The rain fell like a curtain, thick and endless, veiling the world in cold, metallic gray. The wind whispered secrets only the dead could understand. Thunder rumbled far away, like some ancient drum summoning ghosts from beneath the earth.
Timi stood in the center of it all.
Still.
Drenched.
The blood on his face—on his shirt, on his arms—ran in rivulets, painting him like some forgotten war god awakened too early. He didn't seem shaken by what he had done. He didn't breathe hard. He didn't even look at Nila.
He looked at nothing.
His eyes were somewhere else—far away from the cracked pavement, from the blood, from the corpses. From her. As if he wasn't just standing in the rain, but lost inside a storm of his own.
Nila hugged herself tightly, her teeth chattering—not just from the cold, but from the strangeness of it all. From him.
Who the hell was he?
This boy who sat quietly in the back of class. Who barely talked. Who seemed like he didn't belong anywhere.
And yet here he stood—drenched in blood, as if violence had always been waiting just beneath his skin.
"Timi…" she whispered, unsure if she was speaking to the same person anymore.
But he didn't turn to her.
Didn't answer.
Instead, he looked up into the dark sky, as if listening to something she couldn't hear. Something old. Something buried.
A faint smile flickered at the corner of his lips—not of joy, but something like... recognition. And then, nothing again. A mask lowered over his face.
A shadow moved through his expression, quiet and unreadable.
Then—
From the depth of that silence, a noise built in his chest. A sound not meant for anyone. Not for her. Not for the world. Something primal. Something definitely not normal.
He screamed.
The sound tore through the rain, sending flocks of distant birds into flight. It wasn't rage, it wasn't grief—it was a scream like a hole being ripped in the universe. And then, without warning—
His eyes rolled back.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed, his body thudding onto the wet pavement.
And he didn't move again.
Nila stood there, under the broken eaves of the shelter, the storm crawling all around them. Her breath was a shiver.
******
Somewhere in Northern Nigeria – 0200hrs
The rotors thudded above me like a slow, angry heartbeat as I crouched at the edge of the Black Hawk's ramp. The world below was a sleeping monster—dark, vast, unforgiving. Savannah stretched out like burnt parchment, veins of dust threading across the land. I adjusted my earpiece.
"This your op, Specter," came the voice of my CO, crackling through comms. "Confirm status."
"Pain's less than yesterday," I muttered, checking the tension in my joints. My right thigh still ached where the metal pipe hit across it. "Numb enough to move. I'll live."
"Copy. Do your thing."
My gloves gripped the edge of the ramp. Black tactical gear hugged every inch of me like a second skin—hood up, eyes veiled behind thermal lenses. I was a shadow in human form. I exhaled, whispered a prayer I didn't believe in, and jumped.
Gravity was the first enemy. It yanked me down like I owed it blood.
The ground rose fast. I flexed just before impact, rolling through the dry grass and loose sand of the Sahelian scrub. My boots skidded to a stop beside the rusted skeleton of an old bicycle, half-buried in red earth.
Savannah winds howled like widows.
Ahead, nestled between termite-eaten trees and crumbling school walls, was my target: what used to be a school compound, now festering with black-flagged bastards who turned chalkboards into murder dens and playgrounds into holding pens.
I slinked through the broken windows like smoke, rifle raised.
A guard yawned near the classroom doorway. He never saw the karambit blade that split his throat like ripped paper. Blood gushed over his chest in hot ropes. I dragged his twitching corpse into the darkness, wiping my blade on his filthy tunic.
The next room reeked of piss, sweat, and old gunpowder.
Two men sat at a rusted desk, AKs slung over their shoulders. One was halfway through chewing suya. I stitched both their skulls with suppressed rounds. Their brains painted the cracked chalkboard in strokes of red and grey.
I moved deeper.
Metal clanked.
A voice yelled in Arabic.
They'd seen the bodies.
The silence shattered into chaos.
