led them along a barely visible trail of prints. While the detectives struggled to see any pattern, Lukas moved with confidence, never losing the scent.

As the dog headed toward a heap of garbage where bodies had recently been discovered, Kunle’s interest began to grow.

Lukas halted close to the refuse pile, sniffing around before abruptly turning 180 degrees and resuming his search.

Black Jack, watching closely, sensed that there was something significant in the dog’s erratic behavior.

Eventually, Lukas emerged onto the expressway and continued until he reached a small pull-off area.

There, he stopped, his posture signaling satisfaction. His job was done, and Black Jack couldn’t help but be impressed.

"I know what you're thinking, but there could be other explanations too," Kunle said, watching as Black Jack crouched to examine some tire tracks imprinted in the dirt.

"What do you make of Lukas’s findings so far?" Black Jack asked, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the tracks.

"Well, we can assume Lukas picked up someone’s scent. Maybe someone visited the site a few days ago, saw the bodies, and left. Or maybe they were the one who dumped the bodies, took a quick look around, and drove off," Kunle speculated.

Black Jack stood, his gaze fixed on the direction the tire tracks faded. "It seems someone was at the crime scene long before anyone else.

They went to the dump, possibly relieved themselves, and then drove away."

A thoughtful expression crossed Black Jack's face. He smiled faintly and patted Lukas on the head.

"This case might be easier to crack than we thought. We've already got a major clue."

Kunle nodded, a grin spreading across his face. He knew Jack was right. "Lukas could easily track down the owner of that scent next time.

But what if it takes a week, a month, or even a year? How do we keep Lukas focused?" He hesitated, noticing that Jack already had the answer—a realization that made him shudder.

They returned to the scene, took photographs, and collected some new, albeit unpleasant, evidence before leaving.

The journey to Owuro was swift, with both men remaining silent except for a brief call from Fumi, checking on their progress. "Lukas picked up something at the crime scene, but we’ll discuss it when we get back," Kunle had said.

They arrived at a small carpenter’s workshop, following the directions they had been given. An almost rotten wooden signboard with faded lettering spelled out "OLUWASEGUN WOOD WORKS."

The place had an old, dusty, and rustic feel, yet the craftsmanship evident in the various wooden pieces scattered around impressed Black Jack. It was clear this was the work of a meticulous artisan.

As their car came to a halt, three young boys, likely apprentices, paused their work to study the newcomers.

"Hello," Black Jack greeted in his most authoritative voice, which instantly stirred cooperation among the boys. "We’re looking for Mr. Segun, the owner of this place. We were told he’s here."

One of the boys quickly disappeared into the workshop and soon returned with a tall, dark, and lanky man pushing fifty, dressed in a dirty brown work outfit. Despite his disheveled appearance, he had a friendly demeanor and seemed genuinely pleased to meet the detectives.

"You know, I just got a call a few minutes ago, telling me not to say anything to the police," he said, his tone light as though amused by the idea. "But that doesn’t sit right with me. If what you say is true, we should all be trying to help. Ask me whatever you need to know. I’ll tell you what I remember."

His reassuring words made the detectives believe he was being truthful.

"We just want to know what you were doing the last time you were at the site. That would be..." Black Jack paused, letting the man fill in the details.

"Two weeks ago," Mr. Segun confirmed. "I went over there. It’s just one of those temporary jobs. I get called, take my bike, and check the list of machines. I report in, and within ten minutes, I get paid and leave."

"You didn’t see or hear anything unusual while you were there?" Kunle asked, though he felt this man had little more to offer.

"Oh no, I was in a hurry myself. I had a consignment of plywood to collect. I just checked the machines and left. That was it," Mr. Segun replied, watching Kunle walk back to the car for a moment.

"Can you briefly tell me how you accessed the site, which machines you checked first, and so on?" Black Jack redirected the conversation, focusing back on the details.

The man answered willingly, providing all the information as Kunle returned with Lukas. The dog drew the attention of the young apprentices, who found the animal striking.

After exchanging contact details and saying their goodbyes, the detectives returned to their car.

"Well, we can rule that old man out. His story checks out fair enough for now , and Lukas didn’t pick up anything off his scent," Kunle remarked.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED




They returned to the Divisional Headquarters just past three, the sun beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the compound. The atmosphere inside was heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the low hum of office equipment.

Shortly after their arrival, Fumi and Danjuma rejoined them, both looking noticeably more animated.

“We got news,” Fumi began, her voice tinged with a mix of urgency and exhaustion. “The autopsy results came back earlier than expected. Unfortunately, there isn’t much new information. The bodies are those of three children—two boys and a girl. The reports indicate they’ve been dead for over three weeks. The girl is in the most advanced stage of decay, She has been there longer than the other two, Our main victim, the boy found on top of the pile, is the most recent; the doctor estimates he hasn’t been dead for more than five days.”

Danjuma picked up where she left off. “The doctors believe all three kids were around the same age, probably nine or ten. None of their body parts are missing, and they all died the same way—by strangulation, due to the level of decay, he wasn't able to tell us how this occurred,”

“So it’s not a ritual killing?” Kunle asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“And the rope?” Black Jack interjected, his voice low and steady.

“They didn’t find anything significant about it,” Fumi responded, turning to him.

“It might have been used for another purpose by the killer. For now, it’s being kept as evidence. It could be a piece of some larger puzzle.”

“It’s too early to say,” Fumi continued after a brief pause. “Not all ritual killings involve taking something from the victim’s body. But yes, Danjuma and I agree that this doesn’t seem like a ritualistic murder. It feels like something else entirely.”

Danjuma’s eyes brightened with anticipation as he asked, “So, what did you two find out?”

Kunle and Black Jack exchanged glances before recounting their interview with Lukas and Mr. Segun.

