Mushin – Safe House, Morning
Mutiu woke to the staccato drip of water and the faint, uneven hum of a generator struggling in the next building. The room was small, walls cracked, painted a dull brown that seemed to swallow the little light slipping through the boarded window. The air smelled of diesel, damp clothes, and the lingering ghost of yesterday's rain.
He sat up slowly, muscles tight, senses braced. One door. One nailed window. One exit. The so-called safe house wasn't safe—it was a cage with slightly better paint.
Fragments of last night replayed like a cruel slideshow: the alley, the shadows, the lie of freedom. His chest tightened at the memory of wet concrete, the sound of boots that weren't his own, and the envelope strapped to his chest—the envelope that now seemed almost sentient in its weight.
He spread its contents on the creaky table: documents, payment slips, signatures. Then froze. One page was gone.
The folds were uneven, a faint trace of cologne lingered in the air. Someone had touched the truth while he slept. His heart thumped against his ribs like a warning bell. Two underlined names: a commissioner, a minister—gone. The sheet that could ignite the city had been plucked from his hands.
A vibration jerked him from paralysis. A message blinked on his burner phone:
Unknown: They know where you are.
He inhaled, slow and steady. The city outside hummed faintly, indifferent. Mutiu straightened, gathering the envelope and sliding a small pistol from beneath the bed. His hands were steady despite the tremor in his chest. "If I'm bait," he whispered, "then I choose where the hook lands."
He turned the handle, stepping into the rain-slicked morning.
---
Surulere – Bayo's Office, Mid-Morning
Bayo hadn't slept. Coffee cups and papers littered the desk like storm debris. The glow from his laptop painted him gray-blue, weary, determined. Every line of code, every transaction path, every offshore account traced toward one name: Eze Holdings.
Tope hovered beside him, tablet casting pale light over her features. "It's not development, Bayo," she murmured. "The North Lagos contract isn't infrastructure—it's control. Import rights, ten years. Billions. And whose name appears in Amaka's old files?"
Her voice softened as his eyes tightened at the mention. Amaka.
Her laughter, sharp and brave, still haunted the corners of his mind. The press badge on his desk, laminated and cracked, reminded him what silence had cost.
"Every threat, every death, every contract—they intersect here," he murmured. "The bid wasn't profit. It was a trap. If I'd bent, the city would've broken me publicly."
"And you refused?" Tope asked.
"As always," he said. Cold, precise. "Refusal doesn't stop them—it makes them desperate."
Before she could respond, Bayo's phone blinked. Mutiu: Safe house compromised. Moving.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. "Still alive. But the net is closing."
---
North Lagos – Eze's Compound, Afternoon
The compound gleamed like arrogance incarnate. Glass walls reflected sunlight like polished steel. The air smelled of leather, money, and subtle fear.
"Mutiu escaped Akala," a man reported, eyes flicking to a live map. "He's moving through Mushin. Surveillance confirms."
Eze lifted a sharp gaze, slow and measured. "Contain him quietly. Bayo Adeniran must remain discredited, not sanctified."
"Sir, risk of leaks," another said cautiously. "Someone on the board might sympathize."
"Sympathy?" Eze smiled, faint, lethal. "Clean the board before the streets. Betrayal is contagious."
The horizon stretched beneath his window, Lagos tame, obedient. "Power is like water," he murmured. "Control the flow, and you decide who drowns."
He sipped his scotch, eyes hard. "If Bayo wants heroism, let him pay with blood."
---
Mushin – Pursuit, Dusk
Rust-orange skies burned above Mushin. Mutiu moved through narrow backstreets, the envelope pressing against his chest like a second heartbeat.
Footsteps echoed behind him—two, maybe three men. Deliberate, unhurried. Hunters giving their prey a head start.
He ducked into an alley, vaulted a fence, landing among broken glass and faded campaign posters. A shadow emerged.
Mutiu raised his pistol.
"Easy," the man said. Goke. Jaw bruised, eyes alert. One of Bayo's old contacts.
"They're close," Goke warned. "You can't stay."
"You shouldn't be here either," Mutiu hissed.
"I'm compromised," Goke admitted. "But I'm here because Bayo will need proof—before this city swallows him whole."
He handed Mutiu a small flash drive. "Everything they buried. You're not the only one they tried to use."
Gunfire cracked through the evening. Dust and debris sprayed.
"Move!" Goke shouted, shoving him toward the gate.
Mutiu ran, lungs burning. Realization hit: his so-called freedom had been a trap to draw out every ally Bayo still had. And it had worked.
He cut through a narrow schoolyard passage. Children laughed faintly behind rusted gates, a stark reminder of what they fought to protect. His pace quickened, urgency in every footfall.
---
Surulere – Night Decisions
The office hummed with the steady pulse of danger. Bayo scanned the new file: contracts, signatures, bank trails. The missing pages from Mutiu's envelope were there—kickback agreements, false approvals, ministers' names. Proof.
"To release this," Tope whispered, tension taut in her voice, "is to burn the city."
Bayo's fingers hovered over the keyboard. "And if we don't, the poison spreads."
A long pause. Only the fan hummed, and the distant city lights flickered like restless souls. He whispered, almost to himself: "They already took everything that made this city clean. What's left but breath itself?"
Turning to her, he said firmly: "We give them air, Tope. Even if it chokes us first."
Her eyes met his, nodding slowly. "Then let's make it count."
He gazed at the skyline again. "Let them see us bleed if they must—at least they'll know we fought."
---
Closing Note
Lagos pulsed under dim orange lights—alive, complicit, unhealed.
Mutiu vanished into the night, envelope and flash drive hidden. Goke's warning echoed: truth burns slow, but it never dies quietly.
Bayo sat in silence, facing a truth heavy enough to crush nations.
Far away, Mr. Eze watched the skyline, unaware that cracks were forming beneath his empire's marble floors.
In Lagos, silence is safety.
But truth? Truth is the loudest death sentence of all.