IQ chapter one

There is a saying where I come from, it goes like this. “when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, but know that life will come back to take the lemonade”. People interpret it differently, some say it means you have to fight to keep what is yours, and others say it means never to trust people. I never really paid it any mind, but recently I have come to understand it simply means, “Life is shit, and we all live in it”. — Ibrahim Don-Esther

Once Upon A Cop

Thunder cracked like a whip across the heavens, roiling storm clouds clotting above the skeletal remains of a dojo, made in brick and wood. A man stood motionless at the mouth of a crumbling corridor, his gaze hollow, fixed on ghosts of the past. In his imagination, two children flickered into being, darting down the hall, their laughter a fleeting melody against the wooden walls, chasing each other with reckless joy, while a third child trailed behind, steps slow and indifferent, a shadow of disinterest in their game. “Children, no running in the hall. Go take your stance.” A man’s voice, warm but firm, cut through the memory, calling them to practice, its echo fading into the present’s silence.

The man’s eyes drifted downward, catching on a cluster of morning glories, their purple petals defying the cracked stone floor. He knelt, fingers brushing their delicate blooms, plucking a few with care, their vibrant hue a stark rebellion against the ruin. A child’s voice, cold and accusatory, pierced the quiet: “It doesn’t matter, Ibrahim. You were wrong. Again.” He turned toward the sound, but found only the shattered remnants of the dojo’s sign, its faded motto glaring back at him: Purpose to Defy Destiny. The words twisted in his chest, heavy with promises unkept, and a distant rumble of thunder deepened the ache.

A downpour erupted, a relentless curtain of rain that drowned the world in its roar. Ibrahim now stood in a cemetery, the morning glories clutched in his hand, trembling under the storm’s weight. He faced a crude wooden cross, its edges splintered and weathered, a name carved into it barely legible through the deluge—Aaron. He sank to his knees, the flowers slipping from his grip to rest at the base of the cross, their purple petals muted by the rain. A scream tore from his throat, raw and jagged, hurled at the uncaring sky. The rain swallowed his cry, masking the tears that carved silent paths down his face, blending grief with the storm.

The next day, in the lobby of a police station—a third-world outpost of faded authority—Ibrahim, a fit man in his twenties, just over six and a half feet tall, dressed in a plaid shirt with plain trousers and worn loafers, his hair in long dreads tied to the back, stood inside, near the entrance, leaning against the receptionist block. Crafted from raw cement, its smooth plaster facade was split in the colors of the force: the upper half a dull gold, the lower a stark black, both chipped and weathered from years of neglect, the walls were coated the same. No lights hummed overhead; the space relied on whatever daylight filtered through grimy windows, casting long shadows that accentuated the dust clinging to the walls like forgotten secrets. The floors were swept clean, the paths worn by foot traffic, but the air carried the stale weight of disrepair—old chairs creaking in distant offices, tables scarred by time.

He was mid-conversation with the receptionist, probing for files from four to eight years back, absent from the registry shelves, when chaos erupted at the far end of the lobby. A young woman, her voice a thunderclap of frustration, hurled insults at an officer. "You incompetent bastard! Just admit it—you're wasting my time! Be upfront for once!" Officers closed in, their hands guiding her firmly toward the exit amid her unyielding protests.

Ibrahim's gaze followed her as she stormed past, her eyes blazing with unspent rage. He turned back to the clerk. "We'll pick this up later." Striding over to the officer who'd borne the brunt of her storm, he asked, "What was that about?"

The officer in a short-sleeved gold shirt, neatly tucked into black trousers, and black boots, with a single gold platted badge on the breast pocket, marked with the insignia: IQPD—the police uniform—rubbed his temple, exhaling sharply. "Hysterical about her missing sister. Blaming me for everything, like I personally hid the girl." He eyed Ibrahim with a flicker of recognition. "You back from leave already?"

"No," Ibrahim said evenly. "Just checking in."

The officer nodded, then thrust a file into his hands. "Are you headed to the registry? Do me a solid—file this away."

Ibrahim took it, a mild irritation creasing his brow. "I wasn't planning on working today." He glanced at the cover. "Is this the girl's case? The one who just left?"

"Yeah. Dead end—no leads. Help me stick it in unsolved."

Ibrahim's grip tightened, glancing at the file again. "Reported three days ago. Shouldn't you dig deeper before giving up? Seems like that's the trend around here lately."

The officer's gaze hardened, meeting Ibrahim's. "Don't be an ass. Help or don't—your choice."

After a tense beat, Ibrahim relented with a curt nod. The officer clapped his shoulder, a patronizing grin flashing. "Stick to filing cases, registry guy. Leave the real work to us." He turned and walked away, leaving Ibrahim to simmer.

Ibrahim strode down the dim hallway, his footsteps echoing off the cracked cement walls, their gold-and-black paint faded and chipped from years of neglect. Office doors lined the passage, their frames etched with grime that no broom could reach, a testament to the station’s half-hearted upkeep. Clutching the file, he slowed as he approached the end of the corridor, where it veered left toward a narrow doorway. The sign above read "Registry and Armory" in peeling, barely legible paint, marking the descent into the basement. He paused, the weight of the folder heavy in his hands, and flipped it open, his fingers tracing the sparse details of the case under the faint flicker of a dying bulb overhead.

Moments later, in the brighter upper floors, he slammed the folder onto the desk of a middle-aged man with stark white hair, startling him from his paperwork. "What is this?" the man demanded, adjusting his glasses.

"A missing sixteen-year-old girl’s case, Mimosa—her sister Ixora reported it three days ago. But it's already headed for cold storage."

The man leaned back, exhaling. "The lead officer probably did the best they could—"

"Bullshit, and you know it," Ibrahim cut in, his voice low but edged. "I want to take it over."

A soft chuckle escaped the man. "You must be joking. You're just a file clerk, Ibrahim. And weren't you on vacation or something?"

"I've got four days left on my leave. Let me use them to investigate. You're higher ranking—make it official."

The man shook his head. "No. That would be reckless and unprincipled.

"This process is already reckless and unprincipled. And you owe me that favor—one you can't turn down."

The white-haired man held Ibrahim's unyielding stare, the weight of that undeniable debt hanging between them like an unspoken chain. After a heavy silence, he sighed. "Fine. Four days. Solve it, or it closes. Done?"

"Yes… agreed. Thanks."

"I'll need a copy."

Ibrahim nodded, pivoting to leave.

The man called after him. "Don't go too far. Keep me looped in."

Ibrahim glanced back, a nod of gratitude. "Thanks again."

The Case Is Afoot

Ixora sat hunched over a chipped table in a brightly lit roadside eatery across from the police station, sunlight streaming through the open front and glinting off her greasy fingers as she picked at a half-eaten plate of fried yam. A weathered signboard, propped on the pavement outside, advertised cheap meals in faded chalk. Her jaw clenched as she dialed Mimosa’s number again, the call cutting to a flat, unreachable tone. Her eyes flicked to the station’s grimy facade across the two narrow one-lane roads, separated by a long slab of cracked concrete.

Ibrahim hadn’t expected to find her here. From the station’s gate, his sharp eyes—a natural gift—caught her silhouette through the eatery’s tattered string curtains, her tense posture betraying her frustration. He stepped unto the sidewalk, canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and paused to watch the sparse traffic. The nearby police checkpoint, just down the road, kept the flow lax, with only a few okadas and a battered taxi crawling by. He crossed the first lane, eyes flicking left and right, then stepped over the concrete divider, its edges worn and crumbling, before crossing the second lane with deliberate strides.

Approaching her table, his shadow fell over the cracked linoleum floor. “You must be Ixora,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a faint edge of urgency.

She froze, her hand hovering over the phone. “And you are?” Her tone was sharp, her gaze narrowing as she sized him up—lean build, tired eyes, a face etched with something heavier than the day’s heat.

“I’m Ibrahim,” he said, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Police officer. I’m taking over your sister’s case. Saw you at the station earlier—spotted you from the gate.” He paused, shifting his weight. “I want to help find Mimosa.”

Ixora’s brows lifted, a flicker of surprise cutting through her guarded expression. “That’s… new. Cops don’t usually care that much.” She leaned back, folding her arms. “You saw me from all the way across the road?”

Ibrahim’s lips twitched, almost a grin. “Lucky eyes, I guess.” He adjusted the strap of his bag, then grew serious. “I’m heading to her boyfriend’s place—last place she was seen, according to your report. Want to come along?”

She stood slowly, her chair scraping against the floor, suspicion still clouding her eyes. “Why would a cop ask a civilian to tag along? That’s not exactly protocol.”

Ibrahim cleared his throat, fishing a badge from his pocket and holding it up, the metal glinting in the sunlight. “I’m legit, I promise. The address wasn’t in the report. I was hoping you could show me the way. Or just write it down if it’s too much trouble.”