“Incredible,” Fumi remarked, leaning in as she absorbed the details. “So, you’re saying Lukas might be able to identify a witness or even the killer?”

“It’s possible,” Black Jack replied confidently. “One thing is certain: someone else was there. They were at the pit, came by the expressway, and left the same way.”

Danjuma turned to Fumi, the unspoken question in his eyes.

Moments like these were where she excelled; her reputation as the best strategist was well-earned.

“We need to find out who these children were and what happened to them,” Fumi said, her voice decisive.

“I’ll call in some favors from Intelligence to help identify any missing children from the last one to two months. Kunle, I need you at the Cyber Forensics Department. If these kids belonged to someone, there has to be some digital trace—posts, messages, anything. If we can identify them, we’ll get a clearer picture of what we’re dealing with. And see if you can dig up more on the site supervisor and this Muken Construction, it gives me a headache knowing we will have to deal with Cooperate bodies. Danjuma, you’re with Black Jack on that.”

All four officers seemed invigorated, ready to dive back into the work.

Without another word, they dispersed, the weight of the task ahead pressing down on them like the gathering dusk outside.


TO BE CONTINUED

Alright ladies and Gentle men, see you all. Tomorrow, thank you for reading always.

Lukas is a dog i want to have, loyal and smart.

WriterX keep the updates coming

silverlinen:
Lukas is a dog i want to have, loyal and smart.

WriterX keep the updates coming

We are enjoying every bit of it. Thanks WriterX

CONTINUED



***********************

23 Idowu Crescent, Ajah. From where the inspector sat nursing a half-empty Coke bottle, he could see the building. It was a typical *face-me-I-face-you* apartment, fenced off by a rusty red gate that had been pulled off its hinges, now crooked and ineffective.

For two hours, he had been watching, and not a single person had entered or left the building.

The stillness made it difficult to think clearly, yet the inspector knew deep down what he needed to do.

Perhaps admitting it to himself was the hard part.

He had brought the master key set, gloves, a small portable torch, and pepper spray—just in case.

But now, even after getting the information he needed forty-five minutes ago, he found himself paralyzed, uncertain of what to do next or whether he could actually go through with it.

Time was running out; in another thirty-five minutes, the boys would be back.

The store owner had mentioned that Skipper, the trio’s leader, would return soon.

His heartbeat quickened as his nerves frayed. Hadn't he already conceived this plan before he even arrived? Hadn't he brought the master key set, gloves, and mask? So why was he so scared? It was the only way, the safest and easiest way.

Somewhere in that apartment was the police Beretta. All he needed to do was get it and get out. "Easy," he reminded himself, nodding as if to convince himself of the foolproof nature of his plan.

But satisfaction eluded him—perhaps it was his conscience gnawing at him. A seasoned police officer turned burglar and thief.

He paid quickly for his drink and, without making a final decision, darted across the road and into the compound.

The washed-out blue and cream building was an eyesore, its facade ready for demolition, covered in dirt and grime. A few kids, no older than five, played hide and seek, oblivious to his presence.

He wondered how they would describe him if asked—an unremarkable stranger, hooded, capped, and wearing black shades that concealed his face.

He was someone they wouldn’t remember in a hurry.

He slipped past the kids and entered the passageway.

The dim, almost dark corridor smelled of dampness and burnt incense of some kind. "Room 4," he muttered to himself.

There were eight rooms in total, four on the left and four on the right. Room 4 was on his left.

He moved swiftly. Observing the door lock, he selected the master key and slipped on his gloves. With a quiet click, he opened the door and stepped inside.

He was immediately struck by the room’s expensive decor—plush curtains, a television worth at least half a million, and other high-end furnishings.

This was a bachelor pad his wife would gladly swap theirs for. A pang of envy shot through him as he realized how much these young, rich, and single boys had. What wouldn’t he give up for that life?

Closing the door behind him, he quickly began his search. There was no need to be conservative or methodical.

Fueled by jealousy, he tore the place apart, smashing, flipping, and breaking everything in sight. Drawers were yanked open, and yet, after fifteen minutes, he had found nothing. No weapon.

This development shattered his entire plan, which hinged on finding the Beretta. What was he supposed to do now? He wondered, breathing heavily, beads of sweat drenching him.

He pulled off his hood and cap, relaxing the shades.

He still had another twenty minutes, he noted.

Then, suddenly, someone walked in.

A lanky young man, probably around nineteen, covered in tattoos and looking sickly, stood in the doorway.

His long, dyed dreads hung low, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and he carried a backpack.

The moment of shock on the boy’s face gave the inspector just enough time to react. Instinctively, he pushed the boy to the floor and bolted for the door.

But as he did, he heard a muffled scream and the sound of glass shattering.

He paused and looked back.

The boy lay on the floor, his head impaled on a shard of glass, blood pooling beneath him. The sight made the inspector shudder.

He realized with horror that he had just killed someone.

A wave of nausea and panic washed over him, momentarily paralyzing him with fear and confusion. Then, a phone began to ring from somewhere on the boy’s body.

The inspector’s eyes darted to the backpack. Without thinking, he grabbed it and fled the apartment—scared, confused, and bitter.

CONTINUED

CONTINUED


Under the sprawling canopy of a mango tree, a group of men had gathered, huddled together in front of a betting shop.

Two other men stood under the harsh afternoon sun, their attention riveted on a game of draughts unfolding before them.

One of the players, Mr. Obah, was not only losing his chips but also his money.

This marked his fifth consecutive loss, and despite the game having just begun, it was clear that defeat loomed heavily over him.

"Good afternoon," a powerful voice suddenly cut through the thick tension, momentarily breaking the game’s intense atmosphere. Mr. Obah glanced up, recognizing the newcomer immediately.

