Chapter 2
Riley and I hugged for a brief moment before I excused myself. It was still the middle of the day, and she clearly had work to return to.
I had finished my interview around two o'clock, and by three, I already had my results. Relieved and a little drained, I decided to branch off at the supermarket on my way home to pick up a few things for cooking.
Inside, I strolled through the aisles, gathering what I needed into a basket before placing it in the cart. At the cashier's desk, I paid for everything, and the young woman behind the counter smiled brightly. "Have a good day," she said cheerfully. Her good mood was almost contagious, and I found myself smiling back as I packed my items neatly into my bag.
As I was about to leave the counter, the cashier smiled again and hesitated before speaking. "Sorry, I just have to say—you're really a beautiful girl. If I may ask… are you mixed?"
I laughed and felt my cheeks warm, a little blush creeping in. Compliments like this weren't new to me, but they always caught me off guard. "Yes," I replied lightly. My dad is Italian, and my mom is Nigerian."
Her eyes widened. "Wow, that's really nice!"
I nodded with a smile. "Yes, she's Yoruba."
The cashier's face lit up. "That's good. That's really beautiful."
She packed up the last of my groceries with extra care before sliding them toward me. I thanked her, lifted the bags, and with one last smile, made my way outside.
The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the pavement as I ordered a taxi. When it pulled up, I tucked my things neatly inside, climbed in, and leaned back against the seat. The ride home began, the city rolling past as I finally allowed myself to exhausted
As I leaned back against the taxi seat, I noticed a missed call from my mom. My stomach flipped a little—she never liked it when I didn't pick up. Quickly, I dialed her number, and after a few rings, she answered.
"Abby, how are you?" she said, her familiar voice filling my ear.
"I'm good, Mom," I replied.
Her tone shifted slightly, just as I expected. "Abby, I called you before. Why didn't you answer my call? You mean to tell me you were that busy you couldn't pick up?"
I chuckled softly, already guilty. "I'm sorry, Mom. I was at the market buying some groceries."
She sighed. "Okay, but next time, at least try to answer. You know I don't like being ignored."
I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. "Alright, Mom, I will."
There was a pause, then she added, "I actually wanted to ask about your interview. How did it go? Your dad was also calling you several times earlier today, but he told me you didn't answer. Make sure you call him when you get the chance."
"Yes, Mom," I promised. "I'll call him as soon as I get home."
"Good." Her voice softened. "Alright then, I won't disturb you too much. You sound tired. Call me later, okay?"
"Okay, Mom. I will."
We ended the call, and I stared out the taxi window, clutching my phone in my hand. Despite her firm tone, there was comfort in her voice. For a moment, it made me forget the unease that still lingered from earlier in the day.
Finally reaching my apartment, I offloaded the groceries from the taxi. I paid the driver, slipped him a small tip, and watched as he drove away. With a deep breath, I hoisted the bags toward the lobby, gave a polite smile to the receptionist on duty, and headed straight for my room.
At the door, just as I tried to fit the key into the knob, it slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. "Ugh, seriously?" I muttered under my breath, crouching down to pick it up. My shoulders sagged with frustration, but I shoved the key back in, turned it, and finally pushed the door open.
The familiar freshness of the apartment air greeted me. I closed the door behind me, setting the bags down with a relieved sigh. After slipping off my shoes, I carried everything into the kitchen. One by one, I unpacked the items onto the counter—some toiletries, fresh spinach, broccoli, salmon, turkey, chicken, and a few other essentials. The sight of it all lined up neatly gave me a small, satisfying sense of order
laughed to myself when I realized I hadn't even changed out of my clothes yet. Leaving the groceries on the counter, I headed to the bathroom. With a sigh of relief, I unbanded my hair, letting all my coils tumble loose around my shoulders. I peeled off my blouse and skirt, setting them aside, and decided a quick bath would help wash off the weight of the day.