Ixora studied the badge, then him, her fingers tapping restlessly against her thigh. After a moment, she nodded. “Fine. It’s easier if I take you there. But you’re walking in front.” She gestured toward the open front, the string curtains swaying slightly as she spoke, her voice firm but laced with a challenge.

Ibrahim’s smile returned, awkward but genuine, as he stepped toward the exit, brushing past the frayed strings. Ixora followed, her footsteps deliberate, her eyes never leaving his back.

Ixora rapped her knuckles against the weathered door, her stance rigid beside Ibrahim, who glanced around the dim hallway. "You sure this is the right place?" he asked, his voice low, skeptical.

She nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. Mimosa gave me the address a while back."

The door creaked open moments later, revealing a young man in rumpled clothes, his eyes narrowing at the sight of them. "Who the hell are—" He froze, recognition flashing across his face as he locked onto Ixora. His voice spiked, sharp with irritation. "You again? I already told you, I don't know where Mimosa is!"

"Olude," Ixora said evenly, though her jaw tightened. "Fine. Then just repeat what you said to me—for him." She jerked her thumb toward Ibrahim.

Olude's gaze shifted warily. "And who the fuck are you?"

"I'm police" Ibrahim replied, his tone steady, unflinching.

Olude's face twisted in outrage. "You brought the cops? What, you trying to get me arrested now?"

Ibrahim held up a hand, cutting through the rising tension. "You're not under arrest. I just need information about Mimosa—Ixora's sister."

Olude crossed his arms, exhaling sharply, but after a beat, he relented. "Fine. Last time I saw her was... Wednesday, I think."

Ibrahim pulled a notepad from his bag, flipping it open with a practiced flick, his pen scratching across the page. "That'd be five days ago."

"Yeah," Olude muttered, leaning against the doorframe. "We broke up two weeks back. She came crawling back, begging me to take her. But nah—she's the one who dumped me first. Wouldn't have her anyway. She's nothing but a gold digger."

Ixora’s eyes flashed, her fists clenching at her sides. “Don’t you dare talk about Mimosa like that,” she snapped, stepping forward.

Ibrahim shot her a quick glance, his expression a silent plea for restraint, before turning back to Olude. "Mind if I take a look inside?" he asked, his tone neutral but probing.

Olude's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because you could be holding her hostage in there, you creep," Ixora snapped.

Olude ignored her, his focus on Ibrahim. "You can check, but she's not stepping foot in here."

Ibrahim nodded. "Fair enough. Ixora, wait out here?"

She balked, her fists clenching. "What? No way—"

"I get it, you're pissed," Ibrahim said, his voice firm but empathetic. "But this isn't helping Mimosa. Just... stay put."

She glared daggers at Olude, flipping him off with a sharp gesture before stalking away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Inside, the apartment reeked of stale takeout and unwashed laundry. Ibrahim's eyes swept the cramped one-bedroom: clothes strewn across the sagging bed like casualties of chaos, textbooks splayed open on a cluttered table, flanked by greasy plates crusted with remnants of meals long forgotten.

"You a student?" Ibrahim asked, his gaze lingering on the books.

Olude shrugged, trailing behind him. "Yeah. Mid-semester tests coming up. Psychology major at IQ University."

Ibrahim pushed open the kitchen door, revealing a sink piled high with dishes, the air thick with the faint smell of spoiled milk. "How'd you and Mimosa meet?"

Olude leaned against the wall, arms folded. "At this spot in Uzoalaye, La Pot Suites and Bar—place where runs girls hang out, scouting rich dudes. I was there with some buddies. Spotted her, but she wasn't one of them. We hit it off, swapped numbers. Thought that was it... or the start, anyway." His voice turned bitter, laced with regret. "Turns out, she wasn't a runs girl, but she sure acted like one. Always hitting me up for cash. When I couldn't keep up, I ended it."

Ibrahim jotted notes, his pen pausing as he met Olude's eyes. "Thought you said she broke up with you."

Olude scratched his head, shifting uncomfortably. "Yeah, she did—at first. Then she came back. That's when I called it off for good."

"When was that?"

"Two weeks ago. She showed up around five days back to grab her stuff. Saying, 'You know where to find me.'"

Ibrahim swung open the bathroom door next, peering into the grimy space—towels draped haphazardly, a faint mildew scent clinging to the air. Olude bristled. "Is that really necessary?"

"Did you ever go to where Mimosa lived with her sister?"

"Nah, never been. Only met Ixora once—Mimosa introduced us after we swung by her shop at the 2-Mile Market bus stop. She never liked me."

Ibrahim tapped his pen against his chin, lost in thought for a moment. "So, when she said you know where to find her... where did she mean?"

Outside, Ixora slumped on the stairs, her thumb hovering over her phone screen as she dialed Mimosa's number again. The line droned: not reachable. She sighed, frustration knotting in her chest.

"We'll find her," Ibrahim said softly, appearing at her side.

She jolted, scrambling to her feet. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Just got here." He stepped past her, his expression thoughtful. "About Olude... Unlikely he's involved, but I'm not ruling it out."

She fell into step beside him. "What did he say?"

He turned, meeting her gaze. "I'm heading to a restaurant—La Pot Suites and Bar. Do you know it?"

Ixora hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing her face. "Why there?"

"So you do." He gave a faint nod. "Lead the way? I wouldn’t want to get lost."

La Pots Suites And Bar

The bus rattled through the sun-baked streets of IQ City, its engine groaning like an old beast under the weight of too many passengers. Dust swirled in the wake of passing motorcycles, and the air inside was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, diesel fumes, and overripe fruit from a vendor's basket nearby. Ibrahim handed a crumpled note to the conductor, gesturing to both himself and Ixora, the conductor grunted in acknowledgment before shouting for the next stop. Ixora shifted in her seat, the worn vinyl sticking to her skin in the humid heat. "Thanks," she said, her voice edged with quiet defiance, "but I could've paid my own fare."

Ibrahim glanced at her, his expression steady amid the jostling ride. "It's fine. I'm the one who asked you to come along."

She nodded, eyes flicking to the window where blurred storefronts and pedestrians flashed by like scenes from a half-remembered dream. "Will the station reimburse you?"

"No," he replied, a faint wryness tugging at his lips. "They usually would, but not for this. And the paperwork's a nightmare anyway."

The bus lurched forward, weaving through the chaotic tapestry of town—honking horns, street hawkers calling out their wares, and the distant wail of a siren that faded into the urban hum. Ibrahim pulled out his notebook, its pages creased and filled with hasty scrawls, flipping through them with focused intent. Ixora stared out at the passing world, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her phone case, the worry etched in the faint lines around her eyes. After a moment, she turned to him, her voice cutting through the low murmur of conversations around them. "Why'd you take Mimosa's case? Be honest."

He closed the notebook slowly, his gaze drifting to the floorboards as if weighing the words. The bus hit a pothole, jolting them both, but he didn't flinch. Finally, he met her eyes, the shadows under his own speaking of sleepless nights. "I lost someone close to me recently. To injustice. When that officer told me to file away your sister's case as unsolved... it hit me. Reminded me of my own resolve. Simple as that."

Ixora leaned in slightly, the bus's vibrations humming through her bones. "What resolve?"

"It's a long story," he said, reopening his notebook, though his eyes lingered on her for a beat longer.

She turned back to the window, her reflection ghostly against the glass, and murmured under her breath, the words heavy with unspoken fear, "I hope Mimosa's safe, wherever she is."

The conductor's sharp bark echoed through the cabin—"Next stop!"—and Ixora straightened. "That's us. We get off here."

They stepped down into the gritty haze of a junction, the air thicker now with the fumes of exhaust and roadside grills sizzling with skewered meat. Ibrahim scanned the surroundings: cracked sidewalks lined with makeshift stalls, faded billboards peeling under the relentless sun, and clusters of loiterers casting idle glances their way. "Where are we?"

"The less good side of Uzoalaye," Ixora replied, crossing the sparse road with purposeful strides, her shoes kicking up small puffs of dust. Ibrahim followed, the uneven pavement crunching beneath his feet, the neighborhood's pulse thrumming in the distant thump of music from an open window.

As they walked, she glanced over her shoulder, her tone firm. "You can't say you're a cop in there. It'll put everyone on edge—the place has a reputation. Worst case, no one talks."

He nodded, falling into step beside her. "Agreed. We'll pose as job hunters. You distract the receptionist, while I'll slip into the guard room, check for camera tapes. Then—"

She cut him off with a raised hand, a sly smile playing on her lips despite the tension in her jaw. "I've got a better idea. I know how spots like this work. Just follow my lead."

"What's the plan?" he pressed, his voice low as they navigated the narrowing street, shadows lengthening from leaning buildings.

She ignored him, her smile widening faintly as she quickened her pace, the air growing heavier with the faint scent of spilled beer and cigarette smoke drifting from ahead. "You'll see."

He kept asking, his questions trailing after her like echoes, but she only shot him a teasing glance. Soon, the building loomed before them: a squat, weathered structure with a flickering neon sign spelling out "La Pot" in garish red letters, its facade cracked and stained, promising secrets in the dim glow filtering through grimy windows.