The uniform gave him away. With a frown, Mr. Obah averted his gaze as soon as he saw the Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP).

The appearance of the police officer had an immediate and chilling effect; the excitement surrounding the game quickly evaporated, and the small crowd began to disperse.

Mr. Obah shook his head in silent protest, clearly displeased by the officer's presence.

Edward, the ASP, took a seat opposite Mr. Obah and studied him for a moment.

"Officer, what is it? You can’t just... what is it that you want from me?" Mr. Obah struggled to manage his irritation, though his underlying fear of the police was evident.

"I am Assistant Superintendent of Police, Mr. Edward," the officer introduced himself, but his words had no noticeable impact on Mr. Obah, who began to fiddle with the draughts pieces on the board.

"Oga police, I saw you the other day. If this is about my neighbor and their dead son, I and my wife had nothing to do with it," Mr. Obah snapped impatiently.

Edward couldn’t help but think of him as vile and uncultured.

The man's shifty demeanor only deepened Edward's suspicion that something was amiss.

"I have questions that need answering," Edward stated curtly.

"You can answer them now, or I can leave and send the boys to pick you up later. The choice is yours."

"What is it, then?" Mr. Obah sighed in resignation.

"There was an incident that occurred the day before the boy disappeared," Edward began, watching Mr. Obah’s reaction closely.

"It happened at a time when only you, your wife, and the boy were in the compound. I want to know what transpired that day."

Mr. Obah’s face twitched, betraying the panic he tried to suppress. Edward noted the change; he had hit a nerve.

"Will you tell me, or do I have to—"

"It was nothing, really," Mr. Obah interrupted, his voice rising with anger.

"That boy was a thief! He deserved to be taught a lesson that day."

"A thief? What did he steal?" Edward inquired.

"He stole a few things—a pack of biscuits, a can of sardines, lollipops, peanuts, and chewing gum,"

Mr. Obah listed. "We knew what goes on in that house.

Those people are wretched and barely surviving. So when we saw Amir with all those snacks that day, we knew he must have stolen them.

He was limping, probably ran his head off trying to avoid being caught."

Edward remained focused. "So what exactly did you do when you discovered these items on the boy?"

"We caught him and asked where he got them from. He couldn’t say anything, of course. Like his father and mother, he's a thief.

When we pressed him further, he escaped and ran away from the house," Mr. Obah explained, becoming increasingly animated.

Edward found the account troubling, yet it seemed in character for the man before him.
The events didn’t quite add up, but there was a certain plausibility in Mr. Obah’s story.

"What did you do with the items? Did you inform his mother when she returned?" Edward asked.

"Inform who? First of all, we aren’t on speaking terms. Second, she would never believe anything we said.

We took the items, ate them, of course, and continued with our lives," Mr. Obah admitted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

Edward observed him closely. Mr. Obah’s demeanor matched that of someone who would do exactly as he described.

The Obahs were a strange, sadistic set of people.

Edward could sense the caution in Mr. Obah's words, a deliberate effort to filter the truth.

Arresting him outright would be difficult, given the lack of concrete evidence linking him to any crime.

With a faint smile, Edward began setting up the draughts pieces on the board. "Shall we?" he asked, offering a challenge that was both a game and a test of character.

Mr. Obah hesitated, then responded, "Alright. Just so you know, I won’t go easy on you. I have a reputation to uphold, so it’s all fair game when playing."

Unbeknownst to him, Edward intended to use the game to unravel the true nature of the Obah's.

TO BE CONTINUED

Good night everyone, thanks for waiting for the new release.

WriterX:
Good night everyone, thanks for waiting for the new release.

thanks for the update boss

Nightstorm:
thanks for the update boss

My pleasure

Interesting. Kudos WriterX

Happy New month Every one. New updates are coming in. Sincerely, this has been very exciting for me. This probably feel like my first big break here. Thank you all. Much appreciated.

WriterX:
Happy New month Every one. New updates are coming in. Sincerely, this has been very exciting for me. This probably feel like my first big break here. Thank you all. Much appreciated.

Happy new month to you too, boss. Anxiously waiting for the new updates

WriterX:
Happy New month Every one. New updates are coming in. Sincerely, this has been very exciting for me. This probably feel like my first big break here. Thank you all. Much appreciated.

Happy New Month Boss

Here we go!!

CONTINUED


"Are you sure you can't handle this alone?" Mr. Gerrard Oliver, the site supervisor, asked nervously as he stepped out of the red, metallic-painted Lexus 350.

The car had just come to a stop in front of the Ikorodu Police Divisional Headquarters.

Mr. Oliver, a tall, flabby man with a prominent wrinkled bald head and an obese pot belly, was dressed in a rich sky-blue native jumper and trousers. His voice trembled slightly, betraying his unease.

"I can handle it alone," Barrister Romeo replied confidently, "but they specifically requested your presence. You need to be here, but remember, you don't have to say a word. I'll do all the talking."

Romeo, a much shorter man, smartly dressed in a tailored suit, pulled himself out of the passenger side of the car. He exuded the air of a professional lawyer, well-versed in navigating the complexities of police inquiries, a skill that had earned him the trust of many clients, including Muken.

"Okay, okay, I trust you," Mr. Gerrard muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Romeo, who had already started leading the way toward the entrance.

Gerrard trailed behind, his steps slow and apprehensive. He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of dealing with the police, his nervousness so palpable that Romeo couldn't help but notice.

The site supervisor seemed as though he feared the police might somehow seize his very breath.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a modest office, waiting for their host.

Barrister Romeo observed the anxiety in his client’s eyes, which only seemed to intensify as they waited.

"Just remember, don't say anything. Relax and smile. The police are not your enemy," Romeo reassured, his tone soothing.