Warm water slid over me, rinsing away the city's dust and the tension clinging to my skin. By the time I stepped out, I felt lighter, calmer. I slipped into a simple, comfortable gown and slid my feet into my fluffy dog slippers. Finally, I was home—not just in my apartment, but in my body too.
I stood by the mirror, carefully wiping away every trace of makeup from my face until my skin felt fresh and bare again. The reflection staring back at me looked softer, more natural, almost like myself returning after a long day.
I ran a comb gently through my hair, not bothering to style it perfectly—just enough to keep the tangles away. Gathering it loosely, I twisted it into a bun at the back of my head, letting a few rebellious strands fall free. Some brushed against my cheek, one grazed my eyebrow, and others framed the sides of my face, softening my look.
For the first time all day, I felt completely at ease
three calls.
"Hi, my darling, how are you doing?" his familiar voice came through, warm and strong.
Smiling, I answered, "I'm doing good, Dad."
"That's wonderful to hear," he said, his tone easing some of the day's weight from my shoulders. "Your mother told me about the interview. How did it go?"
I leaned back in my chair, twirling a loose strand of hair between my fingers. "It was intense, Dad. I was nervous at first, but I managed to stay calm and answer all their questions. They told me I'll be starting work on Monday."
He let out a proud chuckle. "That's my girl. Always finding her way through. I knew you could do it."
"Amore mio, andrà tutto bene in tutto quello che fai."
Non stressarti troppo, amore mio. Farai molto bene in quello che stai facendo. Abbi solo pazienza. Sii coraggiosa."(Don't stress yourself too much, my love. You're going to do very well in what you're doing. Just have patience. Be brave)my dad said in Italian
"Grazie, papà." (Thank you, Dad.)
There was a small pause on the other end, and then he chuckled. "You're welcome, figlia mia. Always remember, no matter where you are, you're never alone. Your mother and I are always with you, even if only in spirit."
I swallowed, my throat tightening a little. "I know, Dad. I really do. And it means so much to me."
The sound of his voice felt like home—steady, warm, and grounding. For a few moments, we just talked about simple things: how he spent his day, what he cooked, the neighbors he had bumped into. It was ordinary, but the ordinariness itself made me feel safe.
Eventually, he sighed. "Alright, my love. It's late, and you need your rest. Monday will be here before you know it. Promise me you'll sleep well tonight?"
"I promise, Daddy."
"Good girl. I love you."
"I love you too."
When the call ended, I sat for a moment longer in the quiet corridor, letting the silence wrap around me. Then I rose, went back inside, and closed the door behind me, ready to end the day on a peaceful note.
Meanwhile, miles away from where Adi had laid her head to rest, the atmosphere inside a vast, dimly lit hall grew heavy with dread. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, as if recoiling from the presence of the figure seated at the head of the long table.
A dark, menacing aura bled into the room, making even the bravest hearts falter. He was a man shrouded in legend—some called him Il Diavolo… the Devil himself. His name was never spoken lightly, for stories of him lived in whispers, passed around like forbidden fire.
They said he was a tyrant, a devil in the making, one who slaughtered his enemies without hesitation or mercy. Some tales were wild exaggerations, born of fear. Others were grim truths wrapped in silence. Yet the cruelest rumor of all was this: those who dared to cross his path never lived long enough to tell their story.
Tonight, he had summoned one of the branch members—a rare and dangerous honor. The man, trembling as he stepped into the hall, felt his very soul shrink beneath the Devil's gaze.
The air grew colder. The hall fell silent.
And then, slowly, the Devil leaned forward, crimson eyes glinting faintly in the low light.
The Devil's fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, each hollow knock echoing like a death toll in the vast hall. The branch member stood stiffly before him, sweat tracing down his temples despite the chill in the room.
"You know why you are here," the Devil said, his voice deep, smooth, and venomous. It carried no need for volume; the sheer weight of it pressed down like chains.
The man swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Y-Yes, my lord. The preparations are almost complete. We have eyes in every department, and the girl—"
"—the girl," the Devil interrupted, crimson eyes narrowing. He leaned forward slightly, and in that moment the man's knees nearly buckled. "Do not speak her name. Not here. Not yet."