The dim haze of La Pot Suites and Bar clung to the air like a bad memory—smoke from cheap cigarettes mingling with the sharp scent of spilled liquor, and the faint, greasy sizzle of kitchen exhaust drifting from somewhere unseen. Neon lights flickered erratically over the scarred wooden bar top, casting erratic shadows that danced across the faces of patrons hunched over their drinks, their murmurs a low, constant hum punctuated by the occasional clink of glass or burst of laughter that felt too forced, too brittle.

In the background, the soulful strains of music pulsed faintly through tinny speakers, the beat rhythm weaving through the haze like a defiant heartbeat in the underbelly of Uzoalaye.

Ixora leaned in, her fingers drumming restless on the sticky surface of the bar, the rhythm syncing unconsciously with the music's insistent groove, betraying the storm brewing beneath her calm facade.

The barman, a wiry man with a day's worth of stubble and eyes that had seen too many late nights, wiped a rag across a smudged glass and eyed her warily. "What'll it be?"

"Two shots," Ixora said, her voice steady but laced with an edge, like a blade sheathed but ready. He poured them without a word, the amber liquid glinting under the lights as it sloshed into the glasses.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that cut through the background wail of music. "Listen, I need a favor. My boyfriend and I..." She tilted her head subtly toward the corner booth where Ibrahim sat, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning the room like a predator in unfamiliar territory. He caught the barman's glance and offered an uneasy smile, the expression tight at the edges, as if forcing civility in a place that demanded none.

The barman arched a brow, his interest piqued but guarded. Ixora pressed on, her words tumbling out with feigned excitement. "We're looking to spice things up. You know, something... exciting. A runs-girl, maybe? But not just any. This one." She pulled out her phone, the screen illuminating her face with a cold glow as she swiped to Mimosa's photo—a bright smile frozen in time, eyes full of life that now twisted Ixora's gut with worry. "Seen her around? A friend recommended her. She's got that spark we're after."

He leaned in, squinting at the image, his expression shifting just enough to suggest familiarity before he shrugged it off. "Looks familiar. Could check, see her last clients and whereabouts. But that kinda help? It don't come free. Commission's gotta be worth my time."

Ixora's lips curved into a tight smile, her heart pounding as she fished three crisp one-thousand notes from her purse and tapped them against the bar like a challenge. "This cover it?"

He eyed the money, then nodded slowly. "I'll sort a few things back here. Meet you at your table soon."

She handed over one note, folding the others away with deliberate slowness. "The rest when you connect us. We'll be waiting—me and my boyfriend over there."

He pocketed the bill with a curt nod. "ASAP. Got it."

Ixora snatched up the shots and wove through the scattered tables, the floor sticky under her shoes, the atmosphere filled with the undercurrent of desperation that permeated places like this. The music lyrics murmuring critiques of corruption that felt all too fitting in the shadowed corners. She slid into the booth across from Ibrahim, pushing one glass toward him. The liquid sloshed slightly, mirroring the unease knotting her stomach.

"What'd you say to him?" Ibrahim asked, his voice low, curiosity sharpening his gaze as he accepted the drink.

She met his eyes, her own flashing with a mix of defiance and quiet resolve. "Trust the process. He said he recognized her—Mimosa. Said he’ll look for her last whereabouts." She paused, the words hanging heavy between them, then lifted her glass. "All we need is a little patience."

Why didn't I think to check here sooner? The question gnawed at her, a quiet regret surfacing amid the bar's haze, her fingers tightening around the glass as if to steady the doubt.

"Drink up," she added. "It's on me."

She knocked hers back in one swift motion, the burn racing down her throat like liquid fire, grounding her in the moment. Ibrahim took a cautious sip, the warmth spreading through him as he watched her. "It's almost weird, you know? How you flip from that rage at the station to... this. Calm as a still pond."

Ixora set her empty glass down with a soft clink, her fingers tracing the rim absently. "As long as we're moving forward, finding her? I can hold it together. But anyone gets in the way..." Her voice trailed off, the threat unspoken but electric in the air, her eyes hardening for just a fraction of a second before softening again.

She watched him now, his profile etched against the flickering neon, his attention drifting to the room—the clusters of shadowed figures, the haze of smoke curling like ghosts. "You haven't asked me how I know this place," she said, her tone probing, a subtle challenge. "I figure Olude told you what kind of spot it is. Runs-girls, quick cash, the works."

Ibrahim sipped again, the alcohol's bite sharpening his senses amid the bar's oppressive murk. He turned back to her, his expression even, nonjudgmental. "You seem to know your way around Uzoalaye. I'm not one to judge—especially not in a city like IQ."

A soft chuckle escaped her, breaking the tension like a crack in ice, though it carried a wistful undercurrent. "Mimosa said—says—the same thing. Word for word, almost." Her voice caught slightly on the correction, a flicker of vulnerability piercing her armor.

He leaned forward slightly, his notepad forgotten for a moment in the bag at his side. "Anyone else she might've met through here? Friends, connections?"

Ixora shook her head, her gaze drifting to recollections of untold memories, a silent accusation. "No. I thought she'd stopped coming here altogether—didn't even know this was how she met Olude." The words hung there, laced with regret, the bar's background music swelling around them like a tide, pulling at the edges of their fragile alliance.

Ibrahim's eyes narrowed as he scanned the dimly lit bar, the haze of cigarette smoke curling under the low-hanging lamps like ghosts in the humid air. "The barman you spoke to—he's gone," he murmured to Ixora, his voice cutting through the muffled chatter and clink of glasses.

She whipped around, her gaze locking on the empty space behind the scarred wooden counter where the man had stood moments before. Heart pounding, she bolted toward the bar, her boots scraping against the sticky floor. "Where'd he go?" she demanded of the barmaid, a weary woman wiping down a row of smeared tumblers with a rag that had seen better days.

The barmaid glanced up, her expression flat under the flickering neon glow of a beer sign. "His shift just ended. Probably headed home."

Ixora's blood surged. Without a word, she spun and sprinted for the entrance, shoving through the swinging doors into the sweltering night. "He's bolting!" she shouted over her shoulder to Ibrahim. He abandoned his half-sipped shot on the scarred table, the amber liquid sloshing as he leaped to his feet and charged after her.

The street outside pulsed with the chaos of Uzoalaye's underbelly—honking horns from battered taxis, the distant thrum of generators, and the spicy scent of street food frying in oil drums. They scanned the shadows, the humid air filled with exhaust and the faint rot of garbage piled in the gutters. Ixora spotted him first: the barman, still in his rumpled uniform, hovering at the curb like a rat caught in headlights. "There!" she hissed, pointing.

They closed in, flanking him from both sides. Ixora's voice sliced through the evening. "You slimy bastard."

The barman jerked around, his face paling under the sodium-yellow streetlamp. Panic flared in his eyes as he tried to dart away—straight into Ibrahim's unyielding grip. "Please, I'll give back the money," he stammered, fumbling for his wallet with trembling hands.

Ixora snatched it from him, rifling through the worn leather while Ibrahim's fingers tightened on the man's arm. "Why'd you run?"

The barman—Richard Aniola, as Ixora read from his ID—swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "I wasn't running. I swear."

"Liar," Ixora snarled, her hand rearing back in threat. "Tell us where Mimosa is." She thrust her phone forward, the screen glowing with Mimosa's photo, illuminating his guilty features.

"I don't know her," Richard blurted, his voice cracking. "I lied for the cash. My shift was ending—thought I'd make a quick buck. Swear to God."

Ixora's slap echoed like a crack of thunder, stinging her palm as much as his cheek. "You said you knew her before I offered anything."

"Enough," Ibrahim interjected, his tone steady but edged with steel. He fixed Richard with a piercing stare. "I'm a police officer. The girl in the picture is missing. Obstructing justice will mean an arrest."

Richard crumpled, tears streaking his face as he sank against the curb. "I just started at La Pot. Everyone swindles customers—it's my first time. Please, forgive me."

Footsteps approached from the shadows, heavy and deliberate. A towering, muscle-bound man emerged into the lamplight, his frame casting a long shadow over the trio. Curious onlookers had begun to gather, murmuring from the edges of the street, their eyes glinting with wary interest.

"Who are you?" Ixora demanded, her pulse racing.

"Security for the bar," the man rumbled, his voice like gravel under boots. "What's your business with our staff?"

Ibrahim straightened. "Police. I am questioning him."

The man eyed Ibrahim's plain clothes skeptically. "No uniform. Show me an ID."

Ibrahim produced his badge, the metal flashing under the light. Ixora muttered under her breath, "Why do you have that?" Ibrahim turned, catching her perplexed expression. "What's wrong?"

She pointed at the security’s hand, voice trembling with fury. "Why are you wearing Mimosa's ring?"