"We certainly aren't," a deep voice interrupted from the doorway. Black Jack, the lead detective, entered the room, followed closely by his partner, Danjuma, who took a position by the wall, observing the interaction.

After brief introductions, everyone took their seats, with Romeo eager to wrap up the meeting as quickly as possible—a sentiment Black Jack seemed to share.

"Can you tell me how you first learned about the discovery of the body?" Black Jack asked, his voice calm and steady as he opened his notebook.

Mr. Gerrard looked at his lawyer as though seeking permission to speak, and Romeo gave a quick nod.

"I had a business deal to finalize that morning, before 10 o’clock," Gerrard began.

"I was about to leave home when my phone rang. Naturally, I was expecting the security report, so I answered. Martin was on the line—he was scared, hysterical even. He said there was a body, that someone had died, and I told him—"

"He has answered the question, detective. Anything else?"

Barrister Romeo interjected, cutting Gerrard off and signaling him to stop speaking. Gerrard looked visibly relieved.

"Okay, yes," Black Jack continued, his pen poised over his notebook. "As the site supervisor, can you explain how you conduct these security checks?"

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo responded, his voice firm, a tone that even Gerrard found slightly amusing.

Black Jack considered the response, then scratched something off his notes.

"Can you provide me with an outlay of the site? A security blueprint for the primary site? I suppose Muken Global Constructions has one, as required by regulations?"

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo announced again, grinning slightly. Gerrard, however, appeared increasingly rattled.

"Does your client decline because he doesn't have one, or because—" Danjuma began, but Black Jack quickly motioned for him to remain calm, cutting him off mid-sentence.

For a moment, both detectives had almost forgotten about Danjuma, who seemed to make Romeo uneasy with his silent observation.

"I apologize for that. Let's continue,"

Black Jack resumed. "It's come to our attention that Muken Global Construction and its project have been temporarily halted for nine months. How have you been able to maintain and monitor the equipment during this period?"

Romeo pondered this carefully, sensing a trap in the detective's seemingly innocent question. His job was to ensure his client didn't fall into it.

Even harmless questions could become dangerous if twisted out of context.

"My client wishes to speak only off the record," Romeo began, "meaning—"

"I understand," Black Jack interrupted, closing his notebook and flashing a dull, mysterious smile. He leaned back slightly, giving Romeo the signal to proceed.

"Well," Gerrard began hesitantly, "due to the extended period we expected the legal battle to last, we’ve been using ad-hoc security staff to monitor the sites.

There are about four others I manage as well."

"And how do they go about these security checks? How do you ensure they’re actually doing their job?" Black Jack pressed.

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo interjected quickly.

"Can I then have a list of the personnel you’ve been using? Surely, you keep some kind of record for these monitoring activities, don't you?" Black Jack asked, his tone unwavering.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo persisted, his defiant tone leaving no room for negotiation.

He reminded himself that nothing should be revealed that could potentially be used against them in a lawsuit.

"Okay, but can you confirm whether there is a list of some sort for these security checks?" Black Jack asked again.Romeo, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the detective, replied,

"My client declines to answer that question."Black Jack sighed, a sign of apparent frustration. This lawyer was getting under his skin.

He closed his notebook and set down his pen, staring intently at Romeo."Alright," Black Jack began, changing his approach.

"In the event of an emergency—say, if one of the pieces of equipment were stolen or damaged—what is your standby protocol for these temporary security officers?"Romeo paused, sensing there was nothing incriminating in the question.

The detective had already given up, which was exactly what Romeo had hoped for. "Go ahead, Mr. Gerrard. You can tell him," he finally said, reassuringly.

"I can? Oh, well, they would notify the authorities immediately and then get in touch with the Ogun State Vigilante—"

"Vigilante? Or do you mean the police?" Black Jack interjected, his voice sharp.

He watched Gerrard closely, catching the brief twitch in his eyes—the telltale sign he sought. Gerrard had lost his composure, if only for a moment.

"Hold on a minute, oh," Romeo's eyes widened as a sudden thought crossed his mind. He recognized the crafty tactics the police were known for—the sneaky, dirty tricks they used to trap people into revealing more than they intended.

Thank God he had caught on to this one quickly.

The question itself was an admission that a security protocol existed. If there was a security protocol, then there had to be a security checklist.

And if there was a checklist, then the detectives were likely already onto them, playing a calculated game of cat and mouse. Romeo was impressed; he had underestimated this detective.

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo declared, his voice calm and measured, like a bishop about to deliver a solemn intercession.

Black Jack nodded approvingly, casting a glance at Danjuma, who grinned at the exchange between the two men.

"Well, gentlemen, that will be all for now. Thank you for coming in. We'll get back to you if we need anything further. Please stay close and let us know if you remember anything or have something new to share," Black Jack concluded, his tone neutral.

"I doubt you will be seeing my client or his employees again," Romeo responded with a confident smile.

"Well, you never know. Sometimes people say or do things they don’t remember, and when they do, they often want to talk it out with someone," Black Jack replied, his smile lingering.

The smile unsettled the barrister. There was a sense of triumph in it that he couldn’t quite understand.

He made a quick mental review of all the questions asked and concluded that it was just a bluff, a mere act. He was certain he had won this round.

The two men exited the office, leaving the detectives alone to discuss their findings.

"So, he uses the Ogun State local vigilantes—or most of them—to do the job. We can easily trace this," Danjuma noted, his voice thoughtful.

"That's right. He unknowingly gave me exactly what I needed. Clever, huh?" Black Jack grinned.

"That lawyer must be feeling high and mighty right now, the supervisor doesn’t look guilty anyway. He’s scared, but he seems like someone who wouldn’t harm a fly," Danjuma mused, his brow furrowed.

"We’ll verify his alibi and check out the locations of the other sites, just to be sure," Black Jack replied, his tone more serious.