I became a phantom in the ruins. Pistol in my left, blade in my right. I weaved between cover as bullets screamed past me, biting into cement, spraying sparks and blood.
A terrorist scrambled toward the Hilux truck parked just beyond the back wall, leaping for the mounted PKM. His foot hit the bumper just as my bullet cracked through his knee. He screamed, dropped, tried to crawl—until I closed the distance and drove my boot into his skull. It caved in like rotted fruit.
The girl was in the last room—barely fifteen, skin thin as paper, eyes wide and dry. She looked at me like I was another nightmare.
"Ina so ki biyo ni," I said in Hausa, lowering my rifle. "Zan fitar da ke daga nan."
She nodded, mute, trembling.
We ran through the courtyard under a rain of lead. Bullets stitched the ground around us. The Hilux exploded behind us, throwing fire into the sky. Dirt rained down in chunks. I wrapped my arm around her and bolted.
The LZ was a sun-scorched clearing near a baobab tree. The chopper waited, blades kicking up dust like a desert storm. My lungs were tearing apart, my heart pounding a war drum.
Ten meters from the bird—
A crack.
Then heat.
My shoulder jerked back.
I'd been hit.
Another round grazed my thigh, singing my skin. I stumbled, but didn't stop.
"Contact! Contact!" a soldier yelled from the ramp, opening fire.
I shoved the girl into waiting arms, then leapt in after her as more rounds peppered the side of the bird. I collapsed into the corner, my breathing shallow.
Blood soaked my gear.
But I was alive.
Mission complete.
Hell still burned behind us, but the rotors carried us away, high into the ink of night.
I didn't speak.
I just watched the fire get smaller.
---
The new week unfurled like a wound that refused to close.
Monday crept in, heavy and gray, the skies leaking a thin drizzle that stained the pavement and turned the air clammy.
Nila returned to school first.
She walked the halls feeling raw, as if every inch of her skin had been peeled back to expose the nerves beneath.
Every sound — laughter, lockers slamming, the shriek of sneakers against linoleum — struck her like a blow.
The air itself felt hostile, heavy, full of eyes.
But the world around her spun on, cruel in its indifference.
Laughter echoed off the high ceilings.
Students clustered in groups, trading jokes and gossip as though nothing had shifted, nothing had shattered.
Teachers barked orders with dry, bored voices, eyes never quite focusing on anything real.
Life moved forward without mercy.
Nila moved through it like a ghost stitched into a too-tight skin.
Her hands trembled when she opened her locker.
She tried to breathe, slow and deep, but the memories clung to her — the screaming, the rain, the dark.
They hadn't faded.
They hadn't even blurred.
They lived just beneath her surface, scratching to get out.
Then, the next day, Timi came back.
It happened in the second period, halfway through a monotonous history lecture.
The classroom door creaked open.
For a heartbeat, the entire world held its breath.
Nila's head snapped up so fast it made her neck ache.
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs, the scar tissue of her fear ripping open.
Timi.
He stood in the doorway, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, rainwater dripping from his hair onto the floor.
He looked exactly the same — same uniform, same face — but something inside him had been gutted.
There was no rage.
No sadness.
No shame.
Just... nothing.
He moved like a puppet cut from its strings.
Each step was light, almost weightless, but drained of life.
Timi slid into his seat — the one he had always used, third from the window — and unpacked his books with a mechanical, detached care.
Every motion was deliberate, almost reverent, as if he were handling relics from a dead civilization.
And when he sat back, his hands folded neatly on his desk, he stared straight ahead at nothing at all.
Not at the teacher.
Not at the board.
Not at Nila.
The boy she had clung to that night — who had held her steady while the world crumbled — was gone.
What remained was a husk.
Nila sat frozen in her seat, every nerve ending screaming at her to move, to call out to him, to do something.
But she couldn't.
The rigid rows of desks hemmed her in.
