Cyprian's POV
I would rather die than join a gang.
Not after how my mother raised me.
Not after everything I promised myself I'd never become.
I swallowed dry air and leaned forward. "You guys have to stop crying," I whispered to the two girls beside me, my voice barely carrying above the pounding in my chest.
They didn't answer. They just clung to each other tighter. One of them trembled so badly her teeth were chattering. The other blinked hard, like she was trying to force the tears back but couldn't.
I understood. I really did.
They were girls. They were scared.
And in each other, they found comfort.
Me?
I was the spare part. The odd one out. The boy who stepped into fire thinking he could control the flame.
Part of me cursed myself.
Cyprian, why didn't you just shut up? Why didn't you just mind your business?
But I pushed the thought away.
Because I'd done the right thing.
If I hadn't stepped in, they would have taken that girl. And girls? They suffer the worst.
Whatever they'd do to me wouldn't come close to what they would have done to her.
And besides, I was stronger.
Or at least—I prayed I was.
I could fight. I could think. I could plan.
I reached for my pocket instinctively, but my heart sank when I remembered.
They had taken everything.
My phone was gone.
Left behind in the chaos of the bus. Just like that.
Christ. Shit.
No phone.
No way to call for help.
Not that it would matter.
In Nigeria, in this part of the country, when gangs take you, the police look away. The law wears gang colors. The streets already have a king, and his name is Black Tiger.
If this van belonged to them, I was already a ghost walking.
But I wasn't ready to disappear.
Then I saw it.
A rope—thin, worn, coiled like something forgotten between the driver's seat and the gear stick. It looked useless, frayed at the edges, but I didn't hesitate.
I didn't think. I didn't pray. I moved.
My fingers closed around it before my brain caught up. I dragged myself forward, breath tight in my chest, every muscle locked with fear. My mind flickered—fast, scattered—to the last time I'd held a rope like this. The memory came sharp and clear: our Muslim landlord, years ago, had bought a fat ram for Sallah. He'd asked me and the man downstairs to help hold it down. I remembered the rope cutting into my palms as the ram kicked and thrashed, and I remembered how, somehow, I'd held on.
I'd surprised myself then. I was always the skinny boy, the one who looked like the wind could blow him away, but that day, I'd learned I was stronger than I looked.
And right now, I needed every bit of that strength.
I looped the rope around the driver's neck and yanked hard.
The man let out a strangled sound. His hands shot up, clawing at his throat. The van jerked sharply to the side. The wheels screeched. The metal shell of the vehicle tilted unnaturally.
"Wetin dey worry you?!" the second man shouted, his voice cracking in panic. His hand dove for the gun at his side, and even through the mask I could see it—the sudden realization that he was losing control of the situation.
I kept pulling. My arms shook from the effort, but I didn't stop. The van swerved again, hard enough that we all slammed sideways. My stomach twisted, the pain from earlier still raw and sharp, but I grit my teeth and held on.
Then, without warning, the girl sitting beside me—quiet the whole time—moved. Her leg shot through the gap between the back and front seats, her foot slamming square into the man's chest with more force than I thought possible. It wasn't clean or perfect—it was wild, messy—but it worked. His grip faltered. The gun fell.
The second girl didn't hesitate. She lunged, grabbing the weapon before he could recover, and without missing a beat, she swung it, smashing the butt into the side of his head. The sound of impact cracked through the air. He stumbled, dazed.
I kept my focus on the rope, pulling like my life depended on it. Because it did.
The van jolted again. We were off-road now. The second man, dazed but still breathing, threw himself toward the wheel, desperate to wrestle back control. He barely made it in time. The van veered violently, crashing through undergrowth. The tires tore across uneven ground, bouncing over roots and stones. Tall grasses whipped against the windows. Branches scraped across the sides, screeching like claws on glass.
The whole vehicle rattled, the frame shaking so hard I thought the doors would rip clean off. My arms burned. My chest screamed with the old ulcer pain, sharp and deep, but I refused to let go.
The second man was shouting, his voice half fear, half rage. "YOU GO KILL US ALL!"
I barely heard him. My heart was pounding too loudly in my ears. My hands were cramping around the rope.
Then it happened.