"I’ll handle the alibis and look into the other sites. You take care of getting the names of the others?" Danjuma asked, standing up to leave.

"Of course. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. I’ll see you then," Black Jack assured him.

With that, they were done.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


Around the office block, Fumi had just finished a phone call while Kunle waited patiently for a chance to speak with her.

"Get this. There have been over twenty-five cases in the last month and eight more in the past two weeks. For various reasons, 85% of these cases were accounted for, 10% have been resolved, but the remaining 5%—that's where our victims are found. Intelligence has nothing on them just statistics,"

Fumi revealed, her voice tinged with frustration. She noticed a smile creeping onto Kunle's face and brightened up.

"You’ve got something. Let's hear it," Fumi urged, her curiosity piqued.

"Oh yes, boss lady. Cyber forensics combed through the social media space. It was heavy work, but we found the girl,"

Kunle said, his tone triumphant as he pulled out his phone and handed it to Fumi.

"Nasiru Rahmat, age nine, went missing on June 16th, three weeks ago, from Obale-Ikorodu, a residential area. The deceased’s clothes matched 99% of what’s shown in the photos posted on Facebook,"

he explained, watching as his findings clearly made an impression on Fumi.

"Why don’t these people ever report these cases?"

Fumi muttered to herself as she returned the phone.

"Well, this is Nigeria. There are many reasons. In fact, some of these cases may have been reported but never made it up the chain," Kunle pointed out, and Fumi nodded in agreement.

"We have to contact the family, let them identify the body, and gather more information. We need to ID the others. If there’s a pattern, we need to uncover it,"

Fumi insisted, her determination evident.

“I doubt Cyber can help us any more than they already have,” Kunle said, his frustration evident in his voice.

“Those guys hate to work. You should have seen the hatred in their eyes when I dropped this job on their laps. If I go back there, they’ll probably start a protest.” His tone grew more exasperated as he stressed the point.

Fumi nodded in agreement. It had become increasingly difficult to get the cyber forensic team to do anything these days.

“We could go public with this, you know,” Fumi suggested thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing as she considered the implications.

Kunle’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Exactly my thoughts—break the case wide open. Put enough out there to let some information trickle in.”

He was already imagining the possibilities, his voice animated.

“It’s odd, though,” Fumi mused, her brow furrowing. “They haven’t even picked up on the discovery yet.”

She fell silent, thinking. Then, with a slight, stoic shake of her head, she reached for her phone and dialed the ASP's number.

Kunle watched her closely, sensing she knew something he didn’t.

The conversation with ASP Korede was lengthy, filled with exchanges of information and suggestions.

When Fumi finally hung up, a deep frown etched itself on her face.

"Goddammit. They want us to keep it under wraps," she spat out, her distaste clear.

Kunle leaned back in his chair, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Let me guess, something to do with the state government going to war with Muken Globals? Politics as usual.”

Before Fumi could respond, her phone rang again. It was ASP Korede.

"Hello, sir," Fumi answered, her tone more reserved this time.

"Is it really that bad? No progress on the case?" Korede asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir. We’ve exhausted our intelligence. Cyber is no help at the moment. We need information, sir,"

Fumi admitted, her frustration seeping through every word.

Korede’s voice took on a firm edge. "I don’t agree with the CSP's view. We never see eye to eye on things like this. He’s got politics and government hands in his pockets. Let’s blow this case wide open."

Fumi hesitated. “But, sir, you just said—”

“I know what I said,” Korede cut her off, his tone crafty. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Detective Fumi, you work in an office with over a hundred people moving around every day. I’m sure information leaks happen often, don’t you think?”

A slow smile spread across Fumi’s face as she caught the hint in his words.

“I know just the right person for the job. Leave it to me, sir, and thank you for your support.”

“You and your team can always count on me,” Korede replied, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “

The CSP is going to blow his lid, so make it good. It’s been a long time since he invited me to his office for a public lecture.”

Fumi could almost see the smug smile on his face.

The call ended, leaving Fumi with a sense of relief and satisfaction.

Even Kunle, who had been listening in, seemed pleased with how things had turned out.

“So, we’re blowing this case wide open, huh?” Kunle remarked, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Didn’t you hear what the ASP said? Not us. Someone will, and he’ll do a damn good job of it!” Fumi replied, her voice laced with determination.

Kunle’s eyes gleamed with an idea. “I think I know the perfect guy for the job. We could even take it to national TV with him on board.”

“Get on it immediately,” Fumi instructed. “Let’s see what the public knows.”

As Kunle quickly exited the room, Fumi made a mental note. But then, her thoughts drifted back to the little girl, Rahmat—her lifeless body sprawled on the refuse heap.

The image was burned into her memory, and it only fueled her resolve to get justice.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


*********************



It was fifteen past eight on a humid evening at Ikoti-Ketu Mainland.

The restaurant buzzed with chatter, though Omoh couldn't help but wince at the poor choice of music filtering through the speakers. The off-key notes grated on his nerves, a dissonant backdrop to what otherwise might have been an enjoyable meal.

Nonetheless, his focus was on the steaming plate of fufu and egusi soup placed before him. The rich aroma was a balm to his senses, momentarily distracting him from the cacophony overhead.

Dinner hadn't been in his plans, especially after losing all his money on a sports bet earlier that day.

Lately, luck seemed to elude him, particularly when it came to money.

So when Inspector Francis called him out for a meeting, Omoh eagerly suggested this new spot—though now, as he glanced around the dimly lit bar, he mentally blacklisted it for its dreadful taste in music.

To Omoh, the ambiance of a restaurant was as important as the quality of its food and drink. A good establishment needed to strike a perfect balance between the flavors it served and the melodies it played.

But business came first. If things went well tonight, maybe he could order another plate and some takeaway.

