Ilorin North — Dawn
The city woke like an old man rising from uneasy sleep. Morning broke pale and uncertain, a thin mist crawling over rooftops and unpaved roads. Vendors whispered to each other in voices that carried both fear and curiosity. No one trusted the quiet.
Inside the safehouse, Tope stood by the window. Her reflection stared back, eyes hollow from nights without rest. The old transistor radio on the shelf cracked with static, then found a voice — the same breaking story looping on every frequency.
"The leaks are verified. Documents confirm large-scale diversions from the Ministry of Infrastructure..."
Each word burned through the silence.
Bayo sat nearby, his laptop screen glowing faintly. Lines of code flickered, tracing disappearing signals. Ayo's last transmission had ended three hours ago. No trace since.
"Still nothing?" Tope asked.
He shook his head. "He wiped his trail. No device ID, no relay pings. It's like he ghosted the whole grid."
"But he wouldn't just vanish," she said softly. "Not after this."
"He's smarter than any of us," Bayo replied. "If he's quiet, it means he's somewhere deep — doing something that matters."
The radio cut again, this time to a reporter trembling through live coverage. "Across the nation, protests are beginning to form. University students in Ibadan... a workers' union in Kano... hundreds marching in Lagos..."
Tope lowered the curtain. "The storm's started."
Bayo exhaled slowly. "Then we move."
~ ~ ~
Ilorin North — Midday
The streets had changed their rhythm. Shopfronts half-opened, murmurs spilling like smoke from doorways. Every phone screen carried a headline, every whispered conversation echoed the same question — Who released the files?
At the corner kiosk, a young man in a torn Arsenal jersey played a viral video for a small crowd. "See am! Na true, no edit! Them dey show the minister own signature there sef!"
The crowd buzzed like a hive disturbed. Someone spat on the ground. Someone else started chanting.
Back in the safehouse, Bayo monitored a dozen live feeds from across the country. Abuja was boiling — protesters marching toward the National Assembly, chanting in unison. Lagos Island was blocked by police barricades. Ilorin's university gates had become a rally ground.
Tope paced. "They're not waiting for leaders anymore."
"They shouldn't," Bayo said. "This isn't about us. It's theirs now."
She stopped, facing him. "And you're fine with that? Losing control?"
He gave a small smile. "Control was never the point."
Her voice softened. "You sound like Eagle-One."
At that, Bayo looked toward the wall — the encrypted tablet blinking faintly in the corner. A single message pulsed there, timestamped an hour ago:
"When the ground breathes, even shadows must listen. — E1"
He hadn't told Tope it arrived. Somehow, Eagle-One always knew when to reappear.
~ ~ ~
Ilorin North — Afternoon
Heat rolled in heavy waves. The generator hummed. The power grid had begun to falter — certain districts gone dark, the internet throttled in bursts. A government press release flashed on the screen:
"Unverified data leak... national security threat... perpetrators under investigation..."
Bayo snorted. "They're panicking."
Tope leaned over his shoulder. "They'll come for anyone who ever touched a USB drive."
"Let them. The files are everywhere now. Thousands have downloaded, mirrored, and archived. Even if they shut down every hub, the truth won't vanish."
He clicked open another feed — this one from a classroom in Benin City. A teacher stood before a chalkboard, explaining the leaked documents to her students. The children were taking notes. In another clip, a mechanic streamed live from his workshop, saying, "If they stole from us, we have a right to ask where our taxes went."
Tope whispered, "They've turned classrooms and garages into battlegrounds."
"And that's how a movement survives," Bayo replied. "Not through one man's code, but through a million hands that won't stop typing, speaking, teaching."
She studied him quietly. "You really think we'll win?"
He met her eyes. "We already made them afraid. That's a start."
~ ~ ~
Ilorin North — Evening
The smell of rain carried through the air, thick with dust and tension. Bayo and Tope sat by the window, the city lights dimming as black clouds gathered.
On the TV, the Minister of Defense gave a shaky address. "These acts are cyber terrorism. We will find those responsible."
But even as he spoke, the subtitles were hijacked. A line of new text appeared — clean, defiant, unmistakable:
"You cannot silence a people who have learned to listen. — A."
Tope's hand flew to her mouth. "Ayo."
Bayo's pulse quickened. "He's alive."
More screens across the world lit up — France, Ghana, Kenya, Canada. Each carried the same line in local languages, timestamped seconds apart.
The rain began, soft but insistent, like the earth itself was whispering.
Tope turned toward him. "He's still fighting."
Bayo nodded. "And now... so are we."
He closed his laptop and reached for his satchel. Inside were maps, coded drives, and a small photo of his old engineering crew — the men who'd died building the bridge that collapsed because of stolen funds. His silence had begun there. It would end tonight.
~ ~ ~
Ilorin North — Night
Thunder cracked. The city plunged into half-darkness.
Bayo stood near the window again, the sound of distant chanting drifting through the storm. Somewhere beyond the hills, people were gathering — farmers, teachers, vendors, students — united not by command, but by truth.
Tope joined him quietly. "If they find us—"
"They will," he interrupted. "But that's not what matters."
Her gaze lingered on him. "Then what does?"
"That the next voice they hear isn't ours. It's theirs."
Lightning flashed, revealing his tired but resolute face. The boy who once built roads was now building something else — a path through fear.
The radio came alive again, faint under the thunder:
"Unconfirmed reports suggest multiple government networks compromised again tonight... sources point to an unidentified signal repeating from off-grid nodes..."
Tope frowned. "Off-grid?"
Bayo leaned closer, listening. In the static between words, he caught a pattern — rhythmic, deliberate, too calculated to be random.
Eagle-One.
Or something worse.
The storm deepened. The walls seemed to breathe. For a moment, Bayo thought he saw movement in the shadows outside — a silhouette watching, unmoving, drenched in rain.
He turned sharply. Nothing.
Only darkness. And the echo of thunder rolling like distant drums.
Tope's voice trembled. "Bayo… what if—"
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then we stay ready."
The lights flickered, then died completely. The hum of the generator sputtered into silence.
For a long time, there was nothing but rain.
Then — a faint ping from the tablet. One final message:
"The kingmakers are listening now. — E1"
Bayo's jaw tightened. "Then let them hear everything."
He stepped into the shadows.
And the ground breathed again.