The droning teacher's voice pinned her in place.
The invisible weight of "normalcy" pressed down until she could barely breathe.
By the time the bell rang for break, she was already on her feet.
She shoved past chattering students, ignoring the shouted jokes and curses, weaving through the throng with single-minded urgency.
She saw him immediately.
Timi sat at the farthest table in the cafeteria, where the light from the grimy windows painted him in shades of gray.
His water bottle sat untouched on the table, spinning slowly under his fingers, the condensation sliding down its sides in sluggish rivulets.
He stared at it like it was a mystery he would never solve.
Nila started toward him, her heart in her throat.
She was halfway there when something slid into her path.
Mendel.
Grinning, bloated Mendel.
He loomed like a boil on the world, cheap cologne clogging the air, his stained shirt straining against his chest.
"Where you dey rush go now?" he sneered, planting himself in front of her with a swagger that reeked of insecurity.
Nila's fists curled reflexively.
She opened her mouth to tell him off, to push past—
—and then the world changed.
The temperature dropped.
The noise dimmed.
And Samuel appeared.
One moment the hallway was filled with students; the next, it was Samuel who owned the space.
He moved through the crowd without touching a single person, as if the very air bent away from him.
Golden-boy Samuel.
Captain of the debate team, champion athlete, teachers' favorite.
Except here and now, stripped of witnesses and pretense, Samuel was something else.
Something terrible.
He closed the distance in two long strides, his hand snapping out with brutal efficiency.
His fingers locked around Mendel's neck, squeezing just enough to make the bigger boy gasp, just enough to turn his bluster into panic.
Samuel's expression didn't change.
No anger.
No gloating.
Just cold calculation.
"Come," he said, in a voice so soft it barely stirred the air.
Mendel struggled, pawing at Samuel's wrist, but Samuel didn't even flinch.
He turned, dragging Mendel effortlessly toward the darkened side corridors — the forgotten parts of the school where no cameras worked, where no teachers dared patrol.
The crowd barely noticed.
Just another boy dragging another boy off for a prank.
Just another ripple in the endless chaos.
But Nila noticed.
She stood frozen for a heartbeat, her breath frosting in the suddenly chill air.
Then Samuel and Mendel vanished around a corner.
Toward the rot.
Toward the hollow places.
Toward the graveyard of rules.
---
The back of the cafeteria was another world.
Soot grew thick along the tall fences.
Trash — candy wrappers, broken chairs, cigarette butts — piled up against the cracked concrete walls.
The air stank of mildew and something sour, something decaying.
Here, the sun was a smudge behind clouds so heavy they sagged close to the earth.
Here, the rules of Greenfield International School did not apply.
Samuel threw Mendel against a collapsing section of fence with a thud that shook loose flakes of mold.
Mendel crumpled, coughing, clutching at his ribs.
Samuel stood over him, hands loose at his sides, head tilted slightly — not angry, not rushed.
Patient.
"You know why we dey here," Samuel said, voice soft, almost fond. "Abi you don forget?"
Mendel tried to scramble up, but Samuel placed one polished shoe against his chest and pushed lightly, pinning him back against the rotting wood.
"Bro... I swear..." Mendel stammered, voice cracking with fear. "I go pay you back... just gimme small time—"
Samuel smiled.
It was a thing of nightmares — all teeth, no warmth.
"You dey owe me twelve thousand dollars," Samuel said, voice still conversational. "No be Naira. No be story. Dollars."
He crouched, bringing his face level with Mendel's.
"How you wan pay me now?"
Mendel's lips flapped, trying to form words, apologies, bargains.
Samuel's smile widened.
"Strip," he said.
Mendel blinked.
He must have heard wrong.
He must have.
"I say strip," Samuel repeated, voice low, deadly. "Or I go strip you myself."
There was no anger in his tone.
Only inevitability.
Mendel's face crumpled.
Trembling, he fumbled with his shirt buttons, fingers slipping on the damp fabric.
