IQ chapter two

What is love? Love comes in many forms. We all interpret it in our own ways. The feeling of love doesn’t have an exact science, but some things are common in all variations; like, the want for respect and to be pleased. Every other thing rubs off those collective to become a flower that blossoms in seasons. When love is broken or betrayed, there is a feeling of anxiety, question, and anger. What happens when love is forcefully taken from you, by death, circumstances, all with reasons that elude you, but leaves an understanding, sometimes too hard to swallow. What happens when you could have stopped it, or made it easier but you didn’t…what happens when you blame yourself…what happens when you blame another…what happens when you want to get revenge? A little bit of sanity leaves the equation. – Ixora

The Rage Of Loss And Love

The air in the cramped room thickened with shouts, the sharp crack of raised voices echoing off the bare walls like thunder in a confined storm. Ixora, her small frame wedged between her parents' flailing bodies, pushed with all her might, her palms slick against their sweat-dampened clothes. The taste of fear hung in her mouth, mingling with the faint, acrid scent of her father's day-old labor sweat. Her little sister, Glory, tugged desperately at Ixora's skirt from behind, her tiny fingers digging in like hooks, whimpering pleas lost in the chaos. Then came the accidental swing—a wild hand from one parent connecting with Glory's cheek in a dull thud that sent her tumbling to the dust-strewn floor. She hit the ground with a soft thump, her cry piercing the din like a shard of glass, raw and immediate.

Ixora froze for a heartbeat, the wail slicing through her haze. She spun, heart pounding, and dropped to her knees beside Glory, scooping her up in trembling arms. The girl's sobs vibrated against Ixora's chest as she hurried them into the adjoining room, the door creaking shut behind them like a reluctant barrier. There, in the dim light filtering through a cracked window, they huddled on the cool, uneven floor, their tears mingling in salty streams, breaths hitching in unison as the muffled argument raged on beyond the wall. The echoes of that night faded slowly into the rhythm of survival, days blurring into seasons under the unrelenting weight of hardship, until the sisters had grown taller, their faces etched with the quiet resilience of those who learn too young to endure.

One evening, under the flickering glow of a single bulb, their parents pulled Ixora into the sparse living area. The air was heavy with the residue of boiled yam and palm oil from dinner, but no warmth lingered in their faces. They sat her down on a worn stool, their voices low and edged with defeat, explaining that school fees had become an impossible burden. "You'll have to help us now," her mother said, eyes averted, the words tasting of ash. So Ixora began hawking sachets of pure water through the bustling streets in a town near their village—Giardino, the plastic bags were heavy on her shoulders, their chill seeping through her thin blouse as the sun beat down like a relentless hammer. Glory trailed her at first, but Ixora insisted she stay behind at the wholesaler's shop—a dusty haven of stacked crates and the faint, earthy smell of stored goods—where the kindly owner let her play with his mangy cat, its fur soft and warm under Glory's giggling fingers.

From dawn's first hazy light until the evening shadows stretched long, Ixora trudged the roads, her voice hoarse from calling out prices, the honk of passing vehicles and chatter of crowds a constant hum in her ears. Sweat trickled down her back, mixing with the grime of the day, as she finally returned to collect Glory, who beamed up at her with cat-whisker scratches on her cheeks. The wholesaler, his smile crinkled like old leather, always pressed a few treats into their hands—sticky candies or bruised fruits—before waving them off into the cooling twilight.

At home, Ixora handed the crumpled notes to her mother, whose callused hands bathed them both in lukewarm water scented with cheap soap, the ritual a fleeting comfort. Sometimes a meager meal followed, steam rising from plates of watery stew that filled the room with faint, savory notes. But as night deepened, their father staggered in from his gruelling labor, the stink of exhaustion clinging to him like smoke. Inevitably, the arguments ignited—over money one night, forgotten promises the next—their voices rising like flames, crackling with bitterness. When fists flew and the air turned violent with slaps and grunts, Ixora would snatch Glory's hand and slip outside into the velvet dark. Under the vast canopy of stars, they'd lie on the cool grass, the earth's dampness seeping through their clothes, imagining a life on the moon's silvery craters. "We'd sell the stars," Glory would whisper, her voice dreamy and light, "shiny ones for the richest buyers." Ixora would nod, their laughter soft against the night's hush, plotting impossible leaps to that distant glow, as if wishing hard enough could carry them away.

One sweltering afternoon, the rhythm of their days fractured. A well-dressed man arrived at their door, his polished shoes crunching on the gravel path, accompanied by a girl a few years older than them, her dress crisp and unfamiliar. Their father, his tone unusually firm, instructed Ixora and Glory to follow the girl outside the compound. She led them to the shade of a gnarled tree, its leaves rustling faintly in the hot breeze, and suggested they wait there until the adults' meeting ended. The air hummed with cicadas, and the scent of overripe fruit wafted from nearby bushes.

"I'm Ochu," the girl said evenly, her voice steady but laced with a quiet reserve. "I'm thirteen." She glanced at them expectantly.

Ixora hesitated, her instincts prickling, but Glory piped up first, her eyes wide and trusting. "I'm Glory," she chirped, "and this is my sister, Ixora."

Ixora shot her a stern look. "We shouldn't talk to strangers, Glory."

"But she looks friendly," Glory protested with a grin, "and cute!"

Ochu's expression remained neutral, though a faint warmth touched her eyes. "Thanks," she murmured.

Just then, a small fruit thudded to the ground at their feet, its skin a vibrant, mottled red. "Mango!" Glory exclaimed, snatching it up, her fingers sticky from the day's earlier treats. "Look how pretty this one is!"

"Don't put it in your mouth," Ixora warned sharply, the words automatic, born of caution. "It's poisonous."

Glory pouted, lower lip jutting out. "I know that."

Ochu tilted her head, studying the fruit. "We have a mango tree at my school. Did you know they used to be edible? Like, a thousand years ago?"

Ixora's curiosity sparked, cutting through her wariness. "Really? How do you know that?"

Ochu shrugged, her tone matter-of-fact. "It's what they taught us. The mango changed—evolved—from this big, sweet fruit you could eat, into something tiny and toxic. All because of the environment, I think."

"What's an environment?" Ixora asked, leaning in despite herself. "Or evolution?"

Ochu paused, searching for words. "It's a long story, but... it's kind of like how babies grow into grown-ups. Things change over time to fit the world around them."

Glory, uninterested in the lesson, thrust the mango toward Ochu. "We don't go to school," she confessed brightly. "Here, you keep it. It's as pretty as you are."

Ochu accepted it with a small nod, tucking it into her pocket. Glory's questions tumbled out next. "Why are you here? Is that man inside your dad?"

Ochu's gaze flickered, a shadow crossing her face. She hesitated, the words emerging slowly. "No... he's not my father. He's my husband. I came with him."

At The Morgue

Ibrahim's phone buzzed insistently against his hand as he jostled in the cramped seat of the keke-na-pepe, the tricycle's engine rattling like a tin can over the potholed road. Each call to Ixora dissolved into the flat drone of voicemail, her voice—a ghost on the line—echoing faintly before the beep. The humid air clung to his skin, with the scent of exhaust and distant rain, as the hospital loomed ahead, its faded white walls a stark barrier against the chaotic sprawl of the city.

He flashed his ID at the receptionist, the plastic card glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights, and descended the stairs to the underground level. The air grew colder with each step, a chill that seeped into his bones, carrying the tang of formaldehyde and decay. Hospital staff nodded curtly as he waved his credentials, their footsteps muffled on the tiled floors that stretched into dim corridors. At the far end, he pushed open the heavy morgue door, the hinges creaking like a sigh in the sterile silence.

There she stood—Ixora, frozen before a slab, her gaze locked on the shrouded form beneath the unforgiving overhead lamp. The room was a cavern of quiet death: bodies laid out in rows on cold metal tables, their pale shapes draped in sheets that whispered against the faint draft from the vents. Ibrahim called her name softly, the word hanging in the air, but she didn't turn. He approached, his boots echoing faintly, and as he drew near, he saw the tears carving silent paths down her cheeks, her shoulders trembling.

The attendant, a gaunt man in a rumpled lab coat, stepped forward with a nod. "I'm Dr. Jim," he said, his voice low and measured, as if not to disturb the eternal rest around them. "The body arrived at three o’clock this morning—It was found in a gutter by some construction workers." Ixora's sobs deepened then, raw and ragged, reverberating off the tiled walls and mingling with the distant hum of refrigeration units. Dr. Jim continued, undeterred. "I contacted relatives from the missing persons files in my office—pictures aren't always enough for identification." He glanced at Ixora with a flicker of sympathy. "She was the first to arrive. She's confirmed it's her sister." He paused, his tone turning clinical. "The body was badly maimed."

Ibrahim's eyes traced the form on the slab, the sheet pulled back just enough to reveal livid bruises blooming across the skin like dark storm clouds—purple and black, swollen and raw. The doctor pointed to an incision on the left flank, a precise cut marred by a strange, tattoo-like mark: a series of tally lines, etched in faded ink, repeating all across the body, wherever a blade had sliced. "And there seems to have been organ removal." Dr. Jim added, his finger hovering without touching.

Ixora's weeping broke into a muffled snivel, her hand pressing against her mouth as if to hold back the flood. She turned abruptly, and stormed off, shoving past the door with a metallic thud, her footsteps marching down the corridor like a retreating drumbeat. Tears streamed unchecked down her face, glistening in the dim lights. Ibrahim followed, calling her name again, his voice echoing in the empty hall. She halted at a corner, whirling on him with eyes red and fierce. "Stop following me!"

He raised his hands, palms out. "I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry. I couldn't help save her."

She shook her head, her voice cracking like brittle glass. "I don't need your sorry. My hopes were already low with the police." She swallowed hard, her breath hitching. "I'm going to scrape together the money—whatever it takes—to get Mimosa out of there. Give her a proper funeral." Fresh tears welled as she clutched her arms around herself. "The last thing she asked me... 'What was my purpose on this earth?' And all I said was, 'Purpose is overrated.'" The words hung between them, heavy with regret, before she turned and walked on, her silhouette fading into the shadows, leaving Ibrahim rooted in place.

He returned to the morgue, the door's creak a somber punctuation. "I need a copy of your report," he said to Dr. Jim, who nodded and shuffled to a nearby desk, pulling out papers with a rustle. As he handed them over, he murmured, "Well in summary, the body shows signs of severe beating, rape, and organ harvesting." Ibrahim's gaze drifted back to the tally marks, an eerie familiarity prickling at the back of his mind—like a half-remembered dream. "What about those tattoos?" he asked.

Dr. Jim shrugged, adjusting his glasses. "Can't say for certain—we need payment and family permission for a full autopsy. But if I had to guess, they're not real tattoos. More like markers, guiding which organs to take." Ibrahim stared at the lines, a chill unrelated to the room's temperature crawling up his spine. He took the report, the pages cool and crisp in his hands, and walked out, eyes scanning the details as the corridor's fluorescent buzz faded behind him.

Outside, the sun beat down mercilessly on the hospital gate, the environment alive with the honks of passing vehicles and the distant chatter of vendors. There, leaning against a weathered post, waited Cordae—the elderly white-haired man who'd grudgingly granted him permission to take on the case, his silver mane catching the light like frost on a winter branch. Cordae straightened as Ibrahim approached, his lined face twisting into a wry grimace.

"Thought you said this was a simple missing person case," Cordae grumbled, his voice gravelly from years of barked orders and quiet regrets. "Now it's escalated to this mess."

Ibrahim met his gaze steadily. "I'll shift focus—to finding Mimosa's killer."

Cordae let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head, the sound laced with weary cynicism. "With a body on the slab? That bumps the paperwork straight to the boss, the assistant regional sheriff. I don't want to ping on the ARS radar."

Ibrahim's jaw tightened. "Please—I need to see this through. I've still got three days left."

The old man eyed him, exhaling a long sigh. "Fine. But you'll have to pitch it to the ARS secretary yourself—get actually official as an assisting officer."

"Okay," Ibrahim said without hesitation. "I'll talk to the secretary."

Cordae scoffed, a sharp exhale through his nose, but Ibrahim's expression remained unyielding. "Sheesh," Cordae muttered, rubbing his temple. "At least try and get a lay from the sister who's still breathing—for all that dedication." He jerked his head toward the road. "Come on, follow me. We'll go meet the secretary together."

An Impossible Reality

Ixora drifted through the bustling street pulsed with life around her, a chaotic symphony of vendors hawking their goods, the odour of diesel fumes mingling with the earthy scent of rain-soaked earth from last night's downpour. Footsteps clattered on uneven pavement, voices rose and fell in a cacophony of greetings and barters, but she moved through it all like a ghost, her body swaying with each leaden step, her gaze fixed on the cracked sidewalk blurring beneath her feet. Grief wrapped around her chest like a vise, squeezing tighter with every breath, her vision swimming in unshed tears.