Francis had sounded anxious over the phone, and Omoh knew how to capitalize on a situation like this. Information was a valuable commodity, and he intended to play his cards right.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Francis until he was already standing at the table.

“There’s trouble, Omoh. I need your help,”
Francis muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. He looked agitated, more so than Omoh had ever seen him before.

Omoh nearly choked on his beer.

Seeing the usually composed inspector so rattled was unsettling. Something serious had happened.

“What is it?” Omoh asked, setting down his food and wiping his hands—a gesture he rarely made unless things were dire.

Francis hesitated. He had always known that Omoh was as slippery as they came.

From his early days on the force to his eventual descent into petty crime, Omoh had no qualms about switching sides when it suited him—especially when food or money was involved.

Francis reminded himself to tread carefully; this was a man who would sell out anyone for the right price.

Omoh could sense that Francis was deliberating whether to spill the beans. “You can trust an old pal. Come on, what’s going on?” Omoh coaxed, finishing off his beer in one gulp.

“I—I need information,”

Francis finally said, his voice steadier now, though the guarded look in his eyes betrayed him. Omoh felt a pang of disappointment. Francis had thrown up a wall, and the flow of potentially lucrative information had come to a halt.

“About what?” Omoh pressed, leaning in. “You tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”

“The big-time drug dealers in the state. And when I say big-time, I mean the top players,” Francis emphasized the last words, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Omoh paused, processing the request. Francis was known for seeking out obscure information from time to time, but this felt different. It was hard to gauge the exact purpose, but Omoh decided to play along.

“There are nine of them, really, but only three are the real bigwigs. If it’s the top dogs you’re after, are you planning some kind of sting operation?”

Omoh probed, watching Francis carefully, hoping to catch any sign of what the inspector was up to.

“Something like that,”

Francis replied, his voice betraying no emotion. Omoh couldn’t help but be impressed at the inspector’s composure, given the tension that seemed to thicken the air around them.

“Okay, okay—no need to tell me everything,” Omoh said, sensing Francis’s reluctance. “

The big three are Chief Obasi Hendrick, Alabi Kingsley, also known as Kanada, and the last on the list is Sillas. These are the main players; the rest are small-time operators.”

Francis nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the information.

“Which one does Kroc work for?” he asked, his tone casual, but the question was anything but.

Omoh’s eyes widened. The mention of Kroc stirred something within him, a deep-seated fear mingled with intrigue.

“I can’t just tell you that,” Omoh said, leaning back, weighing his options. “Kroc—you know him as well as I do. That’s going to cost you.”

“How much?” Francis asked, though the bitterness in his voice made it clear he knew he was being taken for a ride.

“Ten grand plus dinner and takeaway,” Omoh grinned, sensing an opportunity to turn this into a profitable evening.

Francis sighed, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a neat bundle of one-thousand-naira notes, catching Omoh’s attention. Rumor had it that Francis was as broke as a shattered bottle and in desperate need of a financial lifeline.

This display of wealth contradicted those whispers, and Omoh’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the inconsistency.

Francis quickly tucked the bundle back into his pocket, noticing Omoh’s scrutiny.

“I’ll give you six thousand and just dinner,”

Francis countered, but Omoh could tell he wasn’t really trying to haggle. The inspector could have driven the price down further if he wanted to. It confirmed Omoh’s suspicion—Francis had come into some money, and recently too.

“Oh no, Kroc is vicious, you know. If he finds out I’m selling out information to someone like you, he’ll have his boys break my legs. You wouldn’t want to see me crippled and begging by the roadside, would you?”

Omoh tried to sound sympathetic, though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

“You already beg, Omoh, just without the crutches. Eight is my final offer. Take it or leave it!” Francis snarled, visibly unimpressed.

Omoh sensed he had pushed enough. “Fine, I’ll take it. But only because you’re my friend. I like helping friends who help me,”

he said with a grin, though the sincerity was lost on both of them.

“Kroc works for Sillas, among other shady dealings. Sillas has a direct import link for the white stuff—better quality than anyone else in the game. Kroc is his main distributor, handling all the dirty work. Sillas doesn’t deal with small-timers.”

Francis pondered this new information. “Do the other two buy from Kroc?”

“Oh yes,” Omoh nodded. “They do. Sillas’s product is top-notch, and Kroc is the only one who moves it. Anyone else who tries gets shut down fast. Kroc squeezes every penny he can out of the dealers. It’s not a game for the faint-hearted.”

Francis leaned back, pretending to be bored. “So, what happens if someone tries to undercut Kroc?”

“Oh, they’ll be dealt with quickly. Kroc has a reputation to maintain. He doesn’t tolerate competition. Anyone trying to sell under his nose won’t last long.”

“Right,” Francis murmured, signaling the waiter. He paid for the meal and drinks, then placed eight one-thousand-naira notes on the table, which Omoh swiftly pocketed.

Omoh watched as Francis left the restaurant, then pulled out his phone. It was time to make some quick inquiries—something he realized he should have done a long time ago.

Outside, Francis boarded a Keke and headed home. He had gotten what he came for.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



Inside the Keke on his way home, the events of that fateful day replayed in his mind like a broken record.

He had left the compound in a hurry, disappearing into the winding streets until he reached the safety of his home.

Fortunately, Hafsat was still at work, giving him the solitude he desperately needed.

Still trembling, he found a bottle of gin and poured two stiff shots, gulping them down in quick succession.

The alcohol burned his throat, but it had the desired effect—it steadied his nerves and brought a semblance of calm.

As his senses returned, his eyes landed on the bag, now resting ominously on the table. He hadn’t known why he’d taken it; it was a frantic, unplanned act that defied logic. Perhaps it was the gin's influence that heightened his curiosity.

