Zion's POV
Professor Mick's voice cut through the usual hum of chatter as he announced the topic: "Can a person ever escape the weight of their own reputation?"
Zion leaned back in his chair, arms folded. Beside him, Segun was scrolling through his phone, only half-listening, while Michael jotted random sketches on the back of his notebook. Jade sat on the other side of the room with Miriam, legs crossed, chin tilted high. The question was practically an invitation for her, and Zion knew she'd bite.
Jade's hand shot up. "Sometimes a reputation is just what people create to make themselves feel righteous. It's not about what you've done — it's about what they need to believe."
Zion smirked slightly, recognizing her defiance, the sharpness of her words like tiny blades. He'd seen those blades cut, even when she was backed against a wall.
Then Stephen's voice cut through. Low, thoughtful. "But doesn't that mean we're all victims of perception? You can call it a lie, but if a hundred people believe it, it's as real as the truth. We can't pretend we're immune to the weight of a hundred voices."
Zion's head turned. Stephen had spoke frequently in class, always in a measured, deliberate way. But today, there was a different energy — assured but not boastful. The class quieted, and Zion noticed how Jade's gaze flicked to Stephen, her brows knitting slightly. Stephen leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. He wore an easy smile, the kind that played at confidence without appearing to try.
Zion's mind lingered on Stephen's words long after the debate ended. The idea of a truth crafted by consensus. A twisted thought, but not wrong. And it annoyed Zion that Stephen had delivered it.
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Zion spotted Stephen alone in the cafeteria, idly scrolling through his phone, a half-eaten plate of jollof rice and fried plantain in front of him. Michael and Segun had peeled off to flirt with some girls by the stairwell, and Zion, still restless from the debate, found himself walking toward Stephen.
"Hey," Zion began, steadying his voice. "That point you made about perception — that was... interesting."
Stephen looked up, his surprise quickly masked by that easy smile. "Oh, thanks, man. Just a thought."
Zion pulled out a chair and sat. The proximity made his skin itch, but he kept his expression level. Stephen's phone lay face up on the table, the screen blank.
"What did you mean by that, though?" Zion pressed. "That idea that perception is just... collective belief. Like, it doesn't matter what's true anymore?"
Stephen shrugged, eyes narrowing slightly, as if gauging Zion's intentions. "We live in a world where narratives matter more than facts. What's true is whatever enough people believe — that's power."
Zion nodded, eyes shifting to Stephen's phone just as the screen lit up with a message:
"Extasy Drift, 9 PM. Don't be late, bastard."
It was gone in a flash, but Zion had seen it — the time, the location. The words pulsed in his mind, sharp and accusatory. Stephen followed his gaze, then calmly flipped the phone over, a lazy grin on his face.
"Something on your mind?" Stephen asked, a trace of challenge in his voice.
Zion's mouth went dry, but he forced a smile. "Nah, just distracted. I should... I should let you finish your food."
Stephen watched him as he got up, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Zion's steps were steady, but his mind was buzzing, alive with suspicion.
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Extasy Drift
By 9:30 PM, Zion was outside Extasy Drift, the infamous nightclub for the rich, reckless, and restless. The sign was a neon beast — red and green letters that flickered like they were daring you to enter. The bouncers were built like brick walls, their eyes scanning for trouble. Zion had to squeeze past a group of girls in tiny, glittering dresses, their laughter cutting through the heavy night air like shards.
Inside, the place pulsed — music that clung to the skin, basslines so deep they rattled the bones. Naija hits blared through the speakers: Burna Boy, Rema, Asake. The crowd moved with abandon — hips rolling, arms raised, mouths open in wild, careless delight. The lights flashed erratically — red, blue, white — a kaleidoscope of temptation. The air was thick with alcohol, sweat, and the sharp, sweet tang of weed.
Afrobeats boomed from speakers set into the corners, each track a familiar rhythm of seduction and sin. Girls with heavy lashes and tight dresses hung onto men who flashed teeth and wallets. Some people danced like their bodies were untethered, completely given to the music. A group of guys in a corner took drags from shisha pipes, the sweet smoke trailing around their heads like halos. Zion's pulse quickened, a raw discomfort rising in his throat.
His eyes scanned the space carefully, searching for Stephen and Lucas. It didn't take long to spot them — Stephen's tall frame and Lucas's relaxed, cocky posture. They had taken over a small booth at the edge of the club, just out of reach of the heaviest crowd but still blending in.
Zion slipped into a barstool at a nearby counter, half-obscured by a pillar and the edge of a tacky wall mirror. He ordered a drink he had no intention of drinking, just something to keep the bartender's curiosity at bay. He tilted slightly, straining his ears to catch their conversation.
"…guy, chill. I know how to handle this." Stephen's voice was low but firm, a tone of someone used to control.
Lucas chuckled, the sound sharp like a blade. "Handle it, abi? Na so we talk the last time."
"Last time was a mistake. This time, e sure die," Stephen countered, his voice harder now.
Lucas leaned back, his arm lazily draped over the back of the booth. "Just know say if you fumble, no story. Evidence choke."
Zion's heart thudded louder. He strained to hear more, but a loud burst of laughter from a group beside him drowned the rest out. He sipped his drink absently, eyes darting between the glass and the booth. Stephen's face was unreadable, but Lucas's expression — smug, too sure of himself — made Zion's skin crawl.
The lights strobed again, casting wild shadows over Stephen's face. For a split second, his gaze swept the room, and Zion's breath hitched, his heart clawing against his ribs. But Stephen's eyes drifted away, unaware, uninterested.
Zion waited a little longer, watching as Stephen and Lucas finally stood and made their way toward the back exit, cutting through the crowd. Zion stayed rooted, letting the tension in his chest ease. He downed his drink and slipped out a few minutes later, his mind reeling with the snatches of conversation that made less sense the more he thought about them.
This was a mistake. Or maybe it was the only way forward.