A faint voice pierced the haze—Mimosa's voice, high and trembling, calling her name from the throng. "Ixora..."

Ixora's head snapped up, her heart lurching painfully, and there, amid the swirl of bodies and faces, was Mimosa as she'd been in childhood: wide-eyed, fragile, her small features etched with fear. "I'm afraid," the child whispered, her words cutting through the din like a knife.

"Don't be," Ixora murmured, her voice cracking as she extended a trembling hand, weaving closer through the crowd. The world narrowed to that tiny figure, the clamor fading to a distant hum. "I'm here now."

She dropped to her knees on the gritty street, the rough stones biting into her skin, and pulled the child into her arms. The small body felt so real—warm, solid, the faint scent of soap and innocence clinging to her hair. "I'm sorry," the girl sobbed against her shoulder. "I lost our matching ring."

"It's alright," Ixora choked out, tears streaming hot down her cheeks as she rocked her gently. "We'll get another one."

"I died screaming." the child said, her voice suddenly hollow, echoing in Ixora's skull like a nightmare's refrain.

A sharper voice intruded, pulling at the edges of the illusion. "Why are you hugging my daughter... And crying like that?"

Ixora blinked, lifting her gaze to a woman's concerned face—familiar from the same street, a neighbour she passed daily—and muttered something incomprehensible in confusion. Her arms tightened instinctively, but as she glanced down, the child's features shifted, resolving into the neighbour's child: curious brown eyes staring back with innocent puzzlement. The girl reached up, her tiny fingers cool against Ixora's fevered skin, wiping away a tear. "Don't cry," she said softly. "Where has Mimosa been?"

The air suddenly grew dense and oppressive, shadows lengthening unnaturally around them as if the sun had fled. Horror crashed over Ixora like icy waves, her stomach twisting in revulsion at the realization. She recoiled, scrambling to her feet, her pulse thundering in her ears. The neighbour's voice chased her—"Ixora, are you alright?"—but she bolted, feet pounding against the pavement, the crowd parting like a sea of indifferent waves.

She didn't stop until she burst through a rusted gate, its hinges creaking in protest, and doubled over in the shadowed courtyard, gasping for air that burned her lungs. A sharp stab lanced her side, drawing a guttural groan as she clutched at it, fumbling in her pocket for the pill bottle. Her fingers shook as she popped one into her mouth, the bitter chalkiness dissolving on her tongue, a fleeting promise of numbness.

Stumbling forward, she fumbled with her key, the metal scraping harshly in the lock of the bungalow door. Inside, the dim apartment enveloped her—the stale air heavy with dust and solitude, the faint hum of a distant refrigerator the only sound. She collapsed onto the sagging sofa, its worn fabric scratching against her skin, and buried her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her body, raw and unrelenting, until exhaustion claimed her, dragging her into a fitful sleep haunted by echoes of screams from a distant past.

In the humid glow of the dressing room, a ten-year-old Ixora sat before a cracked mirror, the soft bristles of brushes whispering across her skin as two women layered powder and color onto her face. The air soft with the scent of jasmine oil and talcum, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of henna drying on her hands. Glory bounced on her toes nearby, her eyes wide with delight. "You look so beautiful, Ixora! I want to be next—put me on the chair after!" The women chuckled, their voices warm and teasing. "Your time will come, little one. Just wait a bit."

Ixora's heart fluttered with a mix of thrill and nerves, her reflection blooming under the careful strokes. Ochu stood quietly beside her, arms crossed, but her gaze lingered. "You seem happy," Ochu murmured, her tone flat, almost probing.

Ixora beamed, though a shadow tugged at her edges. "Yes—I am. Finally getting out of our parents' house..." Her smile faltered as she turned to Glory, the girl's innocent face pulling at something deep inside her. "I just wish I could take you with me right now. But once I'm settled in the new place, I'll come for you. I promise."

In the mirror's silvered edge, Ixora caught a flicker—a twist of disgust on Ochu's face, raw and unguarded. Her breath hitched. She spun around. "Ochu?"

But Ochu averted her eyes, her shoulders stiffening. "I... I should check on the guests." Sadness etched her features as she slipped away, the door clicking shut behind her like a quiet regret.

The ceremony unfolded in a whirlwind of rhythm and color, drums pounding a steady heartbeat that vibrated through the ground, while flutes wailed high and sweet above the chatter. Laughter rose in bursts, mingling with the savory aroma of spiced rice and grilled meats wafting from laden tables. Gifts piled high—gleaming fabrics, polished pots—offered with bows and murmurs, faces alight with joy or shadowed by unspoken concerns.

Ixora's husband, a broad-shouldered man in his forties, sat at the center of it all. A successful merchandiser with a sharp eye for trade, he'd lost his first wife to a tragic fall in their home years ago. He'd wed Ochu nearly two years back, claiming he craved a sprawling family like his father's before him—or so the whispers went.

Draped in heavy silks and glittering ornaments that weighed on her shoulders like unspoken promises, Ixora was instructed to perch silently beside him. The fabrics rustled with every shallow breath, cool against her skin despite the afternoon heat. Through the veil's haze, she watched the dancers swirl in vibrant skirts, their feet stamping dust into the air, while guests presented offerings to the husband with respectful nods. Longing stirred in her chest—she ached to join the whirl, to taste the sticky sweetness of the ceremony food on her tongue, to lose herself in the sway. But her mother's stern whisper echoed: "You mustn't. Sit still." So she retreated inward, her mind spinning tales of feasts and freedom, though a nagging question prickled: Why were there no faces her age among the crowd, only elders and strangers?

She'd glimpsed her husband only twice before. Once, during his stiff visit when her parents announced, "This is your husband to be—you'll live with him." And now, here, as she sat rigid at his side, the air between them filled with unfamiliarity. Leaving Glory gnawed at her, but they'd whispered plans: Once settled, she'd return for her sister. Ochu's unhappiness gnawed at her too, a stubborn puzzle Ixora couldn't unravel—each tentative question was brushed aside with a deflection of "it's nothing, I am just a little tired" or an insincere smile, the avoidance struck her as odd—especially now that they were becoming such close friends.

What felt like an eternity dragged on, the sun dipping lower, until the drums faded and the crowd thinned. Farewells came in a blur of tears—Ixora clung to her parents and Glory, sobs catching in her throat as she pulled away, the salt of them lingering on her lips. The car rumbled to life, carrying her, Ochu, and her husband toward the unknown.

The house loomed large upon arrival—a two-storey house, its walls stretching three times wider than her childhood home, shadows pooling in the courtyard under the evening sky. They made their way up the stairs, and into the house. The husband turned to Ochu, "Go draw a warm bath." His voice was clipped, brooking no delay.

Then his hand clamped around Ixora's arm, fingers digging like iron into her flesh. "Come with me."

She winced, a sharp gasp escaping. "Stop—that hurts."

He dragged her toward an inner room, the cement floor screeching under their hurried steps. "Ochu!" she called, her voice echoing desperate and thin. No answer came.

Twisting, she caught a glimpse of Ochu in the distance—fists clenched at her sides, gaze fixed on the floor, pity etching deep lines on her young face. The door slammed shut behind Ixora, sealing her in darkness. Dread bloomed in her chest, cold and suffocating, like a storm gathering just beyond reach.

A Moment Of Defeat

Ixora gasped awake from a deep, exhausted slumber, her body heavy against the worn sofa cushions. Nearly eight hours had slipped away in a haze of grief and fatigue. The shrill ring of her phone pierced the quiet apartment, jolting her upright. She fumbled for it on the side table, squinting at the screen—Ibrahim's name glowed in the dim light.

"Hello?" Her voice was thick with sleep, edged with lingering sorrow.

"Ixora, it's Ibrahim." His tone was clipped, laced with frustration. "I wanted to let you know—Tunde posted bail. He's out."

She bolted fully awake, her grip tightening on the phone. "What? How the hell could you let him go? He killed Mimosa—he murdered her!"

"We don't have anything solid on him yet," Ibrahim replied, his words measured but strained. "No concrete evidence. An officer... messed up the paperwork. It led to his release."

Fury ignited in her chest like a spark to dry tinder. She slammed the phone down, cutting him off mid-breath, and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the wall, skittering under a chair. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she paced the small space, fists clenched, kicking at a stray pillow that tumbled to the floor. The phone buzzed again, insistent, vibrating against the hardwood—Ibrahim calling back—but she ignored it, her rage boiling over in a storm of muttered curses and thrown furnitures.

On the other end of the line, Ibrahim stared at his phone as the call went unanswered, his jaw tightening. He shoved it into his pocket and stormed across the station's dusty compound, the midday sun beating down on cracked concrete and rusted vehicles. His footsteps echoed with purpose until he spotted John lounging against a wall, sipping from a battered thermos flask.

"John!" Ibrahim's voice cut through the air like a whip. "What the hell happened? Why'd you let Tunde walk?"

John straightened slowly, his eyes narrowing over the rim of his thermos. "Watch your tone, Ibrahim. You're talking to a superior officer."

"Fuck that," Ibrahim shot back, stepping closer, his face flushed. "You sabotaged the case on purpose. Don't deny it."

"Shut your mouth," John snarled, setting the thermos down on a ledge, with a deliberate thud. "It was a filing error. Simple as that—wrong paperwork."

"You expect me to buy that crap?" Ibrahim's voice rose, echoing off the nearby buildings. "Tunde was our prime suspect! We could've held him for forty-eight hours as a person of interest, no paperwork needed!"

John leaned in, his breath hot with stale coffee. "I don't give a damn what you buy. I don't owe explanations to a glorified file-shover like you. If you've got a problem with how the law works, take it up with Cordae—or was it the ARS? I hear you went crawling to her office already."

"You're a fool," Ibrahim spat, his fists balling at his sides.

John's voice thundered in response. "Tunde's probably innocent anyway! It's a shame the girl's dead, but she was gone from the start. Case closed—out of our hands." He grabbed his thermos and turned on his heel, striding away with a dismissive wave. "Get off my back, Ibrahim."

Ibrahim stood there for a moment, seething, the compound's humid air condensing up with spoken accusations and anger. Then he pivoted sharply, marching in the opposite direction toward the main building, his mind a whirlwind of betrayal and determination.

Inside Cordae's cramped office, cluttered with yellowed files and the faint scent of old tobacco, the white-haired man leaned back in his creaky chair. "Go on Ibrahim—enjoy what's left of your leave. In three days, you'll be back to happily shuffling papers into shelves."

"I can't just drop this," Ibrahim protested, his voice steady but laced with desperation. "Mimosa's case—it's not over. I won't abandon it."

Cordae sighed, rubbing his temples. "What can you do now? Your prime suspect's walked free. It's done."

Ibrahim's shoulders slumped, a shadow of defeat crossing his features. He lingered for a beat, searching for words that wouldn't come, then turned and slipped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him like a final punctuation on his fading resolve.

Nemesis

The bass thumped through the dim haze of La Pots like a relentless heartbeat, the atmosphere a mix of sweat, spilled liquor, and smoldering herbs. Neon lights flickered over sticky tabletops, casting erratic shadows on the throng of bodies grinding to the rhythm. Tunde lounged at the center of it all, surrounded by his squad—the same rough crew who'd swarmed the streets in his defense against that cop, Ibrahim. They hollered gang slang over the pounding music, flashing signs with tattooed fingers, their voices raw and triumphant. "Ain't nobody born yet who can touch us!" one bellowed, slamming a fist on the table as bottles clinked and laughter erupted.

Tunde leaned back, eyes glazed with the high, and took a deep, shuddering sniff from the vapors curling off a heated spoon. The sharp, chemical burn hit his nostrils, sending a jolt through his veins. Grinning wildly, he yanked down the top of the girl perched on his lap, her skin warm and yielding under his grip. He latched onto her breast, sucking greedily, eliciting a chorus of crude cheers from the group. They howled like hyenas, slapping backs and raising glasses.

Among them, the short gang leader—Paul, with his wiry frame and eyes like sharpened blades—leaned in, his voice cutting through the din. "Damn, Thunder Muscle, you must've missed that shit bad after lockup." He chuckled, low and menacing, then shifted gears, his expression hardening. "But we gotta handle that cop who made fools of us yesterday. Treat his fuckup right." He fixed Tunde with a stare. "You snag any useful information from the station? Something to track that bastard down?"

Tunde wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the girl's perfume lingering on his lips like cheap candy. "Nah, nothing solid. But I made nice with another pig in there. If bribe him, he'll spill. Easy."