Without further hesitation, he emptied the contents of the bag onto the table.

Three bundles of tightly wrapped one-thousand naira notes, with a half-bundle beside them, lay before him. At a glance, it looked like around three hundred and fifty thousand naira.

But what really caught his attention were the next set of items: three neatly wrapped packs of white powder, each weighing a kilogram.

It took two more shots of gin to steady his thoughts, but the burning question remained—what was he to do? Reporting it to the police would have been the logical choice, but he was already a murderer.

The missing weapon linked him to the crime, making the police a dangerous option. Dumping the drugs somewhere and contacting the owners might expose him to even greater dangers, especially since he was already compromised.

As he wrestled with his options, a memory flashed in his mind. Years ago, back in his days with the Special Kidnap and Rescue Squad, there had been a story about a police officer who had stumbled upon a stash of illegal drugs.

The officer sold the drugs on the black market, amassing a fortune before fleeing the country. Now, it seemed that fate had handed him a similar opportunity.

Driven by the possibilities, he reached out to a contact to inquire about the value of the drugs.

The answer had him reeling. “Twelve million naira?” he yelped, unable to contain his excitement. The plan formed quickly—sell the drugs, resign from the force, and escape the country.

He could start over, with enough money to ensure his safety. Hafsat, of course, would have to remain in the dark the entire time.

When he finally returned home that evening, the noise from inside told him Hafsat was already back.

He frowned. She was home early, an unusual occurrence. He sighed heavily; the idea of home had long lost its comfort.

He opened the door and was met with a scene straight out of a movie.

There stood Hafsat, as beautiful and alluring as the day he met her. She wore a two-piece lingerie set under a sheer, transparent frock that left little to the imagination. It was the most sensual sight of his wife he had ever seen.

A primal hunger surged through him, a raw and intense desire that caught him off guard.

“Welcome home, darling,” she purred, turning slowly to reveal her smooth, soft skin.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice thick with lust and suspicion.

“What do you mean, what is this?” she replied, her tone playful yet laced with intent. “I’m in the mood, darling. A woman shouldn’t be denied her desires, and I know—”

She walked toward him, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes conveying unspoken promises.

“You want it too,” she whispered.

Now close enough to touch, her scent enveloped him—irresistible and expensive. It was odd, this sudden display of affection. The last time they’d been intimate was over a month ago.

He had lost interest in her, repulsed by her presence, and they had started sleeping in separate rooms.

But tonight, she was different. This was all a ploy, he realized. Of course, it was.

The money! The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning.

“Oh no, don’t tell me you—” His words trailed off as he saw the guilt flash in her eyes. He bolted toward the guest room, where he had hidden the bag of money.

Frantically, he tore it open. Inside, the neatly stacked bundles were gone, replaced with empty rubber bands and half a bundle of cash. By his calculations, Hafsat had made off with two hundred and fifty thousand naira.

“You devil,” he muttered under his breath, his temper flaring. He had already killed one person—what difference would a second murder make? Especially if it brought him some twisted satisfaction.

Fueled by rage, he stormed back into the living room, ready to confront her, but he was met by a surprising sight.

Hafsat was on him in an instant, pressing her now-naked body against his.

“Tell me how much you really want me, baby,” she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his ear, stealing his breath away with a long, passionate kiss.

In that moment, the flames of his anger were quenched.

She had him trapped, disarmed, by her allure. He was once again at her mercy and He hated himself for it.


TO BE CONTINUED

Woman! Francis is in trouble, I think!

Wow nice update, ride on boss.

CONTINUED



In the early hours of the next day, Francis slowly opened his eyes. The room was dim, but he could just make out the silhouette of Hafsat.

She was watching him intently, her gaze piercing through the darkness.

The sight of her staring made his skin crawl with discomfort. Memories of the previous night flooded back, filling him with self-loathing.

“What are you staring at?” he asked hoarsely, his voice rough from sleep, as a wave of vulnerability washed over him.

“The drugs,” she replied, her voice dry and devoid of emotion. “What are we going to do about them?”

Francis tensed. This was the real Hafsat—the woman he had married, not the one who had feigned affection the night before.

The stark contrast in her demeanor was jarring, a reminder of how easily she could shift from softness to cruelty.

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Francis protested, sitting up, trying to regain some control of the situation.

“The drugs, Francis,” she repeated, her tone growing sharper. “I asked you a question. What are we going to do with them?”

Her voice carried a dangerous edge, and Francis felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach.

“They’re not mine,” he lied, the words tumbling out hastily.

Hafsat snorted in disbelief. “Oh, please. I know you’re lying.”

She paused, then quickly got out of bed, wrapping herself in a robe. She crossed the room and sat on the settee, her eyes never leaving him.

Even under the dim light filtering in through the curtains, he could feel the weight of her gaze, the way it seemed to strip him bare.

“Oh, I see how it is,” she continued, a cold grin spreading across her face. “You want out, don’t you? Well, I want out too. This marriage isn’t for me. I want money, and lots of it. I want to enjoy life, ride in the latest cars, wear the most expensive clothes, and those drugs are my ticket.”

“What are you talking about?” Francis began, his voice faltering as the realization dawned on him. She had the upper hand. “Where are the drugs, Hafsat? Where did you hide them?” He shot out of bed, his heart racing with a mix of fear and anger.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, her voice laced with a newfound authority. Francis froze, recognizing that she had outmaneuvered him once again. “So, you thought you could pull a fast one on me? Maybe sell the drugs and run away, probably leave the country and abandon me? Leave me high and dry?” She let out a bitter, mocking laugh, the sound of it grating on his nerves.

“I’ll get you for this,” Francis snarled, his hands clenching into fists.