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint flicker of the torches on the wall. The Devil's expression was unreadable, his lips curving into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"She is moving exactly where I want her to be," he said at last. "But do not mistake this for chance. Fate bends only for those who have the will to break it."
The branch member lowered his gaze, trembling. "Understood, my lord."
The Devil stood, his presence towering, his shadow stretching across the hall like a monstrous beast. He turned his back on the man, staring into the darkness beyond the window.
"Watch her. Do not interfere. The time will come soon enough."
The words hung in the air like a curse, and though the branch member bowed and quickly excused himself, he knew one truth remained: whoever this girl was, her path was already entangled with the Devil's. And when the time came, there would be no escaping him.
The hall emptied until only he remained, standing in silence. The Devil's cloak shifted faintly as a gust of unnatural wind swept through the chamber, though no doors or windows were open. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, reflecting against the polished stone floor.
On the far side of the room, a faint whimper echoed. The branch member had not truly left alone—two guards dragged in a trembling figure, bound at the wrists. The prisoner fell to his knees, his face bruised and swollen, barely recognizable beneath the shadows.
The Devil didn't turn to look. "Why is he here?"
One guard answered quickly, voice firm to mask his fear. "My lord, he was caught speaking of you… in public."
The Devil exhaled slowly, almost as if amused. "Still, after so many lessons?" His voice was calm, too calm, and that was what made it terrifying.
He stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the floor. Standing before the prisoner, he lowered himself until their eyes met. The man's breath hitched as he gazed into those crimson depths—like staring into a pit with no end.
"You know the price of loose tongues," the Devil murmured. "And yet, you dared."
The prisoner shook violently, unable to form words.
The Devil stood upright once more, turning away with a flick of his hand. "Dispose of him."
The guards obeyed without hesitation, dragging the man into the shadows. His muffled cries echoed briefly, then silence returned to the hall.
The Devil, unbothered, returned to his seat. Fingers steepled, he whispered into the dark:
"Soon, she will stand before me. And when that day comes…" His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "…not even fate itself will save her."
While speaking, his icy cold lips glistened beneath the pale shine of the night, each word curling out like a frostbite in the air. His long, silken hair flowed with the faint wind, its wavering strands almost delicate—resembling that of a maiden's, though no softness truly belonged to him.
His skin, pale and flawless, gleamed under the silver moonlight—too perfect, too blameless, like a sculpture carved by cruel gods. Yet the sharpness of his eyes betrayed him. They burned crimson, cutting as sharply as a blade slicing through iron, a gaze that could strip a man's soul bare.
He was the definition of perfection—terrifying, exquisite, and inhuman. Beauty bound tightly to corruption, flawless but cursed, immaculate yet destined to deform.
And as he stood there, cloaked in silence, one truth became clear: he was not merely feared because of his cruelty, but because he was impossible to look away from.
The moonlight framed him like a portrait of something otherworldly—something not meant to exist in mortal realms. His lips curved into a faint, icy smile, sharp and unreadable. A ripple of power moved through the hall, bending the air itself, as though the night bent to his will.
Perfection…" he whispered, his voice smooth yet carrying the weight of death itself. "They call it beauty. I call it a curse."
His hand lifted slowly, pale fingers brushing a strand of hair from his face. For a fleeting second, he almost looked… human. But the illusion broke when his crimson eyes flared again, sharper, hungrier.
In the silence that followed, the sound of distant thunder rumbled outside the hall, though the skies had been clear. He tilted his head, sensing something far beyond the walls—something, or someone.
A thin, satisfied smirk spread across his lips. "She dreams tonight… doesn't she?"
The torches along the walls flickered violently, nearly extinguished, as if his words reached across miles into another world.
Far away, as Abby lay curled in her bed, she stirred. Her face tensed, brows furrowing, as though something unseen brushed against her mind. Shadows flickered across her dreams, and for a moment, she thought she saw a pair of crimson eyes glowing in the dark—watching her.