Paul nodded, a slow grin splitting his face. "Good. Make a deal, first thing tomorrow morning."

From a shadowed corner table, shrouded in the bar's murkier fringes, a figure in a hijab watched them intently. Their face veiled, eyes unblinking amid the swirl of smoke and strobe lights, they nursed an untouched drink, the glass cool and condensation-slick against their palm.

The party raged on until the lights buzzed brighter, signaling last call. La Pots emptied in a stagger of slurred goodbyes and revving engines, but Tunde's crew wasn't done. "Fuck it, let's take this to my spot," one shouted, and they piled out, a raucous herd spilling into the humid night air. The hijab-clad figure slipped out after them, melting into the shadows, footsteps silent on the cracked pavement as they stalked the group through dimly lit alleys.

At a rundown house—a sagging structure with peeling paint and a chain-link fence—the group barreled inside, music already blasting from within. Outside, a massive mastiff strained against its chain, its low growl rumbling like distant thunder, hot breath fogging the air as it eyed the intruders. The stalker paused, assessing, then vanished into the night, only to return later with a greasy bag of fried fish and meat, the savory aroma wafting in the breeze.

Hours ticked by. The street hushed to an eerie quiet, broken only by the occasional flicker of house lights and the distant hum of a generator. Most windows were dark, the air cooler now, carrying the scent of rain on dust. The hijab figure crouched by the mastiff, feeding it chunks of fish and meat from gloved hands. The dog, massive and scarred, softened under the offering, its tail thumping softly against the dirt, jaws snapping greedily at the salty morsels.

Inside, the party's throb pulsed through the walls—muffled shouts, bass vibrations, the clink of bottles. The door creaked open, spilling a wedge of yellow light onto the steps. The stalker darted behind a nearby barrel, heart pounding, peering out as Tunde emerged, swaying drunkenly with a few gang members and giggling girls on their arms. "Headin' home, brothers," Tunde slurred, clapping shoulders. "Goodnight to the rest of you fools inside." They stumbled down the stairs, laughter echoing, then out the gate into the empty street. The stalker followed at a distance, footsteps light, blending with the night's whispers.

The group thinned as they wandered the desolate roads, peeling off one by one toward their homes, until only Tunde and a girl remained. They weaved toward a gated compound, the metal clanging softly in the breeze. Tunde fumbled for his phone, the screen's glow illuminating his bleary face, as he made a call. "Yo, come open up," he mumbled into it. Moments later, the gate groaned open, a shadowy figure ushering them in before locking it with a decisive click.

Tunde staggered to his room, keys jingling clumsily as he unlocked the door and vanished inside, pulling the girl along.

In the dead of early morning, when the world hung in that fragile hush before dawn, a faint rustle stirred at the foot of his bed. Tunde's eyes snapped open, bleary and unfocused, to the cold gleam of a shotgun barrel pointed to his face. The intruder stood there, a veiled silhouette stark against the faint moonlight filtering through grimy curtains, the weapon heavy and unfamiliar in their trembling grip.

Tunde bolted upright, heart slamming, but bravado kicked in. "The fuck? Do you know who I am? The cult I run with in these streets? They'll bury you alive!". He glanced to the side, seeing the girl him came home with, still sleeping sprawled next to him.

The intruder's voice was steel, edged with raw fury, the room thick with the stale reek of booze and sweat from his sheets. "Your boys ain't here now, are they? Right now, you're nothing but a nobody—with a shotgun aimed at your chest."

They stepped into the pale shaft of light, unveiling their face. It was Ixora. Recognition dawned on Tunde's features. "You... that crazy bitch who accused me of snatchin' some girl."

"Why'd you kill her?" Ixora's words cracked like a whip. "Why Mimosa?"

Tunde raised his hands slowly. "I don't know no Mimosa. I swear on my life, I have never met her."

She jabbed the barrel forward, cold hands pressing against the steel. "Don't lie to me again, or I pull this trigger." Her shout echoed in the cramped room. "Why'd you rape her? Kill her? She was everything to me—my whole damn world!"

"Calm down, alright? I can explain." Tunde's eyes darted, sweat beading on his brow. "Your sister hung out at the bar, yeah? Maybe one of my cult brothers picked her up. Got mixed up with me. Could be someone sharin' my street name—Thunder Muscle." He forced an oily smile. "I could help track 'em down. For real."

Ixora's grip tightened, knuckles whitening. "How many people share that name—and end up with her ring?"

Tunde swallowed hard. "I got the ring from my guy, Olude. I already told the police… He... he drugs girls at the bar sometimes. That's his thing."

Her eyes narrowed, curiosity flickering amid the rage. "Details. Now."

"I can call him," Tunde said, voice steadying. "You can hear it straight from him."

"Get up. Call him."

Tunde slid from the bed, naked skin prickling in the cool air, grabbing his trousers from the floor. "Lemme just put these on—"

"Don't," Ixora snapped, but he ignored her, yanking them up, buckling the belt with deliberate slowness. "I ain't walkin' around buck-ass naked."

Her hands shook, the gun wavering slightly as she aimed. "Call Olude. Now."

Tunde sank onto the sagging sofa, smirking faintly. "After I get my shoes on." He laced them up, unhurried. "I shouldn't have flashed that shotgun to the hooker. And left it lyin' around like an idiot."

The girl on the bed stirred then, eyes widening at the scene. Ixora swung the barrel toward her. "Don’t make a sound. Face down on the floor—now."

The girl complied instantly, trembling against the cold tiles. In that split-second distraction, Tunde lunged. Ixora whipped the gun back, finger squeezing reflexively. The blast roared, a deafening crack that lit the room in muzzle flash, sulphurous gunpowder stinging the air. Tunde's shocked expression froze as the force hurled him back onto the sofa, blood blooming across his chest.

The girl screamed, piercing and raw. Ixora stared, frozen in horror, the shotgun's weight suddenly unbearable in her hands. Neighbors' lights flickered on outside. She bolted from the room, its key dangling in the keyhole outside of the door, her heart thundering. She hurtled down the stairs in a panic, dashing outside into the compound, and ran to the fence, tossing the gun over it—its broken-glass ridges muffled by the thick tarpaulin she'd pulled from a nearby makeshift shop's roof. She scrambled over, fabric tearing slightly under her grip, and hit the empty street running, the shotgun clutched tight, footsteps echoing into the predawn silence.

Lazy Directions

With only two days left before his leave expired and he returned to the drudgery of filing reports, Ibrahim found himself drawn back to the morgue like a moth to a flickering flame. The underground air was dense with the sterile chill of formaldehyde and regret, a place where the living came to confront the finality of loss. He approached the attendant, a gaunt man with eyes shadowed by too many nights among the dead, and inquired if Ixora had visited.

The attendant shook his head, flipping through a worn ledger. "No, I haven’t seen her. The body—your Jane Doe, Mimosa—was claimed by the DBC church earlier. Apparently, she attended services there. They took her for burial this morning. It’s kinda standard procedure for unclaimed remains."

Ibrahim's jaw tightened, a subtle flicker of frustration crossing his otherwise stoic face. Mimosa, gone without a trace of closure for her sister. He nodded curtly, thanked the man, and stepped back into the humid daylight, the city's cacophony rushing in like an unwelcome tide. Something gnawed at him—the loose threads of the case, the unanswered questions. He decided to revisit La Pots, this time shedding any pretense. As an official police officer, badge in hand, he pushed through the bar's heavy doors, the stale scent of spilled beer and cigarette smoke enveloping him like an old, unwelcome acquaintance.

The security guard on shift—a burly man with a perpetual scowl carved deep into his features—watched Ibrahim approach from behind a cluttered desk. His eyes followed every step, wary and unwelcoming.

Ibrahim flashed his badge. “Where is the manager’s office?”

The guard didn’t speak. He simply lifted a hand and pointed toward an iron door at the far end of the bar.

Ibrahim quickened his pace, weaving past tables. Half-interested patrons and staffs glanced up, sparing a moment from their drinks and activities, to see if they could ascertain what was happening, or if some type of action was about to occurred. Their attention trailed him all the way to the iron door.

Ibrahim knocked at the door, then raised his eyes to the small camera fixed high on the wall. Its red light blinked steadily back at him, watching. A moment later, the door unlatched. A man in a suit, expression unreadable, stepped aside and ushered him in.

The office had no windows, only the stale scent of old smoke trapped in the walls. A computer sat on a table pushed to one side, an ashtray beside it overflowing with smoked-out cigarette butts. Boxes of files and scattered gadgets filled the rest of the cramped room, giving it the look of a space constantly used but never truly tended to.

Ibrahim wasted no time. “I need the footages from today back to last week Friday.”, he said firmly.

The manager plucked a cigarette from the ashtray, lit it with practiced ease, and took a long, steady drag. Smoke curled around him as he eased into his chair, his eyes flicking to Ibrahim with a mixture of caution and inconveniences.

"Footage from five days ago?”, he exhaled slowly, and with a faint shrug answered his own rhetoric, “We erase it every weekend, officer. Limited storage—can't keep everything forever."

Ibrahim leaned in, his voice firm but measured, the weight of authority in his tone. "I need whatever you have from the past few days. This is official business."

The manager crossed his arms. "Sure, but you'll need to buy your own storage if you want copies. We don't hand out originals."

Undeterred, Ibrahim headed out to a nearby electronics stall, the bustling street market alive with vendors hawking wares under tattered awnings. He purchased three blank CDs, their shiny surfaces reflecting the chaotic energy around him. Back at La Pots, they burned the files onto the discs, the hum of the outdated computer punctuating the tense silence. Ibrahim slipped the CDs into his bag, a small victory in a sea of setbacks.

Meanwhile, several junctions away, under the relentless midday sun that baked the cracked asphalt, Patrol Officer Saerah arrived at the scene of Tunde's death. The room was consumed with the nauseating stench of stale blood, and the murmurs of curious neighbors clustered like shadows outside the room. Eight hours had passed since the incident, and Tunde's body had already been carted off to a mortuary, leaving behind a blood outline and a palpable sense of unfinished business.

Saerah, her uniform crisp but her expression etched with the weariness of a rookie thrust into the fray, questioned the girl who'd been with Tunde—a wide-eyed young woman still trembling in the company of the gathered crowd, draped in a wrapper she had used to preserve her modesty after the incident. "Tell me what you saw," Saerah urged, notebook in hand, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach.

The girl swallowed hard, glancing nervously at the onlookers, before stuttering a response. "It was a woman... in a hijab. She… wore a blouse…. with jeans trousers, and had a ring on her finger—I think."

Saerah nodded, jotting notes quickly. "What about earlier, at the party? Did anyone have a disagreement with Tunde? Any arguments or tension?"

The woman shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "No. He was the celebrant of the party. Everyone was having fun."

Saerah leaned in slightly, her tone gentle but probing. "And when you two got back here—did he mention anything strange? Like a door or window he thought he'd closed being open?"

The woman thought for a bit, gripping the wrapper tighter to her chest, her knuckles whitening. "He showed his gun to me, but he was just playing around with it. We were pretty drunk from the party, so we just went straight to bed."

Saerah's eyes widened, her pen pausing mid-stroke. "A gun? Where is it now?"

The girl shivered, her gaze distant, lost in the haze of recollection, her voice cracking with trauma. "She was holding it when I woke up—pointed right at Tunde. I screamed when it went off."

Before Saerah could press further, a group of rough-looking men—Tunde's cult members, their tattoos peeking from beneath rolled-up sleeves—pushed through the crowd. They exchanged low words with the girl, who nodded meekly and followed them away. Saerah stepped forward, her hand instinctively reaching for her radio. "Hey, wait! She's a witness—I need to—"

But they ignored her, vanishing into the throng. Saerah's protests died on her lips; she was alone, without backup, the weight of her isolation pressing down like the humid air. She clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior.

Soon after, Detective John Amoral rolled up in his battered squad car, his arrival announced by the crunch of gravel under tires. He met Paul, the cult's leader—a wiry man with a predatory gleam in his eyes and a chain of gold dangling from his neck—at the compound's gate. Paul leaned in close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper laced with menace. "We know who did this. Don't worry your head, detective. We'll handle it our way. Personally."

John nodded slowly, his face betraying nothing but a faint smirk, as if such arrangements were as routine as morning coffee.

From a nearby balcony, Saerah watched the exchange, her vantage point offering a clear view of Paul slipping a wad of cash notes into John's hands. The bills crinkled softly, followed by a quick conversation between them, too far to hear, the sound lost to the street noise but etched in her mind.