“Let’s see you try,” she sneered. “I’m the only one who knows where the drugs are. Now, listen to me, Mr. Inspector.” The title was spat out like a curse. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Always trying to have it your way. Well, two can play that game. Here’s what’s going to happen: if you haven’t already started looking for buyers, you’d better start now. I want that money. Once you’ve found someone, I’ll take over the deal. If you play nice, I’ll let you keep 15%. But cross me, just once, and you’ll regret it.”

The venom in her voice sent a chill down his spine. In that moment, Francis saw her for what she truly was—a cold, calculating monster.

He cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of her gaze on him.

There was nothing he could do for now, but he was certain she would slip up eventually.

They always did. And when she did, he would be ready. He would seize his chance and show her that he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.


TO BE CONTINUED

Interesting. Thanks for the update, boss

I will be dropping more updates soon, my Sim has been barred so working on it. There are edits needing proofreading a d corrections. Once I get online. Massive updates will come in. Thanks for your patience.

WriterX:
I will be dropping more updates soon, my Sim has been barred so working on it. There are edits needing proofreading a d corrections. Once I get online. Massive updates will come in. Thanks for your patience.

We are desperately waiting, boss!

updates coming in, today!

CONTINUED



Edward angled his flashlight toward the well, its rusty hinges creaking from the years of neglect. Since the body had been discovered, no one had bothered to lock it up again.

The crime scene still exuded a cold, oppressive air. The kind of place that made your skin crawl. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Why was he even back here? Was this a mistake? Maybe.

But experience had taught him that returning to the scene sometimes revealed what had been missed the first time. Shadows of the past had a way of whispering their secrets.

He stepped into the cold night air, scanning the area with slow, deliberate movements. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, bouncing off the walls of the dilapidated building like a ghost searching for peace.

The night felt thick, suffocating, as though it had swallowed all life whole.

Earlier that day, his conversation with Mr. Obah had been a dead end. The man was all bark and no bite. He was angry, sure, but his hatred for the victim’s family was rooted in religious and tribal differences—not personal. Ugly, yes. Dangerous? No. They were bad neighbors, but not killers.

Edward’s eyes traced the walls as he circled the scene.

His feet crunched over broken glass and metal scraps littered across the ground. Empty cans, metal parts—this wasn't random debris.

It was junk, but it wasn't discarded. It was collected. Someone had been gathering these things. A scavenger, maybe.

He moved deeper into the crumbling structure, his breath growing heavy in the thick, stale air.

The place reeked of decay, but that wasn’t what had his heart racing. Something felt wrong. The kind of wrong that sticks to your bones.

A faint noise—a snap, a shuffle—broke through the oppressive silence. Edward froze, his grip tightening on the flashlight. His fingers brushed instinctively toward his hip, where his gun should have been.

But he had left it behind, figuring this was just a quick check-in. Stupid mistake. His pulse quickened, echoing in his ears. He swung the flashlight in an arc, sweeping over the empty room.

Nothing.

The darkness swallowed everything whole again, mocking him with its stillness. He switched off the flashlight and crouched behind a pair of broken pillars, using the shadows as cover.

His heart pounded against his ribs. He listened, ears straining. Silence.

Then—a blur. A figure bolted past him, the movement so fast it was almost inhuman. Instinct took over.

Edward stretched out his leg just in time, tripping the intruder. There was a satisfying thud as the man hit the ground with a heavy crash.

Edward winced, his own leg protesting the impact, but he was already on his feet. The flashlight flicked back on, revealing a young man—dirty, gaunt, probably in his twenties—scrambling to his feet.

He was dressed in a torn singlet and muddy boots. The kid looked like he hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks.

The young man bolted again, slipping into the maze of rooms and corridors that made up the ruined building. Edward cursed under his breath and gave chase, ignoring the throbbing in his leg.

The night closed in around them, and soon he found himself alone, lost in the silence again. The kid had vanished.

Somewhere, a few miles away in Ketu, a different scene played out.

It was just after 2 a.m., and the bedroom was dimly lit by the streetlight that peeked through the drawn curtains.

Anthony and Catherine lay side by side, but only one was asleep. Catherine watched Anthony in the dim light, her eyes filled with concern.

He twitched and mumbled, lost in the grip of a nightmare. His brow was slick with sweat, his body jerking in fits of fear. She’d seen this before. It was the second night in a row.

She leaned over and nudged him gently. “Anthony... wake up.”

He gasped awake, eyes wide and unfocused. For a moment, he looked like a child—scared, confused, vulnerable. He pulled away from her touch, edging toward the far side of the bed as though something was still chasing him in the dark.

"Another bad dream?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, running a hand over his face. “Yeah... just a dream.” His voice was shaky, unconvincing.

He flicked on the bedside lamp, casting a pale yellow glow over the room. The shadows retreated, but the fear lingered in his eyes.

“You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. It’s the promotion, isn’t it?” Catherine ventured, searching his face for some sign of openness. But Anthony just shook his head.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He wiped at the sweat clinging to his forehead. “I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep.”

She wanted to say more, to reach out and pull him back to her, but something stopped her. It was like a wall had gone up between them, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break through.

Instead, she nodded and lay back down, though sleep was the last thing on her mind.

Anthony, on the other hand, was already on his feet, padding toward the door.

“I’m getting some water,” he said, his voice distant, as though he were talking to himself more than her.

Catherine stared after him, her heart heavy. She knew there was more to his nightmares than just the new job, but she didn’t push. Not yet. She’d wait, give him time.

They had only been together for a short while, but she’d never felt this way about anyone before.

He was everything she’d hoped for—kind, caring, and so different from the string of failed relationships that had left her jaded.

But as the night wore on, and Anthony’s shadow disappeared down the hallway, she couldn’t help but wonder: was this just a nightmare? Or was there something darker haunting the man she loved?

END OF CHAPTER THREE