Ibrahim's eyes flicked to the generic gold band glinting on the man's pinky finger. Before he could react, the man lunged forward, his forehead smashing into Ibrahim's nose with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded across Ibrahim's face, blood hot and metallic as he staggered back, crumpling to the pavement. The man bolted into the night, towards an alley next to the bar.

Ibrahim clutched his bleeding nose, vision blurring through the agony, as Ixora tore after the assailant. Cursing under his breath, he staggered to his feet. "Stay put," he barked at Richard, then plunged into the chase.

The alley beside the restaurant stretched narrow and foreboding, flanked by weathered brick walls slick with evening dampness, booming with the stench of stale urine and rotting refuse. Ibrahim burst around the corner, his breath ragged, and froze at the sight: the macho man had Ixora pinned against the unyielding brick near a battered motorcycle, his massive hands around her throat, her face turning red as she gasped for air.

Ibrahim charged, feet pounding the cracked asphalt. The man spotted him, snarled, and hurled Ixora like a ragdoll. She collided with Ibrahim, both tumbling to the ground in a heap of limbs and pain. "You okay?" he gasped, helping her up as she coughed violently, clutching his arm.

"Don't... let him escape," she wheezed, eyes fierce.

The man revved the bike, its engine roaring to life in the confined space. The alley's far end was a dead-end wall of bricks and graffiti, leaving only one way out—straight through them. Tires screeched as the bike accelerated.

Ibrahim sprinted toward it, muscles coiling. He leaped, knee aimed at the rider's chest, but the man popped a wheelie, the front tire slamming upward like a battering ram. Ibrahim twisted mid-air, barely dodging, his shoulder crashing into the alley wall with bone-jarring force. The bike rocketed past, vanishing into the street.

Shaking off the impact, Ibrahim surged out of the alley, spotting the bike nearly clip Richard, who yelped and jumped back on the sidewalk's edge, slowing the rider just enough. The bike veered right, weaving into sparse traffic as it zoomed down the road before swerving into a corner, disappearing behind the cluster of squat buildings that obscured the adjacent street beyond.

Ibrahim didn't hesitate. He dashed across the road, horns blaring in protest, and vaulted through an open gate into a ramshackle compound. The air here was thick with the smell of cooking wood fires and laundry drying on lines strung between peeling walls. He barreled down a narrow passage, lined with arched pillars, the structure casting elongated shadows in the fading light, his footsteps echoing off the concrete as he raced to the far end, snatching an iron bucket from a doorstep and shouting at a startled occupant to clear the way.

At the passage's end, he hurled the iron bucket with calculated precision, against the fence for leverage, stepping atop it to propel himself over the wall in a fluid vault. He landed hard on a rickety wooden vendor's table on the other side—a simple, weathered platform meant for displaying goods under a big umbrella during market hours, now empty and unused in the evening quiet. The table legs splintered with a sharp crack as it collapsed beneath him, wood shards scattering across the dirt.

The bike zoomed past in the street. Ibrahim grabbed a jagged plank from the wreckage and flung it like a spear. It struck the rider's elbow with a thud, sending the bike wobbling wildly before it veered off the road and crashed into a foul-smelling gutter.

Attack On The Streets Of Uzoalaye

Ibrahim closed the distance in seconds, yanking the concussed man from the muck. "Where's Mimosa?" he roared, shaking him.

The man groaned, head lolling. "Don't... know who that is."

Onlookers gathered, murmuring in the gathering dusk. "What's going on?" one called.

"Police," Ibrahim barked, flashing his badge. "Stay back."

The man mumbled incoherently, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.

"Where'd you get the ring?" Ibrahim pressed.

"Bought it... from someone."

Ibrahim shoved him down. "You're under arrest."

He bound the man's hands with his belt, hauling him up as Ixora pushed through the small crowd forming on the road, dragging Richard along by the hand, like a reluctant child. Ixora's face was flushed, her breath coming in sharp bursts. "Did he say anything?"

The man shouted, "I want a lawyer!"

"You'll get one at the station," Ibrahim snapped, then turned to Ixora. "I'll interrogate him thoroughly. We'll get answers about Mimosa."

Richard shifted uneasily, eyes darting at the encroaching shadows and watchful faces peering from doorways. "We need to leave. This area's not safe."

Ixora's fist cracked against the man's jaw with a sharp thud, pain exploding through her knuckles like shattered glass. She shook her hand, wincing, but didn't hesitate—snatching Mimosa's ring from the pinky finger of his bound hands, the cool metal slipping free as if it had been waiting for her. "Where is she?" she snarled, her voice raw and trembling with fury. "Where's Mimosa? If you've hurt her—if anything's happened to Mimosa—I'll kill you myself."

The man tilted his head back, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face, revealing teeth smeared with crimson. "We're all gonna die here" he rasped, his words dripping with dark amusement, the surrounding thick with the metallic tang of blood and the lingering haze of exhaust from the crashed bike.

"Shut your mouth," Ibrahim snapped, his gaze flicking to the chaos around them—the overturned bike half-submerged in the gutter, the scattered crowd murmuring like distant thunder. He turned to Richard, who hovered nearby, pale and fidgeting. "Can you pull that bike out of the ditch? We might need it."

Richard nodded reluctantly, his eyes wide with unease, and shuffled toward the gutter, splashing through the murky water as he tugged at the handlebars. He strained, grunting with effort, but the bike remained lodged, wheels sunk deep in the muck, unyielding despite his pulls.

Ibrahim tilted his head nudging Ixora aside into the shadow of a crumbling wall behind them, where the setting sun cast long, jagged patterns across the cracked pavement. "I've called for backup," he murmured, his voice low against the hum of the restless street. "But it'll take time. We need to hold steady."

A chill pricked the back of Ibrahim's neck, and before he could react, a whisper ghosted into his ear from his blind spot—soft, urgent, laced with fear: "You're in danger." He spun on his heel, heart pounding, catching only a glimpse of a woman in faded clothes darting away, her footsteps fading into the alley like a vanishing shadow.

"Who was that?" Ixora demanded, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the emptying street.

Ibrahim swept his gaze over the scene—the curious onlookers who had ringed them moments ago now melting into doorways, windows slamming shut with muffled thuds, leaving the air heavy with unspoken tension. The street felt alive, watchful, like a predator coiling in the dimming light. "We need to get off this road," he said, his voice edged with steel. "Now."

Just then, a low growl erupted from the shadows across from them, building into furious barks that echoed off the walls. They whipped around to a dim corner, where a skinny figure emerged, chains rattling in his grip as he restrained a massive mastiff, its muscles rippling under taut fur, eyes locked on them with primal hunger. The man's stare was colder still—a death glare that promised violence.

Richard froze, his voice cracking. "That guy... with the big dog... he's staring right at us."

The bound man let out a guttural laugh, the sound bubbling up like poison. "You've pissed off the wrong crew," he taunted, his tied hands twitching. "Nasty ones, too."

From the fringes of the street—alleys choked with trash, doorways shrouded in dusk—men began to slink out like ghosts materializing from the haze. They clutched iron pipes that glinted dully in the fading light, jagged shards of broken bottles catching the sun's last rays, cutlasses worn from use, and makeshift weapons scavenged from the urban decay. The air grew thick, charged with the scent of sweat and impending storm, as they closed in from every angle, their footsteps a slow, deliberate drumbeat on the asphalt.

"Are these your friends?" Ibrahim asked the bound man, his tone flat but his body tensing, ready to uncoil.

Ixora's breath hitched as she pivoted, counting the encroaching figures. "They're surrounding us—from everywhere."

"Stay close," Ibrahim ordered, his eyes darting between threats, positioning himself as a shield. "On my signal, run. Don't look back."

"What about you?" Ixora shot back, her voice fierce despite the fear flickering in her eyes. "And him—we can't just leave our only lead!"

"I'm not leaving him," Ibrahim assured her, his palm tightening into a fist. "I’ll handle this."

Richard leaned in, his whisper barely audible over the growing murmurs. "My place... it's just around the corner. We could make it there—hide out."

Ibrahim nodded sharply. "Good. I've got a plan. When I give a signal, head straight for it. Don't wait for me."

From the haze at the far end of the street, a squat man stepped forward, his voice booming in loud inquiry. "Who the hell are you guys? And why've you got Tunde Thunder Muscle trussed up like that?" He jabbed a finger at the bound man lying on the ground, his crew halting in a loose semicircle, weapons poised.

"I'm police," Ibrahim called out, his voice steady, projecting authority into the thickening twilight. "This man's a suspect in an ongoing investigation. Backup's en route—any minute now. Clear out, and I won't haul you all in for misdemeanor."

Richard muttered under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead. "Is pissing them off part of your plan?"

The short man sneered, his laughter a harsh bark that echoed off the buildings. "You don't look like no cop. Not dressed like one, neither." He paused, cracking his knuckles with deliberate slowness. "How 'bout I counter that? You three get on your knees, beg real nice, and maybe we let you off with just a light beatin'. Or we beat you down till you're beggin' anyway. Either way, you still get beat up. Your call."

