* The beginning of an unwritten fate. *
The night was heavy, dark clouds swallowing the moon, rain pouring like the heavens had split open.
She ran. Barefoot. Her thin, fragile frame slicing through the storm, her breath coming in short, broken gasps.
Clutching an old, tattered exercise book to her chest, she used it as a shield against the rain, though it barely helped. Her hair clung to her face, her clothes soaked, her vision blurred by tears and water alike.
She didn't know where she was going; she just knew she had to run. Away.
From the voices. From the memories. From the pain.
And then
Boom!
She crashed into something hard. The impact sent her stumbling backward, pain shooting through her forehead. For a split second, she thought she'd hit a wall or maybe a signpost. But the walls didn't have heartbeats. And the signboards didn't feel warm.
Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her gaze.
What stood before her wasn't a wall, it was a man. A tall, broad-shouldered man whose presence seemed to silence even the storm around them. His shirt clung to his sculpted frame, rain tracing down the hard lines of his jaw.
Her breath caught. For a moment, she forgot the rain, the pain, everything.
She'd never seen a man like this and in that instant, she wasn't sure if she'd just run into safety… or danger.
* The Bar *
The blinding lights of Club Mirage painted everything in tired shades of red and gold. Music thumped in the background, loud enough to drown her thoughts but not loud enough to silence the laughter of drunk men and the clinking of glass.
Amara moved through the crowd, a tray balanced in one hand, her apron already stained from the night's work. Her eyes were sharp, her smile practiced, the kind of smile that didn't reach her heart but kept her job safe.
Her boss, Madam Celine, stood behind the counter, one hand on her hip, the other waving for Amara to move faster. The woman's gold bracelets jingled each time she gestured, her heavy perfume hanging in the air like a warning.
"Smile more, girl," Celine said without even looking at her. "Men pay to see beauty, not frowns."
Amara swallowed hard, forcing her lips into that empty, obedient smile.
Then it happened again.
A hand, rough, careless slid around her waist. She stiffened, the tray wobbling dangerously.
The man leaned close, his breath reeking of alcohol. "You look too fine to be serving drinks, sweetheart," he slurred, his laughter echoing among his friends.
In that instant, her chest burned with anger. Her heart screamed.
And in her mind, she turned sharply, glared at him, and shouted, "I'm not anyone's toy!"
The music stopped. Every head turned. The man's hand fell away, and Celine's painted lips parted in disbelief.
For a fleeting second, Amara felt power, real power rising through her like fire.
Then, the fantasy vanished.
Five seconds later, reality snapped back. The man's hand was still on her waist, the laughter around her hadn't stopped, and Madam Celine hadn't even noticed her struggle.
Her pulse slowed, and her courage faded into the fog of exhaustion.
She carefully shifted her weight, stepped out of the man's grip, and muttered a quiet, "Excuse me, sir."
Then she walked away graceful, collected, pretending as though her soul hadn't just screamed for freedom inside her chest.
The night dragged on. Bottle after bottle. Song after song. Her feet ached, her throat was dry, but she kept moving, like a machine wound too tight to rest.
Finally, close to midnight, the crowd began to thin. One by one, the lights dimmed, the laughter faded, and the floor was littered with empty bottles and crumpled notes. Amara took off her apron, folded it neatly, and hung it behind the counter.
She sighed softly.
Her thoughts drifted to her younger brother, Chris probably asleep by now, his stomach empty again. She needed to get home to cook something before morning.
She turned toward the back door just as it swung open.
A man walked in.
He looked… different. Not like the others. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, soaked with rain, and his eyes, tired, dark, distant told stories words couldn't. His presence drew a hush through the room, even the remaining girls stopped to stare.
Madam Celine's red lips curved into a smile. "You again," she purred. "Back so late?"
The man didn't answer. He just sat at the counter, rubbing his temple like he'd fought a war with the world.
Celine turned to her girls. "Everyone, go home. We're closed."
Amara breathed in relief and reached for her bag but before she could step away, Celine's sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Not you, Amara."
Amara froze. "Ma?"
"Stay," Celine said, smoothing her dress. "Serve this gentleman. He looks like he's had a long day. And who knows," she smirked, "he might just make our night worth it."
