The airport was unusually quiet for that time of day.
Muted announcements echoed through the wide hall, blending with the rolling sound of luggage wheels against polished floors. Travelers moved in clusters—families, businesspeople, lovers reuniting or parting—each carrying their own stories, their own reasons for leaving or returning.
A young man sat alone near the far end of the lounge.
He wore a simple polo shirt and jeans, nothing that drew attention. A black face mask covered half his face, shadowing his features. To anyone passing by, he looked like just another traveler waiting for his ride.
But his eyes told a different story.
They were sharp. Watchful. Cold.
He held his phone to his ear, listening intently, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice low. "I've arrived."
A pause.
"No. Nobody followed me."
Another pause.
"I'll handle it."
He ended the call without waiting for a response.
For a moment, he remained seated, staring straight ahead. His reflection stared back at him from the glass wall opposite—distorted slightly, unfamiliar. He studied it with quiet detachment, as if committing the image to memory.
Five years.
It had been exactly five years since he had last stepped foot in this country.
Five years since he had been bundled away, forced out like excess baggage, erased from the picture as though he had never existed.
His lips curved into a humorless smile beneath the mask.
"I'm back," he muttered under his breath. "This time, for business."
He stood, slung his small bag over his shoulder, and walked out of the lounge without looking back.
Across town, in a towering glass building that screamed wealth and authority, Mr. James Akodu sat comfortably in his office.
The room was vast, immaculately furnished with dark wood and leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city below—a kingdom he had built with his own hands.
A satisfied smile spread across his face as he stared at the document laid neatly on his desk.
The contract.
One of the biggest deals of his career.
"This is it," he murmured, lifting his coffee cup. "The turning point."
He took a slow sip, savoring the taste of success. The deal would push his company beyond local relevance, opening doors to international influence. Wealth. Power. Respect.
Everything he had ever wanted.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.
The past crept in uninvited.
There had been sacrifices—hard decisions, ugly choices—but regret was a luxury he had never allowed himself. Weak men regretted. Strong men moved forward.
A faint sound made him stiffen.
Footsteps.
His brows furrowed. No one entered his office without permission.
He reached for his phone, irritation rising, but before he could dial security, a voice cut through the air.
"It seems you have time to relax these days."
Mr. James froze.
The voice was unfamiliar—yet something about it crawled under his skin.
He looked up.
A man stood in the doorway.
Calm. Unbothered. Dangerous.
"Who the hell are you?" Mr. James barked, jumping to his feet. "How did you get in here?"
The man smiled faintly and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"You don't recognize me?" he asked softly. "That's disappointing."
Rage flared. Mr. James grabbed his phone. "Security—"
A gun appeared in the man's hand.
Pointed directly at his chest.
Mr. James's breath hitched.
"Sit down," the man said evenly.
The room seemed to shrink.
"You dare point a gun at me?" Mr. James snapped, forcing steel into his voice. "Do you know who I am?"
"Oh, I do," the man replied calmly. "That's why I'm here."
Slowly, unwillingly, Mr. James sat.
They stared at each other in silence, tension thick as smoke.
"We need to talk," the stranger continued. "About something you buried a long time ago."
Mr. James's jaw tightened.
"Get out," he growled. "Before you regret this."
The man chuckled, low and humorless. "You still think you're untouchable."
After what felt like an eternity, the man stood.
"This isn't over," he said. "Not even close."
Then he turned and walked out.
The moment the door shut, Mr. James lunged for his phone, hands trembling—not with fear, but fury.
"How did he get in?" he snarled. "How did he find me?"
His face hardened.
He dialed a number.
"I need you to handle someone," he said quietly. "Details are in your email."
He ended the call and stared out the window, his reflection staring back at him—older, angrier.
"Ghosts should stay buried," he muttered.
That evening, Cynthia sat across from Alex in a restaurant near campus.
The place buzzed with soft music and low conversation. Couples laughed. Plates clinked. Normal life carried on—mocking her unease.
Alex ate quietly, glancing at her now and then.
She barely touched her food.
Her phone lay face-down beside her plate.
Buzz.
She flinched.
Alex noticed. "You okay?"
She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just tired."
A familiar voice interrupted them.
"Hey."
Harry stood beside their table, smiling.
Alex greeted him casually, but Cynthia's stomach twisted. She forced a smile, though fear flickered briefly in her eyes.
Harry chatted briefly before excusing himself.
Only when he walked away did Cynthia release a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Alex leaned closer. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said again.
But that night, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed once more.
Another message.
Another unknown number.
You can't run forever.
Her hands shook as she dropped the phone.
Across the city, unseen eyes watched.
And somewhere, something long buried was beginning to stir.