John then made his way into the compound, and sauntered upstairs toward the crime scene room, Saerah reenter the dim hallway, from the balcony, her boots echoing on the concrete, and confronted him.

"Do you make a habit of collecting cash from people while on duty?" she asked, her tone sharp, eyes narrowing with a mix of accusation and curiosity.

John chuckled, unfazed, his breath carrying the faint scent of cheap liquor. "Mind your own business, kid”. He peeled off a few notes from the bundle Paul had given him and thrust them at her, “Now, be a good patrol officer and fetch me an energy drink from the corner store. Get one for yourself too—Keep the change."

Saerah hesitated, her cheeks flushing with indignation, but she took the money and turned away, the bills feeling dirty in her hand.

As Saerah moved past him to go buy the drink, her gaze fixed on the floor, John slid into her path with a sly grin, leaning down to catch her eyes beneath her lowered head.

"You can do that later." he said, stepping back, his eyes drifting past her, nodding toward the door of the room where Tunde had met his end. "So, who do you think did it?" His voice shifting the conversation with calculated ease.

Saerah lifted her head, meeting his stare—a faint relief easing the tension in her expressions—before glancing toward the door. "Well it currently seems like some gang violence." She pivoted fully to face it, her stance settling into professional detachment. "According to the only witness, a woman in a hijab did it, so maybe it could be some religious incentive."

"Rookie," John drawled pompously, drawing her gaze back at him with the single word. "I already know who did it."

He fished a cigarette pack from his breast pocket and a lighter from his trousers, tapping out a stick and igniting it with a flourish. He drew in a long puff—only to choke abruptly on the smoke, doubling over as smoke billowed from his mouth in a ragged fit of coughs that echoed off the walls.

Saerah watched him from under her brows, her face impassive as he hacked and wheezed until he finally straightened, red-faced and gasping. "You said you know who did it?" she asked flatly, her disappointment etched in her steady stare, brushing past the spectacle without a word.

John cleared his throat. "Ahem—Yes." He flicked ash from the cigarette, muttering, "God damn unventilated spaces—as I was saying, the runaway killer is a girl named Ixora."

Saerah pulled out her notebook, her focus sharpening as she listened. "How do you know?"

"The girl believes Tunde had something to do with the disappearance of her sister, and killed him as an act of revenge.", he replied.

Saerah scribbled quickly in her notes, but John waved it off casually, dismissing the effort. "There is no need for that. Go back to and grab the file on that missing sister case. I will need her address. If you hit a snag, ask for an Officer Ibrahim, the registrar. He'll sort you out."

Back at the station's registry, a dimly lit basement room cluttered with towering shelves of yellowed files and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, Ibrahim hunched over his office computer. The screen flickered with grainy security footage from the CDs, shadows dancing across his focused face. He paused the video intermittently, jotting notes, the weight of unresolved justice pressing on him like the low ceiling above.

Overhearing Saerah's voice from across the room—describing Ixora's suspected crime to a colleague in hushed, urgent tones—sent a jolt through him. Woman in a hijab, gold ring, shotgun blast, sounds like vigilante work, her words slicing through the air.

Shock rippled across Ibrahim's features, but he masked it, feigning absorption in his screen as he watched a co-worker rummage fruitlessly through the shelves. It clicked instantly: the file she sought was the one he'd taken to file for John, still tucked away in his bag.

Slipping into a shadowed corner of the office, away from prying eyes, he dialed Ixora's number. The line rang endlessly, unanswered, heightening the knot of unease in his gut.

Just then, Saerah's voice cut through from behind, startling him like a cat. "Excuse me—are you Officer Ibrahim?"

He turned, composing himself with a nod. "That's me."

She sized him up, her posture straight but her eyes betraying a hint of skepticism. "Detective John Amoral sent me. He needs a copy of the case file he filed recently—something about a missing girl."

Ibrahim leaned against the wall, his mind racing. "Alright. I am an assisting officer on that case, do you mind filling me in on any new developments?"

Saerah scoffed, a short, incredulous laugh escaping her. "Aren't you just the file registrar?"

He met her gaze steadily, a subtle resolve in his voice. "I am. But I'm assisting, and I need to stay updated."

Her brow furrowed, but she pulled out her phone and dialed John. After a brief, murmured conversation, she hung up and turned back to him, a spark of excitement lighting her features.

"He says we're handling this together now." She paused, her enthusiasm bubbling over. "This'll be my first major case. Have you worked on anything this big before?"

Ibrahim handed her the file from his bag, his expression unreadable but his mind already piecing together the puzzle. "Yeah. A few."

As she caught him up on the investigation—the hijab-clad suspect, the shotgun, the cult's involvement—he listened intently, the pieces aligning in his thoughts. "If Ixora really killed Tunde," he said finally, "she wouldn't be lounging at home. I have a hunch where she might be." He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with purposeful energy. "You coming?"

Saerah nodded, flipping through the file as she followed him out, her steps a bit unsteady in her haste, the registry's stale air giving way to the promise of action outside.

Queen To Pawn

The air in the cramped bungalow was heavy with the sense of fear and the faint acrid bite of sweat-soaked linens. At twelve, Ixora had learned to navigate the shadows of her husband's wrath like a ghost in her own home—tiptoeing through the dim corridors where sunlight barely pierced the grimy curtains, her small frame bruised in places hidden by her worn wrappers. The husband, ruled with fists that fell like thunderclaps, his mistreatment a ritual as predictable as the evening call to prayer echoing from the distant mosque. He beat her for spills in the kitchen, for whispers deemed too loud, for the mere audacity of her existence. And Ochu, the senior wife, bore it all alongside her, her eyes dulled to a resigned glimmer, her skin marked with fading welts that spoke of shared suffering.

One sweltering afternoon, as Ixora scrubbed the uneven tile floor on her knees—the rough grains biting into her skin like tiny accusations—her husband burst through the door, his work boots thudding against the threshold. "Pack your things," he barked, his voice a gravelly rumble that made her flinch. "Your sister's getting married this coming Wednesday. We're expected." Glory—sweet, innocent Glory, only ten, with her gap-toothed smile and dreams of stars. The words ignited something fierce in Ixora's chest, a spark that bloomed into a blaze. No, she thought, her hands trembling on the rag. Not her. Not this life for her.

That night, under the flickering bulb in their shared bedroom, Ixora confided in Ochu as they lay on the thin mattress, the humid air filled with the scent of mosquito coils burning in the corner. "We have to run," Ixora whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of generators. "I'll take Glory with me. Away from all this—from him." Ochu turned to her, her face half-shadowed, eyes wide with a mix of pity and alarm. "Ixora, no. It's too dangerous. We have no place to go... we'd starve." But then, as if fate conspired against escape, Ochu placed a hand on Ixora's belly, her touch gentle yet insistent. "And besides," she murmured, "you're with child. Running now? It would kill you both."

Wednesday came, and the wedding unfolded in a whirlwind of festivity, the air alive with the rhythmic thump of drums and the sharp, spicy aroma of jollof rice simmering in massive pots. Laughter rang out from the gathered crowd under colorful canopies strung across the dusty compound of her previous home, but to Ixora, it all felt like a mocking echo. Glory, dressed in a vibrant Ankara gown that swallowed her tiny frame, beamed with a child's naive excitement. Ixora pulled her aside during a lull, behind a cluster of mango trees where the leaves rustled like whispered secrets in the breeze.

"Glory, listen to me," Ixora urged, her voice low and urgent, gripping her sister's small hands—hands still soft, unscarred by labor or blows. The earthy scent of ripening fruit clung to the air, mingling with the distant sizzle of frying meat. "You can't do this. Come with me. We'll run away, find somewhere safe. Away from... from everything like home."

Glory's eyes, wide and innocent, flickered with confusion, then defiance. She pulled back slightly, her braids swaying like pendulums. "But I want to, Ixora. He's nice—a boy my age, not like... not like yours." Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the words themselves were forbidden. "And we won't survive out there. No food, no roof. At home with Mama and Papa... it's getting worse. Fights every night. This way, I'll have my own place. Please, let me."

Desperation clawed at Ixora's throat, hot and unrelenting. "No, you don't understand—" She grabbed Glory's arm, fingers digging in harder than intended, the fabric of her gown crinkling under the pressure. Glory yelped softly, twisting free with a stubborn yank. "Stop! You're hurting me." Later, as the ceremonies droned on, Glory confided in her young groom-to-be, who in turn whispered to his parents. Word spread like wildfire through the crowd, reaching the ears of Ixora’s husband amid the clinking of gift trays and celebratory chants.

Fury etched deep lines into the husband's face as he dragged Ixora away from the festivities, his grip like iron clamps on her wrist, bruising the skin beneath. They slipped into a dim side room of the host's house, the air stale with dust and forgotten storage crates. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the outside revelry to a distant murmur. "You ungrateful little wretch," he snarled, his breath hot and sour against her face, raising his hand like a storm cloud ready to strike.

Before the blow could land fully, Ochu burst in, her wrapper disheveled from haste, eyes pleading. "Stop! Please—she's pregnant!" The words hung in the air like a fragile shield, halting the husband's arm mid-swing. He paused, chest heaving, his dark eyes narrowing in calculation. The reminder cooled his rage just enough—not to mercy, but to restraint. Instead of the barrage of fists, he delivered a single, searing slap across Ixora's cheek, the impact ringing like a whipcrack, leaving her ear buzzing and her skin blooming with heat. "Cover it up," he ordered Ochu coldly, his voice laced with contempt. "Makeup. Now. We can't have her ruining the day."

They returned home that evening as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges that mirrored Ixora's swelling cheek. The anger, however, simmered on, uncooled by the journey. The husband turned his wrath on Ochu that night, claiming her ‘failure’ as senior wife to instill proper behavior in Ixora had shamed them all. "You should have trained her better," he growled, his belt whistling through the air before cracking against Ochu's back in the dim glow of the living room bulb. Ixora watched from the doorway, helpless, the sharp snaps echoing in her ears like accusations, each strike a reminder of the cycle that bound them tighter with every passing day.

A Shape Of Duty

The midday sun shined over the quiet residential street, casting sharp shadows that danced across cracked pavement and faded walls. Ibrahim rapped his knuckles against Olude’s weathered door, the sound echoing flatly in the humid air. No response. He exchanged a glance with Saerah, her uniform crisp but her expression tight with unease. Leaning toward the grimy window beside the door, Ibrahim cupped his hands to peer inside. The room beyond was dim, cluttered with textbooks and empty bottles, but his eyes locked on the slumped figure in the center: Olude, bound to a wooden chair, his face bruised and swollen, head lolling unnaturally.

“Shit,” Ibrahim muttered, his breath fogging the glass. “Saerah, call an ambulance—now.” He didn’t wait for her nod, gripping the doorknob and yanking hard. The frame groaned in protest, wood splintering faintly as he threw his shoulder against it, muscles straining until the lock buckled with a sharp crack. The door swung inward, slamming against the wall and stirring a faint cloud of dust that hung in the stale, musty air of the apartment.

Ibrahim burst inside, his boots thudding on the threadbare rug. Saerah followed close behind, phone already pressed to her ear. Together, they knelt by Olude, fingers fumbling at the rough ropes biting into his wrists. A low moan escaped the young man’s split lips, his eyelids fluttering weakly. But before they could loosen the knots, a figure emerged from the shadowed kitchen doorway—Ixora, her eyes wild and rimmed with exhaustion, a shotgun clutched in trembling hands, its barrel gleaming dully under the faint light filtering through the curtains.

“Don’t untie him,” she warned, her voice a low, ragged growl that cut through the room like a blade.

Saerah’s eyes widened, her phone clattering to the floor as she scrambled backward. “Gun!” she yelped, panic spiking her tone. She bolted for the door, her footsteps pounding a frantic retreat into the sunlight outside.

Ibrahim dove behind the sagging sofa, heart hammering against his ribs, the faint scent of old sweat rising from the fabric. “Ixora,” he called out, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through him. “Put the gun down. We can still fix this—whatever’s happening here.”

Silence stretched, thick and tense, broken only by Olude’s shallow breaths and the distant hum of traffic. Then, the metallic click of the shotgun shifting echoed. Ixora pressed the barrel against Olude’s temple, eliciting a whimper from the bound man. “Come out, Ibrahim,” she said, her words laced with a brittle edge. “Or I blow his head off.”

Through the reflection in the nearby window—distorted by smudges and the glare of daylight—they locked eyes, her gaze fierce, unyielding. Ibrahim exhaled a defeated sigh, the air heavy in his lungs. Slowly, he peeked over the sofa’s edge, then rose fully, hands raised, palms open in surrender.