Amara's brows furrowed. "But ma, it's late. My brother…."
Celine's eyes turned cold. "Do you want to lose your job?"
The words hung heavy in the smoky air.
Amara looked at the tired man sitting before her, then at her boss, who was already calculating how much extra she could charge him for coming in after hours.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to walk out.
But instead, she swallowed her pride, tied her apron back around her waist, and forced herself to move toward the man.
The storm outside had quieted, but somehow, the one inside her chest had just begun.
* Earlier That Night *
The small clock on the wall ticked too loudly in the silence.
Rain tapped gently against the rusted window panes, mixing with the soft hum of the old refrigerator.
Chris sat on the torn couch, his thumb pressing redial on his sister's number again and again.
"Please pick up… please," he whispered, his voice small in the dimly lit room.
The phone rang once, twice, then that same cold message played again:
> "The number you're trying to reach is not available at the moment. Please leave a voicemail after the tone—"
Beep.
He ended the call before it finished, pressing the phone against his forehead, fighting the sting in his eyes.
His stomach growled loud, raw, like something inside him was clawing for attention.
He groaned, stood up, and shuffled to the refrigerator. He opened it slowly, praying for a miracle.
But inside was nothing, just a small bottle of water and a half-empty container of salt.
He stared at it for a moment, then shut the door quietly. The sound echoed through the little room.
He sat on the floor this time, his back against the fridge, pulling his knees close. He tried to stay strong, tried to be the "big boy" Amara always said he was. But tonight, even his pride couldn't fill his stomach.
Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them.
He wiped them quickly with the back of his hand, angry at himself for crying, angry at the world for making his sister work so hard, angry at hunger for being stronger than him.
Then….
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound jolted him.
He froze, listening.
The knock came again. Slower this time, heavier, like whoever was outside wasn't just passing by.
He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the door. The rain outside grew louder, the power flickered, and for a second, he wasn't sure if opening that door was a good idea.
But something, curiosity or desperation pushed him to his feet.
He took one small step… then another.
When he reached the door, his hand hovered over the handle.
"Who's there?" he called, voice trembling just enough to betray his fear.
No answer.
Only the rain.
And then… a faint, deep voice.
> "Chris?"
He froze again. The voice was calm. Familiar. Yet strange.
* The Visit *
Chris hesitated, his ear pressed lightly against the old wooden door. The knocks had stopped, but the rain hadn't. It hissed and whispered against the tin roof, dripping through the corners where rust had eaten the metal.
He squinted through a small crack in the door, the one that had been there for months now and peered out.
A familiar face appeared beneath the dim yellow glow of the compound light.
"Raymond?" he whispered to himself, blinking twice to be sure.
He hadn't seen Raymond in months. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy smile that always made people feel safe.
Chris' heart lifted a little. He quickly unbolted the door, the hinges creaking in protest.
"Yo, Chris!" Raymond greeted with that grin, shaking rain from his hair. "Look at you, man! You've grown!"
Chris rolled his eyes with a tired chuckle. "Oh, come on, Raymond. It's just been five months. How much can a guy grow in that short time?"
Raymond laughed, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. "Fair enough. Still, you look taller. Maybe hunger's stretching you out."
They both chuckled though Chris' laughter faded quickly at the mention of hunger.
Raymond glanced around the dim room, his eyes landing on the peeling paint, the flickering bulb, and the empty plates on the table. He sighed softly. "I just came back from Los Angeles, " he said, dropping his backpack on the chair. "I was heading to Chicago , but… honestly, the roads aren't safe this late. I remembered you guys stayed along this route, so I thought I'd crash here for the night."
"Oh," Chris said, rubbing his arm awkwardly. "That's cool. Amara's… uh…"
"She's not around?" Raymond asked, noticing the hesitation.
"No," Chris said quickly. "She's still at work. She'll be back soon."
"Hmm." Raymond checked his wristwatch. "This is past ten. She usually closes before nine, doesn't she?"
Chris forced a small smile. "Yeah, maybe her boss is holding her again."
Raymond's brows furrowed. "That woman again," he muttered. "Should I go look for her?"
Chris' voice trembled just a little. "Maybe… maybe wait a bit. If she's not back in thirty minutes, then you can."
Raymond nodded slowly. "Alright. You'd know best."