The men advanced then, a slow tide of menace, the clink of metal and glass punctuating the tense silence. Ixora gritted her teeth, her fists clenching at her sides, knuckles bulging. Richard dropped to his knees in a heartbeat, hands clasped in desperate plea. "Please—we don't want trouble—"

Tunde's laughter exploded, wild and triumphant. "Oh, you've fucked up now."

Ibrahim strode toward the nearest thug closing in, planting himself squarely in the man's path. Their eyes locked in a tense standoff, the atmosphere brimming with the aura of impending violence and the distant hum of city traffic. The attacker drew back, muscles coiling like a spring, then swung his cutlass in a vicious arc aimed at Ibrahim's head. In a blur, Ibrahim seized the man's wrist mid-swing, yanking him off-balance to the side. His free fist whipped up in a lightning hook that cracked against the thug's chin with a sharp thud, sending him crumpling to the cracked pavement, unconscious.

A stunned hush fell over the group, broken only by the ragged breaths of the encircling men. Ixora's lips curved into a fleeting, fierce smile, her eyes gleaming with a mix of adrenaline and hope. Then the spell shattered—the thugs surged forward like a breaking wave, most funneling toward Ibrahim in a chaotic rush of shouts and swinging weapons.

Ixora stumbled backward, throwing up her arms just in time to deflect a jagged broken bottle slashing toward her. The glass bit into her forearm, drawing a hot line of blood that stung like fire, and she reeled, colliding with the kneeling Richard and sending them both sprawling onto the gritty street. Richard's face twisted in terror as he stared up at the assailant looming over them, the bottle dripping crimson in the fading light. Tunde, still bound on the curb, barked at the man, "Cut me loose!"

The thug turned toward Tunde, bottle glinting ominously. Ixora's heart pounded in her ears; she lunged forward with a desperate scream—"No!"—clutching at his arm and shoving with all her strength. He twisted free, his fingers clamping around her throat like a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs as he raised the bottle to plunge it down. A guttural shout echoed from somewhere nearby, and the thug's eyes flicked sideways—just in time to catch Ibrahim barreling in like a freight train. Ibrahim's elbow slammed into him with bone-jarring force, hurling the man into the nearby gutter where he landed in a splash of foul water.

Ixora gasped, wide-eyed, as she scrambled to her knees. "How—" she muttered, glancing back to see the cluster of thugs Ibrahim had evaded, their faces a mask of frustration and wary surprise.

"Slipped past them," Ibrahim said tersely, extending a hand to haul her up. He did the same for Richard, yanking him to his feet. "I gave the signal—stand up."

"When?" Richard stammered, his voice quivering.

Ixora scanned the tightening circle of armed figures. "We're still surrounded."

Tunde's voice cut through the tension, laced with mockery. "What the hell are you waiting for? Get him!"

Ibrahim ignored him, turning to Richard. "Which way to your house?"

Richard's hand shot out instinctively, pointing straight through one of the thugs blocking their path. Both Richard and the man shuddered in unison, a ripple of fear passing between them.

"Follow me," Ibrahim commanded, just as the short man in the distance bellowed, "All at once—take them!"

The trio bolted toward the pointed thug, who froze in wide-eyed panic as they barreled past him. A mob of six men gave chase, their boots pounding the asphalt like thunder. Abruptly, Ibrahim skidded to a halt and reversed direction, charging back into the pursuers. His thrust kick landed square in the lead man's chest with a resonant crack, folding him over and sending him sprawling before the others could even blink. Ixora and Richard spared a quick glance over their shoulders, then kept running, hearts hammering.

Two of the remaining thugs flanked Ibrahim, swinging metal pipes from either side in synchronized fury. He threw up his arms to block, the impacts jarring through his bones like hammer strikes, vibrating up to his teeth. Before he could recover, a third man tackled him low, driving him backward into the rough embrace of the street. Another thug peeled off, sprinting after Ixora and Richard. Ibrahim twisted in the grapple, landing a solid punch to the tackler's back that elicited a pained grunt. But then arms snaked around him from behind, and the two assailants hoisted him high, slamming him down onto the pavement with a dizzying thud that blurred his vision and stole his breath.

Ixora and Richard burst into a junction, skidding to a halt amid the crossroads' faint glow of streetlamps. "Which way?" she panted.

"Left—my house is down that road," Richard gasped.

Her eyes caught the glint behind her, of a machete in the dim light—a lone thug barreling toward them, his face twisted in rage. "Let’s split up!" she shouted, shoving Richard. "You go left, to your house—I'll take right."

"But—"

"Go!" Ixora's command brooked no argument. Richard darted left, vanishing into the shadows, while she lingered at the junction, baiting the pursuer with a defiant glare before veering right.

Ixora's lungs burned with each ragged breath, the thud of her pursuer's footsteps echoing closer, a heavy and relentless drumbeat against the cracked asphalt. She vaulted through the open seats of a parked commercial tricycle by the curb, its sticky vinyl brushing her skin like clammy fingers, and plunged into a narrow alley, the walls closing in like a trap, reeking of garbage and damp decay.

A tattered homeless man rummaged through an overflowing ahead, the metallic clink of recyclables punctuating his efforts as he loaded them into his rickety cart. "Hey, why you runnin'?" he called out, his voice gravelly and laced with weary curiosity, as Ixora flew past, not sparing a breath to answer. Glancing back, the man's weathered face tightening at the sight of the machete-wielding thug entering the alley and instinctively pushed his cart along with a squeaky protest of wheels, trailing her into the gloom.

Ixora rounded a corner and cursed under her breath—dead end. A wall loomed like a grimy sentinel, slick with moisture and graffiti. She whirled to the homeless man, who had unwittingly followed, and snatched a rusted metal rod from his cart. "Give that back—that's my merchandise!" he protested.

She jabbed a finger toward the approaching sound of footsteps, her voice a frantic hiss. "That bastard's coming with a cutlass—he'll kill us both, he won’t leave any witnesses! Grab something from your damn cart and help me fight, or we're both dead!"

The man blinked in confusion, his brow furrowed. "This ain't my problem."

Ixora fumbled for her wallet, the leather slick with sweat, and flashed a crumpled thousand-note bill, its edges frayed. "It's yours if you help." She crammed it back into her pocket and edged toward the corner, heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped animal.

The thug rounded the bend, his heavy breaths rasping like sandpaper, eyes blazing. Ixora swung the rod with all her might, the air whistling past; he blocked it reflexively with his forearm, the impact ringing out, vibrating up her arms like a struck bell. He countered with a savage strike to her flank using the flat of the cutlass, the pain exploding through her side in a white-hot burst of agony that stole her breath.

She shouted—a raw, guttural cry—and lunged, seizing his wrists in a desperate grip, the rough fabric of his shirt scraping her skin. Leaping onto him, she sank her teeth into his neck, the metallic copper of blood flooding her mouth

He grunted, a deep, pained rumble vibrating through his chest, and spun with violent force, flinging her off to the grimy ground. She hit the ground hard, the jagged pavement scraping her elbows raw, grit embedding in her flesh as stars danced in her vision.

Kicks followed—boots thudding into her ribs and stomach, each impact a thunderclap of pain that radiated like fire, forcing bile up her throat. He clutched his bloodied neck, warm crimson trickling between his fingers, cursing her in a venomous snarl that echoed off the alley walls.

Ixora coughed, tasting blood, as he loomed over her and smacked her back with the cutlass's side, the blow sending shockwaves through her spine. "I am gonna enjoy raping you to death," he snarled.

He turned to the homeless man. "Get lost." But the words hung unfinished—his eyes widened in shock as the cart rammed into him with full force, in a deafening crash of metal and wood, slamming him against the wall with a crunch. The cutlass clattered to the ground, skittering to Ixora's feet, her fingers closed around its hilt, while the thug shoved the cart aside, overpowering the homeless man and roaring threats of death.

Ixora swung the blade in a desperate arc, slicing deep into his leg with a wet, tearing sound. He dropped to one knee, a piercing scream ripping from his throat, hands clamping over the gushing wound where blood pulsed hot and dark, soaking through his pants in a spreading stain.

Seizing the moment, Ixora groaned to her feet, ribs grinding like broken glass with every movement, and kicked him flat, her boot connecting with a satisfying thud. "How's that feel, you piece of shit?" she spat on him, her voice hoarse and trembling.

The homeless man grabbed her arm, his grip calloused but steady. "We gotta go—now." He supported her with one arm, with his other hand pulling his cart along, as they hobbled, her steps uneven, as they fled the alley, the wounded thug's curses and threats fading behind them like echoes in a storm.

Outside the alley, under the hazy streetlight, Ixora leaned against the tricycle, breathing ragged. "Thank you," she rasped, pressing money into his hand.

He eyed her injuries. "Do you need a ride to a clinic? My cart's got room."

She shook her head, wincing as she sank onto the tricycle's seat, the worn cushion sagging under her weight. "No—I have to help my friend first. Get far from here, fast."