She swung the shotgun toward him, the motion fluid but her grip unsteady. “What the hell have you been up to, Ixora?” he asked, his tone a mix of concern and quiet accusation, eyes flicking to the bruises blooming on her knuckles.

Her stare was blank, deadly—a void that swallowed the light in the room. “Shut up,” she snapped, the words cracking like thunder. “I’m asking the questions now. Tell me everything you’ve hidden from me about Mimosa’s case. About Tunde. If you lie... I’ll know. And I’d hate for you to end up like him.”

Ibrahim nodded slowly, his voice calm, measured. “What do you want to know. I’ll tell you the truth.”

“What’s the real story behind Mimosa’s death?” Her voice trembled on the last word, grief twisting her features.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, the honesty raw in his throat. “We’re still piecing it together.”

She let out a bitter laugh, the shotgun dipping slightly before steadying. “The police are useless. Dragging your feet, always one step behind, never solving a damn thing until it’s shelved as a cold case. And now Mimosa’s gone. Just... gone.”

He took a cautious step forward, the rug padding under his weight. “I know you’re a good person, Ixora. Deep down. I’m on your side here. Put the gun away—we’re not achieving anything like this.”

“Don’t come any closer,” she hissed, her finger hovering near the trigger. “My reflex right now? It’s to burn everything to the ground. One more step, and… I will shoot.”

He froze, reading the desperation in her eyes—the way her shoulders tensed, breath coming in shallow bursts. She wasn’t bluffing; the air crackled with it.

“I found out Olude knows Tunde,” she continued, her voice rising. “He sold him Mimosa’s ring. Why’d you lie to me at the station?”

“I couldn’t say anything,” Ibrahim replied evenly. “It was an ongoing investigation. Protocol.”

She scoffed, a harsh sound that echoed off the walls. “Protocol? I was just a tool for your justice, then. Disposable.”

From the chair, Olude stirred, his voice a weak plea cutting through the tension. “I... I swear, I had nothing to do with Mimosa’s death. Please, don’t kill me.”

Ixora’s face twisted in rage, and she swung the barrel, cracking it against his jaw with a sickening thud. “Say that again,” she dared, her breath hot and furious.

“Don’t!” Ibrahim shouted, stepping instinctively closer.

She whipped the gun back to him. “Leave. Like your partner did. I already know what I need.”

He shook his head. “She’s probably calling backup right now. When they get here, they won’t hesitate—they’ll gun you down unless you drop the gun.”

Her eyes narrowed, glistening with unshed tears. “Do you know what it’s like to lose everything you lived for? Your heart? I don’t care if today’s my last. But I’m taking the scum who stole my love with me.”

Ibrahim’s demeanor softened, his hands lowering as empathy flooded his features. He met her gaze, vulnerability cracking his resolve. “I understand. More than you know. I joined the force to make a difference—only to realize it was part of the problem. I lost the last family I had because I was too focused on changing things, instead of being there for the ones who needed me. I’ll live with that regret forever.”

She looked at him then, a flicker of shared pain bridging the gap, her grip on the shotgun loosening just a fraction.

He held her eyes, his voice steady but laced with quiet sorrow. “This world took our loved ones. But even in desolation, I fight for the world they’d have wanted—not the one that stole them. I cling to those memories of happiness, of hope. I can’t accept they’re gone forever. I won’t give that up.” He paused, the words hanging heavy. “If you make today your last... who’ll remember Mimosa?”

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as her shoulders sagged. “I should’ve told her she mattered. Been there more. I let her make her own choices, live her own life. I thought we’d escaped our worst nightmare... but we never did. I was so caught up in surviving, I forgot how to live. And now she’s gone—murdered, raped.” Her voice broke, the shotgun wavering as she pointed it vaguely at Olude. “It’d be easier to blame the world. But it’s people. People like this piece of shit, preying on the weak, propped up by a system that breeds them. I’ll make them pay.” She straightened, resolve hardening. “Leave, Ibrahim. No one will question it. Or would you fight for the very thing you’re trying to change? Try to stop me, and I will shoot you, then him, then myself. Your call, three dead, or two.”

They stared at each other, time stretching into an eternity, as if words unspoken flowed between them in the dim light. Olude began to sob, thrashing weakly in his bonds as Ibrahim turned away. “Please... save me!”

Ibrahim reached the door, pausing to stare at his open palm, a distant memory flickering in his eyes—a ghost. He clenched it into a fist. Still facing the threshold, he spoke softly. “You could die here today. Join your sister. Send Olude to hell. But know this, Mimosa won’t get justice. Her true killer’s still out there.”

“What do you mean?” Ixora’s voice cracked. “Did Tunde survive?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he said, turning back. “Especially since Tunde didn’t kill her. I went back to the bar, reviewed the footage. Saw a man spiking drinks—girls’, specifically Mimosa’s, the day she went missing. Officers were dispatched to grab him, but I haven’t gotten an update. I got caught up tracking you here instead. I didn’t tell you... didn’t know how you’d react.”

“You’re lying!” she screamed, panic rising like a storm. “You just want me to spare him!”

He took a step forward, unwavering. “It’s the truth. His name’s Nonso. A carpenter in Uzoalaye.”

Shock rippled across her face, her breaths coming in heaving gasps, words catching in her throat.

“You could end it here,” Ibrahim continued gently. “But would you be content, knowing this? Drop the gun, surrender. I can’t promise it’ll be okay—it’s not. But I swear, I’ll do everything to bring her killer to justice.”

In a daze, she leveled the shotgun at him, tears carving paths down her cheeks. “How could you! Why be so cruel? I know you’re lying.”

“I can’t let you die,” he murmured. “And I’m telling the truth.”

A pause, charged with finality. Then he approached, slow and deliberate, standing before her. Gently, he pried the shotgun from her fingers. She muttered, voice hollow, “I killed Tunde... thinking he did it.” tremors shook her frame. He pulled her into a hug, but she shoved him away. “No.” She staggered past him, collapsing onto the couch in a bewildered trance, staring at nothing.

From the doorway, Saerah peeked in cautiously, taking in the scene—Ibrahim untying a grateful Olude, who murmured fervent thanks. She stepped fully inside. “What... what happened?”

“Ixora surrendered,” Ibrahim said quietly. “No hostility, Saerah.”

She peered over the couch at Ixora’s stunned form. “Backup’s en route.”

“We won’t wait.”, he stated sharply, as he freed the last knot, Olude exclaiming, “Thank God.”

Ibrahim nodded. “I’ll take her to the station. You get Olude to a hospital, then meet us back at the station.”

Saerah agreed, edging past the sofa to help Olude stand, supporting his weight as they shuffled out.

Ibrahim approached Ixora, her gaze distant, lost in shadows. He glanced at his palm once more, sadness etching his features, then extended his hand to her. “I’m sorry.”

Die To Live Another Day

The dim glow of a kerosene lamp flickered across the bedroom walls, casting long shadows that danced like uneasy spirits. Six months pregnant, Ixora rocked gently in the old wooden chair, its creaks a rhythmic undertone to the soft lullaby spilling from her lips. Her voice, low and tender, wove through the humid air, a fragile melody meant to soothe the life stirring within her swollen belly. One hand rested protectively on the curve of her abdomen, feeling the faint kicks like whispers from another world. Ochu knelt at her feet on the cool cement floor, her callused hands working oil into Ixora's swollen ankles with careful, circular strokes. The scent of eucalyptus mingled with the faint mustiness of the room, a momentary oasis of calm in their shared silence.

Outside, the front door rattled like a warning shot. Their husband staggered in, the sharp click of the latch sealing him inside—and them with him. His face was a storm cloud, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to slits. In the world beyond these walls, among friends and strangers, he wore humility like a well-tailored coat, his smiles disarming, his words laced with false charm. But here, the facade crumbled the instant the door shut, revealing the raw fury that simmered beneath.

"Ochu!" His bellow cut through the house like a whipcrack.

Ochu froze, her hands pausing mid-motion. She rose swiftly, smoothing her worn wrapper, and hurried into the living room. "Welcome home," she murmured, reaching for his battered suitcase with trembling fingers.

"Leave it." His voice was ice, laced with venom. "Go and kneel down there.” pointing to the middle of the room.

Dread pooled in Ochu's eyes, wide and glistening, as she obeyed. Her knees met the hard floor with a dull thud, the impact vibrating up her spine. What had she done this time? Her mind raced through the day's mundane tasks—the market run, the chores—searching for some imagined offense. She watched, breath shallow, as he unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather whispering against the loops like a serpent uncoiling.

From the bedroom doorway, Ixora peeked through the thin curtain, her heart pounding in her ears. She clutched the fabric to her face, hiding all but her terrified eyes, too frozen to intervene, too aware of the fragile life she carried.

"Do you know a boy named Teddy?" His question accusatory.

Ochu's voice stuttered, barely above a whisper. "H-he's the son of the teacher that lives down the street."

He stepped closer, towering over her. "I heard a rumor. You've been seeing him in secret. Is it true?"

From her hiding spot, Ixora's breath caught, her fingers tightening on the curtain until her knuckles whitened.

Ochu shook her head frantically. "No, no—he just helps me carry things from the market sometimes. That's all."

The belt lashed out without warning, cracking across Ochu's back with a sound like breaking bone. She screamed, a raw, piercing wail that echoed off the walls, her body convulsing as she crumpled forward, writhing on the floor. The sting burned like fire, a red welt blooming instantly beneath her thin blouse.

He turned away as if nothing had happened, his footsteps measured and calm as he headed toward the balcony door. The knob turned with a squeak, and he stepped into the cooling evening air, closing it behind him with a soft click. For a moment, he stood there, inhaling deeply, the distant hum of neighborhood voices filtering in like a mocking reminder of normalcy. Then, he set the belt aside and walked further down the balcony, stopping in front of the generator at the far end, he bent grabbing it, its metal frame cold under his grip. He yanked the starter rope—once, twice, three times—grunting with effort until the engine coughed to life, sputtering oily exhaust into the twilight.

Straightening, he reached up to the wall switch, flipping it with a decisive snap. Inside, the house bulbs flared to yellow life, harsh and unforgiving, banishing the shadows but illuminating the horror to come.

Belt in hand once more, he reentered the living room, his eyes locking onto Ochu, who sat huddled on the floor, sobs wracking her frame. Ixora knelt beside her now, murmuring futile comforts, her own tears silent. He strode past them without a glance, stopping before the television. His finger jabbed the power button, the screen flickering to life with a low hum. He snatched the remote, channel-surfing until a movie blared—explosions and shouts filling the room. Cranking the volume to its peak, the noise became a deafening wall, drowning out everything else.

He pivoted toward Ochu, his eyes widening with manic intensity, veins bulging in his neck. "I will kill you today."

Ixora's scalp burned as he yanked her away from Ochu, by her hair, strands tearing free in his fist. She struggled, gasping, but this was no new terror—his rage, his threats, his violence were etched into her bones, a nightmare she could never fully escape. Ochu lunged forward, clutching at his wrists. "Please—let her go!"

He released Ixora with a shove, turning his fury on Ochu. His open palm cracked across her face, splitting her lip in a spray of blood that tasted metallic on her tongue. She reeled, dazed, collapsing to the floor. Instinctively, she raised her arms—a futile shield—as the belt descended in a relentless storm. Each lash whistled through the air before landing with a sickening smack, striping her fingers, cheeks, thighs, and torso in angry red welts. Her cries tore from her throat, raw and desperate, but the blaring television swallowed them whole.

Ixora clawed at his legs, trying to drag him away, her nails digging into fabric and flesh.

He didn't relent, each strike punctuated by snarled accusations: "You were alone with a boy—so you're cheating on me, you whore!"

"He was just teaching me history!" Ochu wailed, her voice breaking amid the pain.

"So it's true! You'll learn properly today!"

A flicker of discomfort halted him mid-swing—he glanced down to find Ixora's teeth sunk into his calf. With a roar, he backhanded her to the floor, then turned his wrath fully on her. The belt rained down without mercy, his swings fueled by pure hatred, eyes blazing. Ixora's screams pierced the chaos, the pain a white-hot blaze across her skin that drowned out even the TV's roar.

Then—SMASH. Glass shattered against his skull, beer foaming down his back in rivulets mixed with blood. He stumbled away from the now-limp Ixora, clutching his head, and whirled to face Ochu, who stood trembling, shards glinting in her hand.

"You are going to kill her—and the baby!" she screamed.

Before she could finish, he charged, his fist connecting with her jaw in a brutal punch. "Are you mad? How dare you lay a hand on me!"

Ochu crumpled, and he dropped to his knees over her, hands clamping around her throat like iron vices. He squeezed with feral strength, teeth gritted, face twisted in rage.

