Whispers about Kayen Telani echoed through the corridors of Zone 7 Secondary like wildfire refusing to burn out. After the football stunt, students were still abuzz with speculation. Girls giggled behind hands. Boys eyed him warily. It wasn't the goal itself—it was the silence afterward, the sheer impossibility of it, the way the ball curved like it knew where to go.
"Yo, is he like… psychic now?" someone muttered.
"Or juju, bro. That goal was not natural."
Kayen walked past it all with his usual blank stare, but his fingers twitched slightly. Inside, his senses were dialed to eleven. He could hear whispers clearly from across the yard, feel vibrations in the soles of his feet. Something in him had changed.
By lunch, it got worse.
He was at the canteen, halfway through a greasy samosa, when a group of Form 4 boys cornered him. Kaviti, the tall one with a scar over his brow, sneered.
"Mr. Superstar. Show us that magic trick again."
Kayen calmly wiped his mouth, stood up, and let his instincts take over. When Kaviti lunged, Kayen sidestepped like he'd rehearsed it a hundred times. Another boy swung. Kayen ducked, weaved, then stepped back. No hits landed. It wasn't flashy. It was clean, silent—predatory.
They stared.
"The hell…" Kaviti muttered.
Kayen just smiled and walked away.
Elsewhere, in the gleaming heart of Nairobi Prime, towers pierced the clouds like obsidian spears. Inside one, a gathering of ethereal figures stood in front of a vast window overlooking the digitalized skyline.
"I felt it again," said a calm, female voice.
She was young—maybe eighteen in appearance—but her presence bore centuries. Her name was Selasi, daughter of Akariel, one of the high Skyborn council. Skin like burnished bronze, long braids draped in silver cords, and eyes that shimmered faintly with starlight.
"Zone 7?" asked another Skyborn.
Selasi nodded. "A disturbance. Faint, but primal. Like something old awakened."
The others shifted.
"We need to investigate before the Abyssborn do," one said.
Selasi turned. "I'll go myself."
Back in Zone 7, Kayen stood in front of a battered metal door behind a mechanic shop. Faint cheers echoed within. The underground fights weren't legal, but they paid. And tonight, he needed answers—or at least a distraction.
Inside, sweat and blood hung thick in the air. Men bet on fighters. Some cheered, others cursed. The pit was a ring of dirt and concrete, dimly lit.
"Next up, we got the punching bag—Kayen the Ghost!"
Laughter rippled. He ignored it.
Across from him stood Juma "The Mamba," known for his dirty kicks and cruel elbows. The bell rang.
Kayen dodged the first strike without thinking. Then the next. He stepped in, jabbed once—right between the ribs. Juma grunted. Another strike—Kayen ducked under and swept Juma's legs with surgical precision.
Cheers turned into shock.
Juma got up, swung wildly—Kayen caught the punch mid-air, twisted the arm, spun, and elbowed Juma's gut. The bigger boy dropped.
Silence.
Then an eruption of shouts and disbelief.
Kayen walked out later with a bloody lip—and a pocket full of cash.
But outside, the air felt wrong. Heavy.
He stopped.
On a nearby rooftop, something moved.
Watching.
Waiting.
And across the city, a girl with wings hidden beneath her coat boarded a sky-train toward Zone 7.