"You gonna be all right?" he asked, his voice softening amid the quiet of the empty street.

"I hope so," Ixora replied, her words laced with exhaustion.

The man nodded, pocketing the cash with a faint rustle. "Thanks for the business." He wheeled his cart away, the squeak of its wheels fading into the evening.

Ixora stared at the empty ignition, the wheel's rubber tread worn and dusty under her gaze. She groaned, shifting deeper into the seat, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through her side. "Might have a broken rib," she mumbled to the empty air, the words tasting bitter on her bloodied tongue.

Back on the streets of Uzoalaye, Ibrahim panted heavily, sweat stinging his eyes, as he gripped the collar of the last thug he'd felled—a barely conscious heap in his bruised fists. Five bodies littered the ground around him, testament to the whirlwind of punches and dodges that had left his knuckles raw and throbbing. Only Tunde remained, being untied by the short man, alongside the handler with his snarling mastiff.

Tunde cracked his knuckles, grinning through bloodied lips. "Look at you, all beat up. Let’s pile on him, boys—his fancy moves won't work on me."

The handler unleashed the mastiff, its chains rattling free. The beast lunged with a ferocious bark, jaws snapping. Ibrahim snatched a metal pipe from the debris, thrusting it forward as the dog pounced, its teeth clamping down with bone-shaking force that drove him to the ground. He locked his legs around its underbelly, rolling to straddle its back, arms cinching tight around its neck in a rear naked choke. The mastiff thrashed wildly on all fours, muscles rippling under fur, but its struggles weakened, growls fading to whimpers.

Then, without warning, thick hands clamped around Ibrahim's own neck from behind. "Did you know I've been powerlifting since I was twelve?" Tunde whispered hotly in his ear, hoisting him off the ground in a crushing choke—dog and all.

Ibrahim released the limp mastiff, which thudded to the earth. He clawed at Tunde's iron grip, straining for a hold on his head or side, but Tunde's arms stretched out like unyielding beams, keeping him at bay. The handler knelt by the dog, relief flickering as it snored softly. "General," he murmured, then rose with fury. "You almost killed him!" A punch sank into Ibrahim's gut, but he lashed out reflexively, his shoe driving into the handler's stomach with such force that the man doubled over, vomiting onto the street.

Tunde laughed, a deep rumble that vibrated through Ibrahim's body as he tightened his squeeze. "Still got some fighting spirit, huh? Don't worry—you'll be a real spirit soon." Ibrahim's vision tunneled, darkness creeping in as he clutched at those vise-like hands.

The short man grinned—until his eyes caught movement in the distance: a tricycle hurtling toward them at breakneck speed. "Tunde—behind you!" he shouted.

But Tunde was lost in his glee. The tricycle screeched to a halt, slamming into him with a sickening impact that sent both men tumbling. Ibrahim hit the ground hard, gasping as sweet air flooded his lungs. Ixora's head poked out from the driver's seat, her face etched with concern. "You okay?"

Still wheezing, Ibrahim clutched the tricycle's frame and hauled himself up. "Thanks for the save. What about you—and Richard?"

"Richard made it to his house," she said, glancing at Tunde's prone form. "Did I... kill him?"

Ibrahim checked, feeling a faint pulse. "Alive. he might have a fracture though. We need to grab him and get to the station—before more show up."

The handler writhed on the ground, clutching his gut, the mastiff snoring peacefully beside him. In the distance, the short man stood frozen, mouth agape, as Ibrahim dragged Tunde's unconscious bulk into the tricycle. Ixora executed a sharp U-turn, tires squealing, and sped away. The short man whispered to the empty street, "What the fuck just happened?"

The tricycle rattled along the pitted road to the station, its engine sputtering like a weary beast as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only the faintest streaks of orange bleeding into the twilight sky. The streets pulsed with life—horns blaring from weaving traffic, headlights slicing through the gathering dusk like predatory eyes, and roadside markets buzzing with vendors hawking grilled corn and sachets of water under flickering lanterns. Ixora gripped the handlebars, her knuckles pale, as the front wheel plunged into another pothole with a bone-jarring thud. She grunted sharply, pain flaring through her side, her face contorting in a grimace she fought to conceal.

Ibrahim, crammed in the back seat beside Tunde—who sat slumped upright, his head lolling forward in what might pass for sleep to any passerby glancing their way. "You alright?" His voice rose above the clamor, concern furrowing his brow as he studied her rigid posture.

She dismissed him with a tight nod, her breaths coming short and ragged. "Just a little scuffle with one of those thugs back there. I'm fine." But as the tricycle hit yet another crater—jerking them all and drawing a fresh wince from her—sweat glistened on her forehead, defying the cooling evening air.

"Pull over," Ibrahim insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument after the third pothole in quick succession elicited another muffled groan. "You're not okay."

Ixora eased the vehicle to the roadside, tires crunching over loose gravel beside a cluster of shadowed stalls where merchants were packing up for the night. The distant roar of the express road ahead hummed like a lifeline, punctuated by the occasional flare of passing headlights. Ibrahim climbed out from the back, pausing to check Tunde—still out cold, bound and upright like a forgotten passenger—before turning his attention to Ixora. She sat there, breathing heavily, her shirt clinging damply, a dark bloom of blood staining the collar like a silent reproach.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, stepping closer, his voice steady yet edged with urgency.

She paused, then lifted the hem of her shirt just enough to expose the angry purple bruises mottling her ribs and stomach—swollen welts that whispered of vicious blows and unrelenting rage. The fading light cast harsh shadows over the injuries, making them look even more brutal.

"Damn," Ibrahim breathed, his expression tightening. "We need to get you to a hospital. Now."

She shook her head, lowering her shirt with a suppressed hiss. "No. We get him to the station first. That's what matters."

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, but relented. "Fine. Slide to the back—I'll drive. There's a clinic at the station, but it's third-rate at best. Barely stocked, more bandages than real medicine."

"That'll do," Ixora murmured, easing herself to the rear seat with deliberate care, each movement igniting fresh sparks of pain. She settled in, one hand cradling her side, the other keeping a vigilant watch on Tunde's still form.

Ibrahim slid into the driver's seat, his fingers brushing the handlebars. The tricycle’s engine still rumbling—wires dangling subtly from beneath the dash, hastily bundled—he shot her a quick glance but said nothing, the implication hanging unspoken in the air. He revved the engine and guided them back onto the road, navigating toward the expressway where the asphalt broadened into a cracked vein under the deepening twilight. Some stretches glowed with the steady hum of streetlights, alive with clusters of shops and pedestrians; others plunged into near-darkness, illuminated only in fleeting patches by the beams of sparse vehicles, the roads scant and edged with barred storefronts warding against unseen threats lurking in the shadows.

"Turn left at the next junction," Ixora directed from the back, her voice cutting through the engine's drone as they veered onto a dimly lit side street. "It'll cut through faster."

He nodded, weaving carefully to avoid the worst of the potholes. Street vendors blurred past in snapshots—women fanning coals under roasting yams, boys darting between cars with trays of wares—while the skyline of IQ City sharpened ahead, a jagged outline etched against the encroaching night.

After a smoother patch, Ixora broke the quiet, her tone laced with wry grit. "What do we do if Tunde wakes up?"

Ibrahim glanced back briefly, a faint smile creasing his face. "Don't worry—If you look under his shirt, you will see I chained him to the vehicle’s frame, at his waist. Found a chain and padlock rattling around in the back here. He's not going anywhere."

"Convenient," she replied, arching an eyebrow despite the throb in her ribs. "If he comes to, I'll knock him out again myself."

Ibrahim burst into laughter, the sound warm and unexpected, easing the knot of tension between them. "You really don't like the guy, do you?"

She joined in, her chuckle hitching with pain, a sharp twinge pulling at her side. "Wouldn't be going on a date with him, that's for sure."

The laughter ebbed into companionable silence, broken only by the tricycle's steady rumble. Then, almost offhand, Ibrahim asked, "So... where'd you get this tricycle, anyway?"

A beat of quiet stretched, thick as the night settling around them. Then Ixora erupted into laughter once more, clutching her ribs as agony mingled with the absurdity. "I didn't ask someone for it nicely, if that's what you're thinking."

He chuckled awkwardly, eyes fixed on the road. "Didn't cross my mind."

Their shared mirth carried them forward, a tenuous bond threading through the bumps and encroaching shadows, all the way to the station's looming gates.

Return to the Station

Tunde jolted awake with a guttural groan, attempting to clutch at his backside, but chains held his hands in place to his waist, as the tricycle rattled toward the wrought-iron gates of the police station, each bump sending fresh waves of agony through his bruised flesh from the earlier impact. "Ah, my ass! What the hell did you hit me with?" he snarled, his voice raw and laced with fury, twisting uncomfortably in the cramped backseat.

Ixora, crammed beside him in the back, shot him a withering glare, her hand still pressed to her aching ribs. "That's exactly what you deserve for being a wicked person" she spat, her words sharp as a blade in the humid evening air.