She thrashed beneath him, nails scraping uselessly at his arms, legs kicking in vain. The broken bottle lay just out of reach; her fingers stretched desperately, brushing air. Her wide eyes locked on his snarling face, tears streaming sideways into her hair, breath a strangled rasp that faded to nothing. As darkness crept in, she refused to let his face be the last image she sees. With her final strength, she turned her head—past the unreachable bottle, to Ixora lying still in the distance, her features serene despite the bloodied lip, as beautiful as the day they'd met.

Ixora’s eyes stirred open, in the sterile chill of the hospital room, the beep of monitors a distant hum. A nurse hovered over her IV drip, adjusting the flow with efficient clicks. Ixora tried to speak, but her throat burned, raw from bruises that ringed her neck like a cruel necklace.

"Easy now," the nurse soothed, her voice gentle. "Stay calm. I'll fetch the doctor."

Soon, the doctor entered with the nurse in tow, his white coat crisp against the fluorescent lights. "You were in a motor vehicle accident with your husband," he explained, his tone clinical yet kind. "You're both fortunate—no permanent damage. But the other wife... she didn't make it."

Ixora listened in silence, tears welling unbidden. "He killed her," she whispered, the words scraping like gravel in her throat.

The doctor leaned in. "Pardon? What did you say?"

"He killed her." Louder now, edged with desperation.

"Are you alright? You might still be concussed." He drew a penlight from his pocket, aiming it at her eyes.

She swatted it away, the motion igniting fresh pain. "He killed her! He killed her!" Her voice cracked, hoarse and frantic, as she thrashed against the sheets. The doctor pinned her shoulders gently but firmly, calling over his shoulder: "Nurse—sedative, now!"

The compound sprawled under a heavy, overcast sky, its earthen walls cracked and weathered, enclosing a yard dotted with sparse, thorny shrubs and a single, ancient weeping willow at its center. The tree's deep black leaves rustled in the fitful wind, swaying like mournful dancers, their shadows flickering across the uneven ground. Distant murmurs of conversation drifted from the main house, where Glory's parents sat in a dimly lit room, their voices rising and falling in idle chatter amid the clink of teacups. The husband's family members milled about nearby, exchanging half-hearted greetings with strangers Ixora barely recognized—faces glimpsed in passing over the years, now gathered in obligatory clusters. Ochu had no such kin; she had been a maid from some forgotten village, given as a child to a family close to the husband's family, raised in servitude until they married her off like chattel, to the husband.

Ixora sat motionless in her wheelchair amid the gathering, her gaze fixed on nothing—a vacant stare into an endless hollow. Her face remained slack, lips parted slightly but silent, as if words had abandoned her since the incident. An IV drip hung crudely from a rusted rod bolted to the chair's arm, its tube snaking down to her vein, delivering a slow drip that echoed. Her belly was even more protruded, a sign of the nearing arrival of her child. Glory stood behind her, small hands gripping the handles, poised to push whenever needed, her young face etched with unspoken worry. As the murmurs swelled around them, Glory leaned close, her voice a tentative whisper. "Sister, do you want to see her one last time?" Ixora offered no response, her apathetic gaze drifting past Glory like a shadow. Glory hesitated, then straightened with a quiet resolve, guiding the wheelchair away from the clustered relatives and through a narrow doorway into a small, stuffy side room heavy with the scent of incense and wilting flowers.

Strangers' hands moved over Ochu's body on the low wooden table, wrapping it in crisp white linen with deliberate, almost ritualistic care—each fold precise, a final tenderness for a life that had known so little. The fabric whispered as they shifted her gently side to side, shrouding her limbs one by one. Ochu's features held an unnatural tranquillity, her skin pale and smooth under the dim light filtering through a cracked window, drawing Ixora's eyes like a magnet. The hypnotic rhythm of the wrapping lulled her; her eyelids grew heavy, fluttering closed as sleep claimed her. In her dream, Ochu twirled in a sunlit meadow, her white gown flowing like liquid silk, arms outstretched in joyous freedom, a smile breaking across her face that Ixora had rarely seen in life.

She stirred awake to the low, resonant chants of prayers, their harmonious rise and fall vibrating through her chest, mirroring the dull ache in her heart. The gathering had shifted outside, clustered beneath the weeping willow's drooping branches, where the black leaves shivered in the breeze, casting shifting patterns on the mourners' somber faces. An Imam stepped forward, his voice steady and reverent as he spoke of a life well-lived in devotion to God, his words carried on the wind like fragile leaves. Bowls of kola nuts and garden eggs passed hand to hand among the attendees, their bitter crunch and subtle sweetness shared in quiet ritual, pushing the day forward. Finally, Ochu's shrouded form emerged from the house on a stretcher, carried by silent bearers and placed on a woven mat beside the freshly dug grave, the earth around it raw and upturned, waiting.

Glory remained at Ixora's side, a respectful distance from the tree, her hands steady on the wheelchair. Their words were sparse; when Glory ventured a soft question—"Sister, is the wind too cold?"—Ixora met it with an apathetic gaze, her head lolling slightly like a weary child's, eyes half-lidded in perpetual exhaustion. A gentle nudge from Ixora's hand on the wheel prompted Glory to push, guiding them slowly across the uneven yard, the chair's wheels crunching over loose stones until they reached the grave's edge. As the bearers lowered Ochu into the dark pit with ropes that creaked under the weight, memories surged through Ixora unbidden: Ochu in the kitchen, stirring pots of sweet, fragrant stew while Ixora hovered nearby, spilling ingredients in playful chaos; Ochu's patient voice sounding out words from a book, her finger tracing letters as Ixora leaned close; the crinkle of paper as Ochu slipped market treats into Ixora's hands after errands, her eyes twinkling; nights spent huddled in Ochu's room during Ixora's pregnancy, tears flowing in shared whispers until dawn; and Ixora plucking wildflowers from the yard, pressing them into Ochu's callused palms mid-chore, eliciting a rare, surprised laugh. A single tear traced silently down Ixora's cheek as the undertakers hefted their shovels, the first clods of dirt thudding into the hole with finality. Ochu was gone forever.

Two months slipped by in the stifling confines of the house, its walls closing in like a cage, the air thick with the scents of cooking spices and dust. Now at the final stages of pregnancy, Ixora moved through her days, now rid of her daze and the wheelchair, her belly a constant weight as she swept the cracked tile floors, stirred pots over the flickering stove, and folded laundry with deliberate folds—all skills etched into her from watching Ochu's steady hands. She rarely ventured beyond the door, save for the occasional trudge to the hospital, where the sterile halls and probing examinations blurred into routine checks for the child within. The husband had softened his edges since the incident, his scolds still shouted, but his slaps infrequent and almost absentminded; he claimed it was for the baby's sake, insisting on a healthy birth with a gruff nod.

Each day, once he left for work and the chores were done, Ixora drifted to Ochu's untouched room, its door creaking open to reveal faded curtains and a bed still made as Ochu had left it. She would ease onto the mattress, the springs sighing under her, and speak softly to the empty air—recounting the mundane rhythm of her morning, the twinges in her back, the fleeting kicks from the baby. Her voice would crack eventually, tears welling as she whispered, "I miss you so much," the words dissolving into quiet sobs that soaked the sheets.

One afternoon, the musty odor clinging to the fabric of Ochu’s bed grew too sharp, a reminder of accumulated grief. She resolved to change the bedding, tugging the sheet free and dragging it to the floor in a heap. With effort, she lifted the mattress, propping it against the wall, to be carried and aired on the narrow balcony, where sunlight slanted through the railing. Beneath, on the bare frame, laid a scatter of books—hidden volumes Ochu had claimed were gifts from a friend, their pages worn from secret readings where she taught Ixora letters and stories. Ixora recognized most: the familiar spines of tales about distant lands and quiet rebellions. But one caught her eye, tucked at the frame's inner edge. She stepped onto the slats, reaching out to grasp it—"There is a city: IQ" etched on its cover in faded gold.

As she opened it, an envelope slipped free, fluttering to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, turning it over to reveal the words "bad luck" scrawled across the back, the ink smudged with what looked like dried blood. Her fingers trembled as she unsealed it, revealing a stack of wrinkled bills, carefully straightened and pressed flat. She pulled them out, counting slowly: ten thousand Kote, in ten one-thousand notes. Peering deeper into the envelope, she spotted a small note wedged at the bottom. She fished it out, unfolding its crumpled edges with care; written on it:

My life is not my own,  

yet I am made to live it—  

like a fish swimming in the currents of an ocean.  

My body is not my own,  

yet I am made to give it—  

shackled to a destiny I did not write or agree to.  

My mind is docile,  

yet I reason with it—  

a bystander to my own suffering,  

clawing quietly in rage in some forgotten place,  

masked by a façade of survival instincts.

I sometimes ask myself; do I have a soul?  

If I did, it would be like that plant I once read about in some book—  

the one that folds its feathery leaves at the gentlest touch.  

A coward, perhaps—

if I could have one wish,  

it would be to bloom like its flowers,

that open like the quiet warmth of the sun. 

In that moment,  

I could be happy with a smile.  

But when the dawn comes,  

the cock crows—  

a subtle reminder of my bad luck in life.

The Interrogation Of Ixora, By Officer Sarah Topia; Detective John Amoral, Wednesday 15th-July-3991.

The interrogation room hummed with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, casting a sterile glow that sharpened every shadow on the scuffed cement floor. Ixora sat cuffed to the metal table, her wrists loose in the chains, her posture one of quiet resignation—as if the weight of the moment had settled into her bones without resistance. From behind the two-way mirror, Ibrahim watched her, his chest tightening with a pang of pity that he couldn't quite shake.

Saerah entered the room with measured steps, the door clicking shut behind her. She dropped the case file onto the table with a soft thud, then pulled out the chair opposite Ixora, its legs scraping against the floor. "I'm Saerah," she said, her voice formal, edged with authority as she met Ixora's gaze—though Ixora's eyes remained fixed on the table's worn surface, her expression distant, lost in some inner haze. "We met before."

Saerah paused, letting the words hang in the stale air before continuing. "I'm the officer in charge of the murder of Tunde Kunle—the man you killed in cold blood."

Ixora lifted her head slowly, her stare sharpening into something unyielding, almost piercing. "Where is he?"

"You mean Tunde? He's—"

"No." Ixora's interruption was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "I mean your partner. Ibrahim. He's here, isn't he?"

Saerah eased back into her chair, the vinyl creaking faintly under her weight. She flipped open the file between them, the pages rustling in the quiet room. "We're here to talk about the murder of Tunde," she replied evenly, sliding a photo from the stack—a grainy image captured on her phone, showing Tunde's lifeless form slumped on a sofa, his chest marred by a ragged hole, blood staining the fabric in dark blooms.

"In fact," Saerah went on, her tone steady but probing, "I just need a signed confession from you." She drew a pen from her breast pocket with a soft click and pulled another sheet from the file—an already drafted confession, the words typed in crisp black ink. "Seeing as we all know you did it." She placed the pen atop the paper with deliberate care. "I took the liberty of writing it for you. But if you'd rather do it yourself, let me know."

Ixora's eyes flicked to the photo, her features hardening into a subtle mask of resolve, the faint flicker of her jaw the only tell. Without turning her head, she shifted her gaze to the confession, then reached for it, the chains clinking softly as she scanned the single page. "I don't regret my actions," she said, her voice low and unwavering as she looked up at Saerah. She slid the paper back across the table, tapping a finger on one line with a quiet insistence. "It says here, 'I solely regret the vile, uncivilized action of murder.'" She leaned back in her chair, the metal frame groaning faintly. "I do not."

Saerah tilted her head, her expression turning inquisitive, a subtle furrow in her brow. "But you killed him—without real evidence that he was responsible for your sister's death." She leaned forward, sliding the paper back toward Ixora with a gentle push. "Even still, I'm trying to help your case look remorseful. To the judge who reads this in court."

Ixora glanced at her own reflection in the mirror, the glass cool and impassive, then tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling's faint cracks, her eyes rolling just a fraction in quiet exasperation. "I won't feel sorry for a monster," she sighed, the words carrying a weary edge. "I thought I did—in that moment when I believed he didn't kill Mimosa. But even so, he's not innocent. And I won't spare any sadness or regret for his death." She met Saerah's eyes then, her gaze steady and unflinching, a silent challenge hanging between them. "Even if he didn't kill Mimosa."

"Okay," Saerah said with a half-shrug, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "I guess no confession letter, then."

Ixora looked up again, her glance laced with boredom, a faint flicker of disinterest in her posture. "No. I'll sign it. Just remove any statement of remorse."

