Cyprian's POV
Slowly, the road began to shift. The bush thinned. A few scattered houses appeared in the distance. A kiosk. The faint hum of generators—blenders, distant voices. Noise. Life.
Hope flickered in my chest. Shaky. Fragile. But there.
"Any of you have a phone?" I asked, glancing sideways, my voice barely steady.
Rukky's hand went to her pocket.
That was when we heard it.
The roar of an engine. A Hilux tearing around the bend, tires screaming, dust rising in a hard, furious wave.
The sound of the hunt.
Before any of us could react, the Hilux screeched to a stop beside us. Three hefty, masked men jumped down. We were grabbed. Shoved into the back of the truck. Bound like animals. My throat burned from shouting, but no one heard.
The town, as always, looked away.
The drive felt endless. No words. Just the slap of rope against skin and the throb of fresh bruises.
Then the truck stopped.
We were dragged out, thick black polythene bags yanked over our heads. The stink of oil, blood, and damp wood filled my lungs.
I was shoved forward through the bush. The girls—screaming—were lifted off the ground.
I tried to listen as we moved, tried to count the distance in case there was ever a chance to run. Tried to think with my feet even though my heart hammered so loud I could barely breathe.
Somewhere up ahead, a man barked orders in Pidgin. A door creaked open. Cold air hit my skin. The dread hit deeper.
A heavy gate groaned behind us, screeching sharp in my ears, the sound lodging somewhere deep in my chest. We stepped into something vast. The air told me so even before I could see. I could feel the weight of too many men. I could feel the danger without looking.
The bag was yanked from my face. Light stabbed at my eyes.
I blinked hard.
A few meters away, I caught sight of another group of men. Two young boys stood among them, about my age. Fear clung to their faces, mirror images of our own. Were they the ones who had taken us? Would they be punished for letting us escape? The thought twisted cold through me.
I didn't want to give up. I was still trying to think. But my arms were bound tight behind me, my body aching in too many places. There would be no escape this time.
A man stepped forward. He seized me by the collar like I weighed nothing and dragged me closer.
"Open your eyes," he said.
I forced them open.
And what I saw knocked the air from my lungs.
A man stood in front of me—taller than anyone I'd ever seen in real life. His skin was deep brown, unflinching and dark like coffee. His jaw was sharp, his mouth fixed in a hard, silent line. He smelled clean—so sharply out of place it made me nauseous.
His eyes were dark. Quiet. They didn't burn. They consumed.
He wore a fitted black shirt tucked into tailored dark trousers. The fabric clung to his arms and chest like it feared him. His sleeves were rolled up. Veins coiled down his forearms like thick cords. A matte-black watch hugged his wrist.
He was massive. Still. Quiet. The kind of man who didn't need to move to control a room. The air itself bent toward him. The silence obeyed him.
I didn't want to look at him.
I kept my eyes down—on the dusty tiles, the broken boxes, the stains that stretched across the floor like old, dried blood.
The warehouse was cavernous and dead. Hollow.
Stacks of boxes lined the walls. The sharp reek of weed and chemicals clung to everything. An overhead bulb flickered, trembling shadows crawling across our faces.
I could feel his gaze on me. I could barely breathe.
One of the men beside me spoke. "Tiger, we bring this one to join us. He wan form strong man for boss. He's the one wey choke Kevwe. If we train am well, he go useful."
None of that mattered as much as the name.
Tiger.
The Black Tiger.
Not myth. Not rumour. Not whispers spoken in fear.
Real. Flesh and blood.
"Na this one try do pass himself," another sneered behind me. "Him think say he be gangster. Say make we show am wetin gangster really mean."
The one holding me let go.
Before I could brace, someone kicked me—hard—in the stomach.
White-hot pain tore through me. My ulcer—the one I thought had healed—flared awake like shattered glass ripping through my insides. My knees buckled.
"Aaagh!" I screamed. The sound was ugly, broken, raw. I folded over, breath torn from my chest, the taste of acid sharp in my mouth.
"You no be Jackie Chan again, abi?" one of them spat, his laugh sharp, cruel.
A gunshot split the air.
The man dropped right in front of me before the sound of his own laughter died.
One hole. Clean. The side of his head just—gone. He fell face-first, his body crumpling without a sound but the dull, wet thud of flesh hitting concrete.
Silence.
No one moved.
Not the girls.
Not the other men.
Not me.
Even my breath locked in my throat. The world shrank to the thin trail of smoke rising from the gun in Black Tiger's hand. He hadn't shouted. Hadn't warned. He had pulled the trigger like he was brushing dirt off his sleeve. Like it meant nothing.
One shot.
One death.
The weight of it pressed down on the room, heavier than the cold air, heavier than the stench of weed, sweat, and fear clinging to the warehouse walls.
I was still half-curled on the floor, my stomach in knots, my head pounding, but my eyes—my eyes found him.
Black Tiger.
"Let's start the introductions again, shall we?" he said softly.