Ibrahim leaned on the horn from the driver's seat, a long, insistent blare that echoed off the station's peeling concrete walls, summoning the guards from their shaded posts. As the gates creaked open with a metallic grind, Tunde twisted toward them, his eyes desperate and calculating. "Wait—listen, I'll give you a hundred thousand right now if you let me go. Cash."

Ibrahim glanced back over his shoulder, his expression hardening like stone. "You've just committed another crime, you know that right? Trying to bribe of an officer. It'll be added to your charges." He eased the tricycle through the gates, nodding curtly to the officers who waved him in with familiar salutes—their recognition of him, even in civilian clothes, born of camaraderie and shared duty rather than strict hierarchy. He pulled up beneath a sparse fern tree in the compound, the engine sputtering to a halt.

Stepping down, Ibrahim yanked Tunde out by the arm, the man's bound wrists scraping against the tricycle's frame as he stumbled onto the dusty gravel. "Take her to the clinic," Ibrahim called to one of the gate officers, gesturing toward Ixora with the easy authority of a colleague they respected, file registrar or not. She eased herself from the backseat, one hand clutching her torso, a low grunt escaping her lips as pain flared through her bruised ribs. The officer approached with a nod, his boots crunching softly on the ground, no questions asked.

In the station's garage—a dim, oil-stained cavern cluttered with rusted tools and forgotten vehicles—Ibrahim's frustration boiled over at the sight of the backup truck still jacked up, its rear tire deflated and discarded like a useless husk. "What the hell happened? Why didn't backup ever show?" he demanded, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls.

The officer on duty shrugged, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that smelled faintly of solvent. "Wheel busted out. Mechanic's on the way—should be here soon."

Ibrahim's jaw tightened, a vein pulsing at his temple. "Useless. The whole damn department's useless." He jabbed a finger toward the tricycle parked outside. "Track the owner of that tricycle through the plate number. They mostly likely reside at Uzoalaye… get it back to them. I'll be checking back to make sure it's done right—please."

Interrogation of Tunde Kunle, by Officer Ibrahim Don-Esther; Detective John Amoral, Monday 12th-July-3991.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets, casting a sterile pallor over the interrogation room's scuffed walls, with a two-face-mirror on one side of it, and chipped laminate table at the center. Tunde Kunle slouched in his metal chair, his wrists chafed from the cuffs, the faint taste of blood lingering on his split lip. Across from him sat Ibrahim Don-Esther, his gaze steady and unyielding, the closed file between them a silent accusation in the stale air with the scent of old coffee and sweat-soaked clothes.

The door creaked open, admitting Detective John Amoral, his rumpled shirt straining against a paunch earned from too many snacks. "Ibrahim," John said, his voice low and edged with irritation, "step out for a minute."

Tunde lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot. "I want my phone call."

John shot him a glare, the doorframe creaking under his grip. "Shut up, or you'll get beat up even more."

Outside, the hallway stretched dim and echoing, the cement floor cool under Ibrahim's shoes as he pulled the door shut with a soft click. He followed John a few paces down the corridor, the distant hum of the station's activities underscoring the tension. "What is it?"

John halted abruptly, pivoting to face him, his face flushing beneath the patchy stubble. "Why the hell did you get involved in my case? You take me for a fool? Think you know better than me, interfering in MY… closed file?"

Ibrahim met his stare evenly, the faint ache from his earlier bruises pulsing in his jaw. "The missing girl, Mimosa—she could still be alive out there. If you'd bothered to do your job properly, we might have found her by now."

John scoffed, a sharp burst of air that carried the faint whiff of onions from his lunch. "What does a common file pusher know about being a detective? You're just some guy who watches too many police procedurals on TV."

"I used to be a sheriff's deputy," Ibrahim said quietly, watching surprise flicker across John's face like a shadow. "But that doesn't matter now. We have a suspect. We should be questioning him instead of squabbling."

John's eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching as if itching for a cigarette. "You should've come to me first—as the detective in charge—instead of going behind my back to higher-ups. That fucks me over."

Ibrahim paused, weighing his words, the cool wall at his back grounding him. Reluctantly, he nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble."

John's expression softened into a sly smile, and he clapped Ibrahim on the shoulder, the pat heavy. "If you really want to apologize, help me close this without any fuss. The missing girl? Probably just a family quarrel with her sister. Ran off with some boy. She'll come back when she gets bored."

The logic twisted in Ibrahim's gut like a bad meal, baffling him. "What if you're wrong? Why wouldn't Ixora just admit they had a quarrel? Why make up a whole story?"

John waved a hand dismissively, his ring clinking against the wall. "That girl's just being hysterical. I know how women are sometimes. My intuition as a detective—six years on the job—tells me it's a runaway. It’s a waste of resources to chase it."

Ibrahim's puzzlement deepened, a knot forming between his brows. "You're willing to bet a girl's life on that?"

John chuckled, a dry, patronizing sound. "You'll understand when you've been in this career as long as I have. But since you arrested a suspect, we'll do the interrogation. We’ll flip a coin for good or bad cop—that's the end of it." He turned, ambling down the hall. "But first, I am grabbing a snack. Want anything from the canteen?"

Ibrahim didn't reply, his mind churning as he watched John disappear around the corner. What an idiot, he thought.

About forty minutes dragged by, each tick of Ibrahim's wristwatch echoing in the empty hall like a dripping faucet. He sat on a hard bench outside the interrogation room, poring over his notes, the paper crinkling under his fingers, ink smudges blurring in the low light. Footsteps approached—John, sauntering up with a crinkling bag of snacks in hand, his face split in a gleeful grin.

"You sure took your time at the canteen," Ibrahim said, glancing up. "I've been waiting almost an hour."

John checked his watch with exaggerated care. "You sure your watch is ticking right? Mine says it's been just ten minutes." He smirked. "I just got caught up in another case—detective stuff. But we can start now."

Ibrahim rose as John flipped a coin, the silver disc glinting under the lights before landing with a soft clink.

They pushed back into the room, the door's hinges groaning. Ibrahim dragged a chair across the floor with a screech that jolted Tunde awake, his head snapping up, eyes bleary.

"What time is it?" Tunde mumbled, rubbing at his temple.

"It's currently 6:46 p.m.," Ibrahim replied, settling into his seat with a measured calm. "Do you have somewhere to be?"

Tunde's stomach growled audibly. "I missed lunch. I'm hungry."

John dangled a snack from his bag, the wrapper rustling temptingly. As Tunde reached for it, John yanked it back with a slight laugh, his eyes twinkling with mock cruelty. "You can have it after you answer all our questions."

Ibrahim rolled his eyes, the gesture hidden in the room's shadows. He pulled out a case file, the spine creaking, as he opened the file on the table with a soft thud. Sliding a portrait across the scarred surface, he asked, "Do you know the girl in this photo?”

Tunde glanced at it dismissively, his chains rattling faintly. "Never seen that girl in my life. Is she the 'sister' the other girl punched me for?"

"Stick to answering questions," Ibrahim said evenly.

Tunde leaned back, smirking. "This is some bullshit."

Ibrahim jotted a note, the pen scratching against paper. "How did you get the ring you were wearing?"

Tunde flashed his bare fingers, waggling them. "What ring?"

"The punishment for kidnapping is twenty-five years' imprisonment with labor," Ibrahim intoned, his voice steady, "along with the demolition of any property you own."

Tunde shifted uncomfortably. "Okay... I didn't kidnap anyone, so..."

John cut in, leaning forward with a predatory gleam. "You don't have to kidnap someone. All we have to do is say you did, and goodbye to the outside world. Better start cooperating."

Ibrahim paused, a flicker of unease crossing his mind—That's illegal. And wasn't he supposed to be the good cop?

Tunde swallowed hard. "I didn't kidnap no girl. I bought the ring from a friend."

"What friend?" Ibrahim pressed.

Tunde hesitated, his eyes darting. "I need assurance this shit won't implicate me."

"Count yourself lucky we're not beating the truth out of you," John snarled.

Ibrahim interjected smoothly. "If you give us information that leads to finding this missing girl, we can talk about a deal."

Tunde eyed them both, sweat beading on his brow. "A guy named Olude sold it to me. He’s not exactly a friend."

Ibrahim's pulse quickened at the familiar name; he made a note. "How do you know this Olude?... And what exactly is your relationship?"

"Just a guy who comes to the bar sometimes with friends. We got introduced through a mutual friend."

"Why did he sell you the ring in particular?"

Tunde shrugged. "He needed money. I offered cash. Bought it cheap—like 5k."

John whistled low. "All this info's new to me. One hell of a lucky coincidence, stumbling on that ring."

"Olude's the ex-boyfriend of Mimosa," Ibrahim explained. "We met with him before heading to Uzoalaye, where we encountered you."

Tunde's eyes widened. "You know Olude? Wait—he must've sold me the ring on purpose, and sent you my way, to frame me for whatever he did."