Saerah studied her for a beat, the room's hum filling the silence. "Okay. I'll make another version." She pushed back her chair, the scrape echoing softly as she rose. "It could take a while. Do you want any snacks?"

Ixora ignored the offer, her voice cutting in with a sharper edge. "Is Ibrahim going to keep avoiding me like a coward? He lied to me, manipulated me when I was vulnerable. But now he hides." She paused, her chains shifting with a faint rattle. "And just to confirm—there's no new suspect in Mimosa's case, right?"

Saerah shook her head. "No. There isn't."

Ixora let out a soft chuckle, her thoughts unspoken but swirling in the quiet curve of her lips.

The door swung open then, a faint draft stirring the air. Ibrahim stepped inside, hands tucked into his pockets, lingering by the threshold as Ixora's stare locked onto him, intense and unwavering. He nodded toward Saerah. "Excuse us. I'd like to be alone with her."

Saerah nodded without a word, slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her.

Ibrahim approached the table, his footsteps measured on the cold floor. He pulled in the chair with a low scrape, settling into it as their eyes met—his steady, hers probing. "I'm sorry, Ixora." he said, his voice low, laced with quiet regret.

She responded with a wry, one-sided smile, her head tilting just a fraction.

"I couldn't let you die there. I—"

"Don't apologize." Ixora shrugged, cutting him off with a casual lift of her shoulders, the chains clinking softly. "I knew it was a lie."

Ibrahim eased back slightly, the tension in his frame loosening. "So why did you put down the gun?" he asked, nodding faintly.

Ixora stretched as much as the cuffs allowed, her movements deliberate, her gaze locking onto his. "On the off chance it was true," she replied, her voice steady, carrying a raw undercurrent. "I wanted to see the killer. His face. Look him in the eyes... and if I got the chance, bite the vein out of his neck."

A brief silence settled between them, thick with unspoken weight. Then Ixora broke it. "I guess you can finally file her as a cold case. As was originally intended."

"That won't happen," Ibrahim protested, his tone resolute. "I'll keep looking for clues. You—"

"It doesn't matter anymore." She cut him off again, her words firm but tinged with exhaustion. "At least you gave a shit." Her eyes held his, intense and searching. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead," he nodded.

"Do you believe some people are just destined for bad things?"

Ibrahim contemplated, the room's hum underscoring the pause, before answering calmly. "Yes."

Ixora chuckled softly, a faint smile touching her lips. "I think I'm one of those people." She sighed, her gaze drifting to the side wall, lingering there. "Just bad luck."

Ibrahim watched her, the silence stretching like an ache. She held her stare on the blank surface, unblinking, until a single tear traced down her cheek, glistening under the harsh light. He muttered then, his voice soft, hesitant, laced with sympathy. "...Sorry."

Wild Flower

The bus rumbled to a halt at the stop beside the roundabout, its engine coughing a final sigh. A pregnant Ixora descended carefully, one hand steadying her swollen belly, the other clutching an envelope. She wore nothing but a simple gown that fluttered lightly in the warm breeze. From the envelope, she drew a couple of one-thousand notes, handed them to the conductor, and waited with quiet patience for her change. 

As the bus lumbered away, belching exhaust into the hazy air, Ixora paused to absorb the city's pulse. The paved road stretched wide beneath her feet, slick from a recent drizzle. At the roundabout's heart stood a statue of a mother cradling her child, weathered stone capturing an eternal tenderness. Roadside shops spilled over with colorful wares—fabrics flapping, spices scenting the air—while pedestrians surged along the sidewalks in a hurried rhythm. Vehicles honked and swerved in a chaotic dance, their tires hissing on the asphalt. Nothing like this existed in her village; the sheer clamor, the press of bodies, left her breathless. The soda and snack hawkers weaving through the crowd stirred faint echoes of her own past, their calls mingling with the distant hum of traffic. 

She crossed a shallow gutter, its edges slick with mud, and threaded through the throng until she reached the shade of a nearby tree. Its broad leaves rustled softly overhead, offering a momentary refuge. From there, she scanned her surroundings with cautious eyes, the envelope still tight in her grip. Her gaze snagged on a restaurant across the way, a faded “Sales Girl Needed” sign tacked to its door. After a lingering survey of the bustling scene, she stepped back into the flow, weaving toward the building. 

Inside, the air steamed with the aroma of frying oil and spices. A woman lounged on a bench, fanning herself lazily with a folded newspaper, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “What do you want?” she asked without glancing up, her voice flat against the low murmur of distant voices. 

Ixora approached, her footsteps soft on the worn tile. “I’m interested in the sales girl job.” 

The woman looked up then, her gaze sharpening as it swept over Ixora’s form. “Aren’t you pregnant? I can’t take you for this kind of work.” 

Ixora’s voice steadied with quiet urgency. “My pregnancy won’t be a problem—I’m agile and capable. I just arrived in the city. I desperately need the job.” 

The woman straightened, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she appraised her anew. “How old are you?” 

“I’m sixteen.” 

Another long study, then a sigh escaped the woman’s lips. “I still can’t take you. But my church—the DBC—is looking for a cleaner. If you’re interested, wait till I close. I’ll take you there. It’s not far.” 

Ixora nodded, gratitude softening her tense shoulders. The woman gestured to one of the tables, and Ixora sank into a chair, her leg tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor as she glanced around the modest space—the steam rising from a pot in the corner, the faint buzz of a ceiling fan. After a beat, she ventured, “Do you have any food?” 

The woman hesitated, her fan pausing mid-swing. 

“I have money to pay,” Ixora added quickly. 

Later, Ixora stirred, lifting her head from the table where she’d dozed off, the imprint of her arm faint on her cheek. The wall clock ticked toward 5:00 p.m., its hands steady in the dimming light. The shop owner began shuttering windows and stacking crates, murmuring, “I have church service to attend.” Ixora rose to help, their movements syncing in quiet efficiency, and soon they stepped out into the cooling evening air. 

At the church, they lingered through the evening service, the hymns rising in waves that lulled Ixora toward sleep more than once. By its end, night had cloaked the streets in shadow. As the congregation thinned, drifting into the dark with murmured farewells, the woman introduced Ixora to one of the leaders, her voice low as she outlined the situation. He regarded Ixora thoughtfully. “Can you manage the cleaning in your condition?” 

“I can,” she assured him, her tone firm despite the ache in her back. 

“Start tomorrow, then.” He paused. “Do you have a place to sleep?” 

When she shook her head, he nodded. “You can stay here in the church.” 

“Thank you,” Ixora murmured, relief threading through her exhaustion. 

As he departed, the woman turned to her. “Go and buy some mosquito coils for the night. I’ll bring you a wrapper tomorrow.” They both exited the church, walking down the scanty street, till the woman pointed at a small shop, “Go and buy the coil there, it shouldn’t be more than two-hundred Kote—you are with enough money, right?” she asked, as Ixora nodded, and they both part ways, bidding eachother goodnight. 

From then on, Ixora made her home within the church's shadowed halls, where the air carried the faint must of old wood and incense. Ixora attended the services dutifully, amid the fervent congregation, their voices rising in unison to tales of impending doom—warnings of the adversary that will come from the skies—heralding the end of days, the earth's unravelling, and the salvation, the dragon’s bane will bring. The preacher's words thundered like distant storms, painting visions of apocalypse that stirred murmurs and amens from the crowd, but they slid over Ixora like rain on glass. She nodded along, her hands folded in her lap, but inwardly, her heart wasn’t swayed. Still, gratitude anchored her; this place asked little and gave her shelter. 

After each gathering, as the last echoes of footsteps shuffled toward the doors, she took up her broom, its bristles whispering across the scuffed cement floor. Dust motes danced in the slanting light from windows, and the repetitive sweep brought a simple understanding, a way to earn the kindness that kept her fed and roofed. Often some people from the congregation lingered to lend a hand. Her pay came in modest envelopes at week's end, coins and notes that she counted in the dim glow of her corner cot in a back room, tucking them away in the envelope she'd carried from the village. Bit by bit, they grew into a promise—a small apartment of her own, walls that belonged to her alone.

One sweltering afternoon, midway through service, as the preacher's voice boomed of judgment's hour, his fist pounding the pulpit like a gavel. Ixora shifted on the pew, a dull ache gnawing at her lower back, dismissed at first as the familiar strain of her burden. But then it sharpened, a vise clamping her abdomen, ripping a gasp from her throat that cut through the sermon like a crack in stone. Heads turned; the preacher's words faltered, trailing into silence as another wave crashed over her, hot and unrelenting, forcing her to double over with a muffled cry, as clear fluid flowed from underneath her gown. Murmurs rippled through the hall—concerned whispers, hands reaching out—as strong arms helped her to her feet, guiding her through the parted crowd to an inner chamber at the back, its door creaking shut behind them. 

Outside, the congregation's voices swelled anew, not in sermon but in prayer—a fervent chorus invoking safety, strength, divine mercy for the laboring mother within. Their pleas wove through the walls like a distant chaotic chant, a tapestry of faith she clung to amid the storm raging in her body. In the dim room, lit by a single flickering bulb, some women from the church gathered around her—faces etched with empathy, sleeves rolled up, their hands steady and sure, scrambling in preparation for the birth. The pain built in waves, each crest fiercer than the last: sweat beading on her brow, soaking her gown; muscles twisting like ropes pulled taut; breaths coming in ragged gasps that echoed off the bare walls. She gripped the edge of a makeshift bed, knuckles whitening, her world narrowing to the fire between her hips, the women's voices a blur of encouragement, mingled with her own raw moans. 

Time dissolved in the haze of agony and effort, her body a battlefield of push and release. Then, at last, a final, tearing surge—a cry splitting the air, sharp and vital, not hers. The women moved in a practiced flurry, wiping, wrapping, until a warm, squirming bundle was placed in her trembling arms. Ixora drew the infant close, her chest heaving, tears mingling with sweat as she gazed at the tiny face—reddened, wrinkled, perfect. The baby's first wail softened to whimpers against her skin, a fragile heartbeat syncing with her own. "Mimosa" she whispered, the name blooming from her lips.

The Point Of Nothing

Ibrahim stood at the entrance of the police building, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him. Officers led Ixora into the back of a battered police van, her hands cuffed, her steps measured but defiant. The doors slammed shut with a metallic thud that reverberated through the compound, sealing her fate until trial. Dust stirred in the warm air, carrying the scent of idling engines and sun-warmed concrete.

Cordae approached quietly from behind, his presence announced by the soft thud of concrete underfoot. He placed a hand on Ibrahim's shoulder—a brief, paternal pat that lingered just long enough to convey unspoken solidarity.

"What was the point of it all?" Ibrahim asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the words hanging like a half-formed question in the heavy afternoon heat.

Cordae let out a measured breath, his eyes tracing the van's path. "Sometimes, there isn't one," he replied, his tone weathered by experience, steady as old leather. "You gave it everything, Ibrahim. But this... this is the reality of things, and it doesn't bend for good intentions."

The van rumbled to life, its tires churning the gravel with a low growl, sending small stones skittering like scattered thoughts. As it lumbered toward the gate, Ibrahim broke the silence again. "In the end, all I could do was say sorry."

Cordae glanced at him sidelong, then returned his gaze to the departing vehicle, its frame rattling slightly as it hit a rut. They watched it pass through the gate and merge into the haze of the city beyond. After a pause, Cordae added, "If she gets a good lawyer. She could end up serving only a few years."

Ibrahim turned, studying Cordae's face—the deep lines etched by time, the white hair catching the fading light like frost on glass. Then he looked away, his voice soft. "I lost my brother."

Cordae held his position, unflinching, though a subtle shift in his eyes betrayed surprise. "I didn’t know you had a brother " he said casually, still facing forward. He stole a quick side glance at Ibrahim. " Heck I didn’t know you had any family… My condolences."

"I don't anymore," Ibrahim replied quietly, the words dissolving into the warm breeze. "Not one that matters, anyway."

Silence enveloped them, broken only by the gentle sway of a fern tree at the compound's edge, its leaves whispering in the wind with an earthy rustle. The distant hum of the city filtered in, a vendor's call floating on the air like a faint echo.

"Why did you tell me this?" Cordae asked at last, his voice slicing through the quiet with subtle intrigue.

Ibrahim's shoulders dipped slightly, his tone laced with melancholy. "I have no one else to tell… Nobody that will miss him… except me" He raised a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes wearily, as if pressing back against an invisible weight.

Cordae studied him for a moment, his reserve softening into something akin to understanding. "What was his name?" he asked gently.

Ibrahim sighed, the sound mingling with the breeze. "Aaron… Aaron Solomon."

"Tell me about him," Cordae prompted, shifting his weight against the doorframe, his stance open, inviting.