He bent down to unzip a nylon bag, and the sound, that crisp, rustling sound of nylon rubbing against itself filled the room. Chris' ears perked up immediately.
He turned, his eyes widening when he saw what Raymond was unpacking boxes of pizza, bread, a small tub of butter, so much goodies that could last them for a full month and a steaming takeout pack of spicy, crispy fries with creamy guacamole.
For a second, he froze. Then, before he could stop himself, his lips curved into the biggest smile he'd managed all week.
He tried to hide it, cleared his throat, straightened his face, folded his arms but the excitement betrayed him. His eyes sparkled, and Raymond chuckled knowingly.
"Hungry, huh?" Raymond said, passing him the jollof pack.
Chris pretended to hesitate. "Uh, well, maybe just a little."
"Boy, eat," Raymond said firmly, smiling. "You sound like your sister. Always acting strong."
Chris didn't need to be told twice. He tore the pack open and dug in, the warm, spicy aroma filling the small room. He couldn't remember the last time food had tasted that good.
"Thanks," he mumbled between bites. "This is… this is really good."
Raymond smiled and sat on the couch, opening a bottle of prime juice for himself. "Don't mention it. You kids have been through enough."
Chris nodded, chewing slowly now, the warmth of the food easing the ache in his chest.
As they talked, the tension in the room melted away. Raymond told him stories about work, travel, and a few funny mishaps from months ago. Chris laughed, real laughter this time as he stored the rest of the food neatly in the fridge, humming softly to himself.
For a moment, it almost felt like a normal night.
Almost.
Because outside, the rain hadn't stopped. And somewhere across town, under that same rain, Amara was just beginning to face the storm that would change everything.
* The Encounter *
Amara tied her apron back around her waist, her fingers trembling slightly. She told herself it was exhaustion, not nerves. She had been on her feet all day, after all.
She picked up a clean glass and a bottle of malt from the counter, forcing her expression into its usual blankness. Madam Celine was already at the far end of the bar, arms crossed, glaring at the lone customer who had walked in at closing time.
"What do you want to drink, sir?" Celine asked, her tone clipped, impatient. "You're holding me up. We're about to close."
The man didn't answer.
Celine's brows knitted together. "Sir?" she said again, sharper this time. "I'm asking you a question. If you want to order something, say it now so we can serve you and lock this bar up before midnight."
Still, no answer.
The man sat hunched over the counter, head bowed, one hand clenched loosely around a damp napkin. The dim light above him flickered, casting shadows across his face.
Amara glanced at him again and froze.
There was something wrong.
When he finally lifted his head, even a little, his eyes met hers for a second. They were dark, empty, like two deep wells where no light lived. It wasn't just exhaustion. It wasn't just sadness. It was as if life itself had bled out of him, leaving behind a body that only pretended to breathe.
Her chest tightened.
Without realizing it, her feet began to move. Slowly. One step. Then another. She was drawn to him, like a moth to a dying flame.
"Amara!" Madam Celine's voice cracked from behind the counter. "Where are you going? I'm talking to you!"
But the sound came to her as if from far away, dim and muffled, like she was underwater. All she could see was him. All she could feel was the pull, the puzzle sitting right there in front of her, waiting to be solved.
She reached him.
"Sir…" Her voice was barely a whisper now. She reached out, hesitant, and tapped his hand gently, just enough to get his attention.
The shock hit her instantly.
His skin was ice cold. Not just cool, cold like rainwater from a stone well.
Her breath caught in her throat.
And then, everything moved at once.
The man's head snapped up. In a blur of motion too fast for her tired mind to register, his hand shot out, clamping around her neck. His grip was firm but not crushing, a warning, not yet an attack.
He stared into her eyes, his face inches from hers. Up close, she saw that his pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable.
"Sorry…" she stammered, her voice breaking. "Sir, I just… I just wanted to ask what you'll take. What your order for tonight is. Please don't hurt me…"
The cold from his hand seeped into her skin, up her jaw, into her skull, making her shiver. Madam Celine shouted something from behind but Amara couldn't hear her anymore.
All she could see were his eyes.
All she could feel was the cold.
And somewhere deep inside her, something whispered that she had just touched a man who wasn't entirely… human.