"Then why assault me and run after Ixora identified the ring as her sister's?"

Tunde winced. "Sorry about the head-butt. I'm on probation. Thought I'd bought a stolen ring—which turns out to be technically true."

"Give me the ID number of your probation officer."

Tunde rattled it off, his voice pleading. "I'm innocent. Sorry again."

Ibrahim leaned in. "Who were the gang that came to your defense?"

Tunde hesitated, licking his lips. "Local cult group. Don't know any of 'em."

"That's obviously a lie," John snapped. "You'll give us names."

"If it comes to that, I won't cooperate anymore."

John laughed, a harsh bark. "You'll tell us your grandparents' names if I get the GALA squad to treat your fuck-up."

"That won't be necessary," Ibrahim said firmly. "For now."

He stood, the chair scraping back. "John, step outside for a bit."

As they exited, John tossed a snack at Tunde, who caught it with a grunt.

In the hall, John paced, his snacks crinkling. "Based on what he said, maybe Ixora's involved. A cover-up for something sinister—like sororicide."

Ibrahim frowned. "That doesn't add up. Why report her sister's disappearance and push for an investigation?"

John shrugged. "Don't know for sure, but there could be a plausible reason."

Ibrahim stared at his notes, the words blurring as he sought a clue. Then he met John's eyes. "I'll head back to Olude's house to question him further. I didn't know about his link to our suspect. Keep Tunde detained—I'll be back in a jiffy."

John blocked his path. "Station's closing for the day. We'll continue in the morning."

"It could be too late by then. The faster we act, the higher the chance of finding her alive."

"I'm not staying past 7 O’clock," John said, firm. "We're onto something—that's enough for today. Olude doesn't know what we know, so he won't be on alert. Our suspects can't run. If you want to stay, lizards and cockroaches can help you out—nobody else will be here." He ducked back into the room. "I will be taking Tunde to update his booking, and find him a cell for the night."

Ibrahim checked his phone: 7:18 p.m. Tunde emerged, handcuffed and shuffling, John gripping his arm.

"I'm innocent," Tunde pleaded to Ibrahim. "Help me."

John shoved him along the passage. "Go home, Ibrahim."

Left alone in the dim hall, Ibrahim muttered to himself, the words hanging in the air like unresolved echoes: "What now?"

The dim fluorescent lights of the police station's clinic flickered overhead as Ixora stepped out into the cooling night air, the sharp twinge in her ribs pulling a low groan from her lips. The discharge papers crinkled in her hand, a flimsy reminder of the makeshift care she'd received—painkillers that barely dulled the ache and a scribbled list of drugs she couldn't afford. She lingered at the entrance to the main building, the gravel crunching faintly under her shifting feet, the distant hum of traffic blending with the muffled voices of officers wrapping up their shifts. Shadows stretched long across the compound, the day's heat yielding to a breeze that carried the faint smoke of exhaust.

Ibrahim emerged from a close-by doorway at the main entrance, his footsteps heavy on the concrete steps. His eyes caught hers, and he quickened his pace. "Ixora," he called, concern etching lines on his brow. "You okay?... They let you out already?"

She moved toward him, each step sending a fresh stab through her side, but she masked it with a tight smile. "What did you get out of him? Any leads on Mimosa?"

He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just booked Tunde into holding. Station's closing up for the night."

Her brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and frustration bubbling up. "Closing up? Aren't you all supposed to be first responders? What if something happens?"

"Low budgets," he said with a shrug, his voice laced with weary resignation. "Can't keep the lights on past closing without overtime nobody wants to pay for." He glanced at her, noticing the way she winced as she adjusted her stance. "Did the doctors fix you up? You're still groaning like that."

She let out a short, bitter laugh that caught in her throat. "They didn't have the right meds. Gave me some painkillers and a shopping list for the rest. It'll do for now." Her eyes searched his face, hopeful yet edged with impatience. "So, what's next? We can't just stop."

"We'll pick it up tomorrow," he replied, his tone steady but apologetic. "I'll call you first thing in the morning, and we can meet up. In the meantime... did your sister have beef with anyone? Friends, maybe? Anyone who might've had it out for her?"

Ixora paused, her gaze drifting to the ground as she sifted through memories, the evening light casting a soft glow on her thoughtful expression. "Her friends were all nice to her—or at least they seemed that way. No drama that I knew about." She clenched her fist around the discharge papers, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I still can't believe that bastard was wearing her ring. If he's done anything to Mimosa... I swear I am going to kill him myself."

The raw edge in her words hung in the air with unspoken fear. Ibrahim nodded, his expression somber. "Let's walk you out together," he offered gently, gesturing toward the gate.

She accepted with a nod, and they fell into step side by side, the gravel path crunching rhythmically beneath their shoes. The compound felt quieter now, the faded daylight painting the walls in muted oranges and grays, a faint scent of rain lingering on the horizon. At the gate, she turned to him. "Before we forget, give me your number.”

They exchanged digits quickly, fingers tapping screens under the glow of a nearby streetlamp. Ixora flagged down an okada, the motorcycle's engine rumbling to life as she haggled over the fare, her voice firm despite the exhaustion weighing on her. She climbed on, gripping the seat with one hand while the other pressed against her ribs. "See you tomorrow," she said, waving as the bike pulled away, its taillight shrinking into the twilight haze.

All In A Day’s Work

The police bike rumbled to a halt on the uneven dirt track, its headlights carving sharp beams through the thick rural darkness of IQ City's hidden fringes—those pockets of countryside that bled seamlessly into the urban sprawl, invisible to outsiders unless you knew the twisting paths. The air carried the earthy dampness of hardened mud underfoot, still firm from the day's heat but ever-threatening to turn to slick mud with the next rain. Ibrahim stepped down, the ground crunching faintly beneath his shoes, and nodded thanks to his colleague. The bike's engine growled as it reversed, its lights sweeping across the weathered bungalow like a fleeting searchlight, illuminating the sagging roof and peeling paint before fading into the night, leaving only the distant hum of insects and the faint rustle of unseen leaves.

He approached the metal door, its hinges creaking softly as he unlocked it with a familiar twist of the key, the metal warm from his pocket. Inside a corridor, the space swallowed him in pitch blackness, no hum of electricity to greet him. He pulled out his phone, thumbing on the flashlight, its cool beam slicing through the stale air laced with the faint mustiness of damp walls and forgotten corners. After a quick walk down the corridor, the modest room revealed itself in stark white light from the phone: a threadbare rug on the cement floor, a low table scattered with papers, a worn couch by the window, and walls of cracked plaster bearing only a crooked hook for his jacket.

Stepping back into the compound's shadowy edge, he navigated to the steel cage bolted to the ground—a makeshift fortress against thieves—and yanked the generator's pull cord. It sputtered awake with a guttural cough, the suffocating gas of exhaust smoke cutting through the humid night as vibrations rattled the cage. Satisfied with its steady rumble, he returned indoors, the machine's drone now a discomforting pulse outside. He flicked on the switch, bathing the room in a warm, flickering glow from the single bulb overhead, chasing shadows into the corners.

In the cramped bathroom, steam rose lazily from the lukewarm water trickling over his skin, rinsing away the day's grit—the faint coppery sting from his nose, the deep ache in his limbs. He stood there a moment, letting the stream drum against his back, the cool, uneven tiles grounding him in the quiet routine. Toweling off, droplets pattering to the floor, he felt the subtle chill of the air against his damp skin.

At the table, he unfolded his notes, the pages whispering under his fingers as he traced the hurried scrawls by the bulb's steady light. The clock's red digits glowed 9:11 PM when he finally snapped the notebook shut, a soft exhale escaping him. He flicked on the TV, its screen crackling to life with washed-out colors and muffled voices—a distant drama that blurred into static-laced oblivion, easing him toward sleep on the lumpy couch. The remote thudded softly to the floor as exhaustion claimed him, the room's hush wrapping around like a worn blanket.

The piercing ring of his phone shattered the darkness, yanking him from a nightmare of crumbling dojo walls where purple flowers pushed through blood-streaked fissures, their petals whispering accusations. His pulse thundered as the alarm clock chimed in, its beep syncing with the phone's insistent vibration from a call, on the rickety nightstand. 5:35 AM glared in crimson. Groggy, he silenced the alarm, as the call dropped, the abrupt quiet amplifying the ragged rhythm of his breath.

He redialed the unknown number, the line hissing faintly before connecting. "This is Dr. Jim," the voice came through, crisp and detached, echoing with a sterile chill. "Are you the detective on the missing person case of a miss Mimosa?"

"Yes, I am", Ibrahim responded groggily, with a sleepy exhale.

“We've got a Jane Doe fresh in the morgue, matching her dimensions—new protocols require we notify for potential matches. Swing by and see if it's your girl." The call cut off with a click, leaving Ibrahim in the dim predawn glow, a cold knot twisting in his stomach, like a stone beginning to fall.