One button.
Two.
Three.
His chest was bony, his skin clammy with terror sweat.
Mendel fumbled with the last button, his shirt falling open to expose his trembling chest. The air back here was cooler, sharper — the kind of air that carried secrets and blood without a trace.
Samuel leaned against the cracked wall lazily, like a king overseeing some mundane, distasteful task.
His arms were crossed, and his eyes gleamed faintly with anticipation.
And then they arrived.
Taro, tall and sharp-eyed, his mouth twisted into a permanent sneer.
Desmond, stocky and brutal, the kind of boy who never outgrew the joy of cruelty.
Sean, lean and quiet, his eyes empty of anything human.
All three slipped into the alley like shadows sharpening under the weak light.
Taro towered over most students — lean, long-armed, deadly with precision, a prodigy in archery who could put a pin through a coin at fifty meters. His calmness was a weapon in itself.
Desmond had the thick, blunt strength of a wrecking ball, his body carved from years of brutal, tireless basketball training. One of the stars who had helped bring the school three regional championships.
And Sean — shorter, stockier, the type who bragged endlessly about skills he half-had. A poser. Good at golf, strangely enough, where he could calculate shots others couldn't, but otherwise more mouth than mind.
They all wore the school's loose sports uniforms, blending into the day like harmless students — but here, in this hidden place, they were hyenas circling a wounded gazelle. They formed a loose semicircle around Mendel, boxing him in without touching him.
Samuel spoke without raising his voice.
"Make una beat am well. But —" he raised a lazy finger, pointing at Mendel's arms, then his face — "leave hin forearms, face and wrists clean. No bruises wey teacher fit see. You feel me?"
The three nodded, almost reverently.
Then the beating began.
Taro moved first, his punch whistling through the air and landing squarely on Mendel's ribs. Mendel gasped like a fish hauled out of water, the force crumpling him to the ground instantly.
Desmond followed, a brutal kick to Mendel's side, careful, controlled — enough to paralyze with pain but not break anything critical.
Sean — grinning idiotically — jumped in with wild kicks to Mendel's thighs and back.
The sounds were ugly: flesh on flesh, heavy breathing, low grunts.
Mendel tried to shield himself, curling in, but every time he covered one side, a fist or a foot found another.
Samuel watched it all like a bored god judging sinners.
Taro, methodical, knelt beside Mendel at one point and punched the same spot on his stomach four, five, six times — deliberate, mechanical blows that would turn the flesh deep purple by morning.
Desmond cracked a fist against Mendel's shoulder, then gripped his hair and rammed his head lightly — carefully — against the wall.
Sean, not understanding nuance, kicked too high once. Samuel barked a sharp, low "Enough," and Sean immediately backed off, sheepish, muttering a curse under his breath.
Mendel's breath came in wet gasps now, spittle mixing with blood on his lips. His face was swelling, his nose slightly crooked.
But his arms — and his wrists — remained untouched.
Exactly as instructed.
Taro stepped back, wiping his knuckles casually against his shorts.
Desmond spat to the side.
Sean cracked his neck, already bragging under his breath about how much damage he had personally done.
Samuel finally stepped forward, crouching by Mendel's mangled body.
He reached out and tapped Mendel's battered cheek lightly, mockingly, almost affectionately.
"Next time," he whispered, voice soft like silk dragging over broken glass, "return my money. Fast. Before I come find you somewhere worse."
Mendel whimpered a broken sound. A nod. Anything to end this.
Samuel straightened up and, with a simple flick of his fingers, signaled his crew.
They left Mendel crumpled there like discarded trash, slipping away into the sunlight that suddenly seemed too bright, too normal, for what had just happened.
And not a soul in the school would ever know.
Mendel would stagger back to the classes later, claiming he had fallen.
No proof otherwise.
No witnesses in the school could ever be brave enough to contradict Samuel and his crew.