The city of Lagos thrummed beneath a veil of restless energy. Even at midnight, the streets refused to sleep: headlights carved bright arcs through drifting exhaust, and clusters of night hawkers called out their wares in the humid air. From the high, narrow window of their safe house - an aging colonial bungalow tucked into a labyrinth of alleys - Kelechi watched the pulse of the city below as if it were a living thing, its every breath carrying threats she could almost taste.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, willing her racing thoughts to still. Only hours earlier, under the blistering sun, she had believed Seyi's loyalty beyond question.
They had poured over maps of the suffocating city grid, whispered strategy under the clamor of street vendors, and toasted small victories with palm-wine on rusted tin rooftops. But now those memories felt like poison. Seyi's laughter - so warm and genuine then - loomed in Kelechi's mind, each echo twisting into something sinister.
A sudden creak from the hallway jolted her upright. Malik stepped into the lamplight, his trench coat damp at the collar from the monsoon breeze outside. He did not smile; his jaw was clenched, dark eyes shadowed with urgency. In his hand he carried a manila folder, edges curling like a predator's jaws.
"We've got it," Malik said, voice low. He laid the folder on the battered oak table, where its flap splayed open like a wound. The single overhead bulb cast deep shadows that made the room feel smaller, closer - an accomplice to their unease.
Kelechi crossed the room in quick strides and lifted the first sheet. Photographs. A series of glossy prints that caught the light: Seyi's face, illuminated by torchlight, bent in confidential conversation with Oba Eze's chief enforcer. Next to her, a ledger scrawled in Seyi's handwriting - payment details, dead-man's switches, coded rendezvous in the heart of the notorious Bariga district.
Every image struck Kelechi like a blow. In one photo, Seyi's hand rested casually on the enforcer's shoulder, a gesture of trust. In another, she passed a USB flash drive into his palm. Kelechi's fingers trembled as she flipped the pages. She had always trusted Seyi with her life; now it was clear Seyi had entrusted everything she knew to the enemy.
"She's been feeding them intel for weeks," Kelechi whispered, throat tight. The humidity in the room seemed to thicken, pressing at her lungs. She could almost feel Seyi's betrayal sliding down her spine, a cold, unyielding blade.
Malik exhaled, a brittle, haunted sigh. "She arranged the hit on Farouk's convoy last night. They knew exactly when and where to strike." He tapped the table. "And - " he paused, as though unwilling to say the worst, " - she scheduled the transfer of our entire safe-house roster in two hours. If we don't act, they'll corner us."
Kelechi closed her eyes, picturing the friends she'd recruited: Ade, Aya, even old Amina who'd thought retirement from the struggle might be peaceful. All walking into a trap designed by their closest ally, her sister. Her stomach churned. "We need to find her before she disappears," she said, voice cold as steel. "She'll try to cover her tracks."
Malik nodded. "I've already tapped her last known phone ping. It's in the Maryland area - abandoned warehouses, nothing good happens there." He handed her two sets of keys: one for a borrowed sedan with a hot-wired ignition, another to a rented storage locker where they'd stashed emergency gear.
Kelechi forced herself to breathe deeply. She needed calm, precision. Fear was a luxury they couldn't afford. Yet even as she lifted the keys, a shiver crept through her spine. She felt eyes on her, behind the walls of their sanctuary. The safe house had never been truly safe.
Outside, a loose floorboard in the hallway groaned under unseen weight. Kelechi exchanged a look with Malik - wordless confirmation that their paranoia was justified. Every shadow was suspect; every sound a potential ambush.
They moved quickly: Kelechi loading a suppressed sidearm into her jacket, Malik cradling a compact sub-machine gun. She grabbed a slim envelope containing a burner phone and the last transmissions from Seyi - truncated texts that now read like taunting breadcrumbs:
"Trust me."
"Just a little longer."
"You'll see soon."
Now, in the dim light of betrayal, those messages felt like mockery. Kelechi stashed them in her pocket.
Before slipping out, she cast one final glance at the city below. Lagos didn't care about loyalty or betrayal; it only cared about survival. And tonight, survival meant tracking a friend turned traitor through its sprawling guts and ending the danger before it engulfed them all.
Malik slung an arm over her shoulder. "Ready?"
She drew a slow breath, tasting both dread and determination. "More than ever."
Together, they vanished into the humid night, ready to confront Seyi - and whatever price they would pay to reclaim the fragile thread of trust that had been snapped so violently.