A small smile ghosted across Ibrahim's lips, warming his expression against the cooling light. "Well, he was always the favorite child—doing whatever he wanted with little or no consequences. When he was twelve, he once beat up a bunch of eighteen-year-olds."

"Really?" Cordae's brows lifted, a chuckle bubbling up with genuine curiosity.

"Yeah," Ibrahim nodded, meeting his gaze with a flicker of shared warmth. "That was what got me into martial arts. Not that I ever got as good as him—he was a prodigy."

Ibrahim went on, his words flowing with a steady rhythm as memories surfaced, and Cordae listened, the sun slipping lower over the city's jagged skyline, stretching shadows across the compound like lingering farewells.

Storm clouds brooded over the moonless night, their distant rumble a low growl that vibrated through the empty streets as Ibrahim trudged home. He fumbled with his keys, the door creaking open under a flickering lightbulb, casting erratic shadows across the threshold. The apartment's stale air washed over him—faint remnants of takeout mingled with the moldy smell of wet walls.

He slipped off his shoes, the chill of the tile seeping through his socks as he stepped into the narrow corridor. Flipping the wall switch, he flooded the space with harsh fluorescent light, long shadows stretching along the faded walls. Fingers working mechanically, he unbuttoned his shirt while passing the bathroom door on one side, and then the kitchen entrance, further down on the other side, both frames scarred by years of indifferent use.

At the corridor's end lay his room—a tight, unyielding box where the bed hunkered in the corner, a wobbly table and chair stood sentry nearby, a worn sofa slumped by the window overlooking the shadowed street, and a small plasma TV hung on the opposite wall, its blank screen mirroring the room's quiet desolation. He peeled off his shirt, draping it over the sofa's armrest, then pulled his phone from the pocket. Unbuckling his belt, he shed his trousers and tossed them onto the shirt. Now in singlet and boxers, the thin fabric damp against his skin from the day's exertion, he checked the time on the glowing screen—7:12pm—before flinging the phone onto the bed.

Scooping up the discarded clothes, he headed back toward the bathroom. At the door, he dropped them into the basket with a soft rustle, then reached for the light switch. A flick—and he stiffened. A stark shadow sliced across, from the bottom the inner door, too deliberate, too wrong.

His pulse spiked, a jolt of adrenaline surging through him, but in that split second, a thunderous smash shattered the silence. The door burst from its hinges like a cannon shot, splintering wood hurtling toward him. He threw up his hands, palms slamming against the panel, but the force was unyielding—it propelled him backward into the wall, the impact rattling his teeth, driving the breath from his lungs in a sharp gasp. He hit the floor hard, the door's weight crushing down on him, edges digging into his chest.

Grunting against the strain, he shoved it aside, the scrape of wood on tile grating in his ears. Looming above stood a slim, athletic man in a jersey, his form backlit by the bathroom's glare, face impassive in the stark light. Without warning, the intruder unleashed a vicious kick at Ibrahim's head, the boot whistling through the air. Still seated, vulnerable, Ibrahim snapped his palm up to intercept, the sole thudding against his skin with bone-jarring force. He gripped the ankle tight, their gazes clashing in the charged quiet—only the storm's muffled thunder and Ibrahim's heaving breaths punctuating the standoff.

"Who are you?" Ibrahim growled, his voice steady despite the throb in his hand.

The man cocked his head, silent, then wrenched his leg back. Ibrahim clung on, letting the momentum haul him forward as he shoved off the ground in a desperate tackle. But the intruder leaped fluidly, twisting to fire a counter-kick with his other leg. It struck Ibrahim's side like a sledgehammer, a crack of pain blooming through his ribs, flinging him deeper into the corridor where he skidded across the cold tile.

Shaking off the daze, Ibrahim pushed to his feet, breath ragged, facing his assailant who pivoted smoothly to meet him. The man's eyes held a chilling detachment, no sound escaping him—no taunt, no breath of effort. Ibrahim sank into a southpaw stance, fists raised, the cool air prickling his sweat-slicked skin. They advanced slowly, footsteps echoing faintly, the distance closing with measured tension.

Ibrahim lunged with a right jab, knuckles cutting the air. The man evaded with a subtle head tilt, retaliating with a knee drive toward Ibrahim's midsection. Ibrahim deflected it downward with his left hand, the collision sending a shockwave up his arm, then barreled into a tackle, shoving the man back. Seizing the shift, he yanked him forward, slipping behind in a whirl, arms cinched around the waist like iron bands. The intruder clawed at Ibrahim's forearms, squirming to escape, but Ibrahim hoisted him high, muscles burning, and hurled him sideways toward the floor.

The man contorted mid-air, landing on his feet with eerie grace. He braced against the wall—Ibrahim glimpsed the intent—before the intruder launched off, propelling himself like a coiled spring. Ibrahim twisted aside, shoulder grazing the plaster, as the intruder instead slammed themself into the wall with a resounding thud that shook the corridor.

Unfazed, the man charged again, fists erupting in a wild barrage—punches snapping with sharp cracks. Ibrahim bobbed and weaved, guards up, absorbing blocks that stung his arms like hammer strikes. Spotting a breach, he exploded forward, hooking a devastating blow to the man's gut. The impact sank in with a muffled whomp, doubling him over; he dropped to one knee, clutching his abdomen, breaths coming in harsh puffs.

Ibrahim towered over him, adrenaline masking the ache in his side. "I asked, who are you... and how did you get in here?" His tone was iron, unyielding.

The man lifted his head, huffing, then a ragged laugh escaped him—low, mocking, sending a chill down Ibrahim's spine. Worry flickered as the sound warped into a broad, taunting grin. "Behind you, pig."

Before Ibrahim could spin, fire erupted in his lower back—a kitchen knife driving deep, the blade's icy bite twisting into molten agony. He whirled in a frantic 180, arm whipping back in a blind strike. It connected with a crack, smashing his attacker's head against the wall, eliciting a choked grunt. Ibrahim lunged, fingers clamping around the throat, slamming the man up against the plaster in a crushing strangle, the pulse throbbing under his grip.

He shot a glance at the kitchen doorway, where the shadow had slunk from, then squeezed harder. "You motherfucker" he snarled, rage boiling over the pain.

The pinned man's face mirrored the first intruder's—twins. Ibrahim muttered the realization, flicking his eyes to the other brother, now rising unsteadily. "You should get that wound checked out" the standing twin jeered, gesturing at the knife protruding from Ibrahim's back, where warm blood trickled down in sticky rivulets.

Ibrahim cocked back, despite the searing twist in his spine, and swung, fist cracking across the pinned twin's chin. The man went slack, eyes fluttering shut, body crumpling to the floor as Ibrahim let go.

The remaining twin barreled in, sliding to a halt before recoiling to wind up a punch. He unleashed it with raw power—Ibrahim snared the fist, hauling him forward with the force, then hooked a leg out to trip him. The twin flipped airborne, and Ibrahim flung him across, into the room, crashing down at the sofa's base with a groan, cushions compressing under the impact.

Before he could blink, Ibrahim closed in, leg arcing in a savage kick. It hammered the torso with a deep thud, lifting him into a slumped seat on the sofa. Fists descended in a relentless storm—thud after thud echoing—as the twin threw up his hands to ward off. Ibrahim seized them, wrenching them wide, and pressed the assault, knuckles splitting with each blow.

A sharp click pierced the frenzy. Ibrahim's eyes widened. He turned—to face the revived twin, gun leveled steady. BLAM—the bullet tore through his torso, a scorching tunnel of fire, toppling him forward, skull cracking against the tile.

The shooter advanced, squeezing off two more—BLAM, BLAM—slugs ripping into back and thigh, fresh blooms of agony exploding hot and wet.

"Let's get out of here," the gunman muttered, yanking his brother from the sofa. Their footsteps pounded away, the door slamming in their wake.

Bloodied and fading, Ibrahim ground his teeth—crimson flecks staining them—against the encroaching void. He clawed across the floor, nails scraping desperately, each drag a torment in the slick pool spreading beneath him. Reaching the bed's edge, he strained upward, fingers grazing the phone. He snatched it, thumb fumbling over the screen for a call... before oblivion claimed him.

Desire Doom

The door eased open with a faint, protesting creak, admitting a sliver of pallid light into the dimly lit room—a cramped space where shadows pooled like ink in the corners, and the air hung thick with the musty scent of neglect and something sharper, metallic, like old blood lingering just beyond reach. A tall woman stepped inside, her faded hoodie clinging to her angular frame, ripped jeans whispering against her legs, scuffed sneakers padding softly over the uneven floorboards. In one shadowed corner stood a rough-hewn bed, its splintered frame groaning faintly under the weight it bore: a boy laid upon it, his left and right legs stretched taut and bound to opposite corners with coarse ropes that bit into his skin.

She carried a worn leather bag, its surface etched with years of scars, and moved toward a scarred wooden table set squarely before the bed—her back to him, as if oblivious to his presence.

“Do you know of desire?” she asked, her voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to vibrate through the stale air, absorbing into the walls. “A feeling… A want. The line that draws imagination into passion, and passion into will—sometimes.” She set the bag down with deliberate care, the soft thud echoing faintly, like a heartbeat in the quiet. “Other times, that passion becomes a curse—an inexplicable feeling of doom.”

Turning slowly, she faced the boy, her features sharpening in the weak glow: calm and unyielding, her skin pale as forgotten parchment, hair twisted into two tight buns that pulled her expression taut. Kohl-rimmed eyes gleamed with hollow depth, black lipstick coating her lips like a seal on a secret, her ears studded with piercings that caught fleeting glints—hoops and bars in chaotic array—while two silver rings pierced the left side of her nose, lending a feral tilt to her gaze. The boy, scarcely more than a youth, with terror-wide eyes and a slender frame, lay exposed: clad only in threadbare underwear that offered no warmth against the chill seeping from the stone beneath the wood, his hands also tied to the bed’s upper corners, his mouth sealed with duct tape that trapped his ragged breaths, tears tracing silent, salty paths down his flushed cheeks as his chest rose and fell in desperate rhythm.

She moved to the side of the bed, lowering herself beside him with an unsettling tenderness, the thin mattress dipping under her weight, her warmth pressing close like an uninvited breath.

“I always wanted to be a doctor,” she murmured, her hand gliding along his flank, fingers tracing the quiver of his ribs beneath sweat-damp skin. “Cure illnesses, change lives… perform miracles.” With an almost tender gesture, she wiped a tear from his face, her thumb lingering on the warm streak as if to absorb its essence. “A naïve dream it was. Turns out I never had the brain for it, as they say. Or at least that was the excuse I gave myself.”

Sliding her hand slowly downward, she pressed her palm against the fabric of his underwear, rubbing in deliberate circles that coaxed an unwilling tremor from his body. “Do you know what it feels like—death, that is?” she asked, her tone casual, as if musing over idle thoughts. “I mean, obviously you are about to find out.” Her free hand gestured nonchalantly, a dismissive flick that hung in the air. Muffled screams pushed against the tape, his body arching and straining against the ropes, muscles knotting in futile protest, the bed frame creaking like bones under strain.

“I bet it feels like a dream ending—that moment just before you awaken from a nightmare or a pleasant dream, only this time… there is no waking up.” The boy’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears, spilling in hot rivulets down his face, his moans of distress swelling to fill the room like the whimpers of something cornered and small. Calmly, she shushed him, her voice soft, as if consoling a fretful child in the hush of midnight.

She then shoved her hand beneath the waistband of his pants, moving it in smooth, insistent motions that drew a betraying response from his flesh. “Did you know,” she continued, her breath warm against his ear, “that the effects of fear and pleasure are one and the same? That’s why you all get excited down there, even when faced with certain doom—somehow the body confuses it for a good time.” A quiet laugh escaped her, low and throaty, as she withdrew her hand, leaving him trembling in the aftermath. Rising fluidly, she returned to the table, her steps measured and unhurried across the creaking floor.

“You know, that is what I seek to correct—that confusion,” she said, wiping her hands on a ragged cloth smeared with faint, unnameable stains. “The subconscious instinct in service to a wild law—the norm—this is the crime of humanity, a global delusion.” Her tone edged with vexation, a subtle hitch in her breath. “I’ve bored you with my diagnosis—I tend to get carried away.”

She pulled an injection from the bag, its glass vial catching a cold glint as she carefully removed the needle cover, the faint click resounding in the oppressive quiet. “You should be proud,” she stated as she walked toward him again, her lips parting in a serene smile that revealed a glimmer of light snagging on something unnatural—a black, tattoo-like marking of a tally etched along the top of her tongue, stark and deliberate. “Your body will serve a greater purpose—heralding the end of days.”