She gasped, turning over, but sleep pulled her deeper, unaware that somewhere, the Devil himself had already set his gaze upon her.
Abby found herself standing in a place she didn't recognize. A field stretched endlessly before her, but it wasn't alive—no flowers, no trees, only grass blackened as though burned by fire. The sky above was red, thick clouds shifting like smoke, and the air was heavy with silence.
She looked down at her hands. They trembled. What is this place?
A sound echoed, distant at first, like metal dragging across stone. Slowly, it grew louder. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her forward, though she swore she hadn't taken a step.
In the distance, a figure stood. Tall. Motionless. Cloaked in shadows that twisted and curled around him like living things. His long hair swayed in an invisible wind, and when he lifted his head, Abby froze.
Crimson eyes.
Her heart pounded painfully against her chest, her breath shallow. She tried to speak, to ask who he was, but no words left her lips.
The figure began to walk toward her. His steps didn't disturb the ground, as though the earth itself dared not acknowledge him. When he finally stopped just a few feet away, Abby felt the weight of his presence pressing down on her like a storm.
"Found you," he whispered, his voice a dangerous caress, like ice sliding across skin.
Abby stumbled back, shaking her head. "No… I don't know you," she finally managed to say, though her voice cracked.
He smiled. The kind of smile that promised both ruin and temptation. "Not yet."
Suddenly, the field around her erupted into flame. Black fire, roaring and consuming everything in sight, but it gave no warmth—only cold. Abby screamed, shielding her face, but when she looked up again, the figure was gone.
Instead, only the sound of his voice lingered in the air:
"Soon."
Abby jolted awake, sitting upright in her bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat dripped down her forehead, her hands clutching the blanket as though for dear life. The room was quiet, only the hum of the night outside her window.
She pressed her palm against her chest, whispering to herself, "It was just a dream… just a dream."
But deep down, a part of her knew—whatever she had seen wasn't just a dream.
morning:
Abby dragged herself out of bed, her body still heavy from the restless night. The memory of the dream lingered like a shadow at the back of her mind, but she shook it off. Today was too important—her first official day at work.
She stretched, her joints popping lightly, then trudged to the bathroom. The cold tiles against her feet jolted her more awake than the alarm ever could. She splashed water over her face, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Nothing. Just her tired, dark brown eyes looking back at her.
She sighed, gripping the sink. "You're just stressed, Abby. Just stressed," she whispered to herself.
After bathing and carefully slipping into her clean set of scrubs, she tied her hair into a neat ponytail and let a few strands frame her face. She grabbed her bag, packed the slip of items Ms. Cole had given her, and glanced at the time—7:15 a.m. Just enough to grab a quick bite before leaving.
In the kitchen, she buttered a slice of bread, took a few hurried bites, and sipped some tea. Yet, the taste felt distant, like her mind wasn't fully there. Images of the field, the fire, and that man's crimson eyes flickered in her thoughts.
By 7:40, Abby was out the door, walking briskly toward the bus stop. The air was crisp, a faint chill brushing her arms. She tried to steady her thoughts by focusing on the ordinary—the sound of car horns, people rushing past, the chatter of morning markets opening.
But then—
As she stood waiting for her bus, she felt it. That same heavy aura from her dream, subtle but undeniable, brushing against her skin like cold wind. She shivered, turning her head sharply.
Across the street, among the bustling crowd, a man stood. His figure tall, his hair dark and slightly wavy, his presence unnervingly still in the rush of morning commuters. Abby blinked, and in that instant, he was gone
She just blew up. "What the fuck is going on? I don't understand — the person dey haunt me!" she muttered under her breath in that English–Pidgin tone she always slipped into when frustration took over. Her eyes darted left and right as though she could see the shadows she was talking about.
"Sea spirits everywhere… I swear…" she added, scratching her head with both hands, pacing a little. It was something she always said when things felt overwhelming — a habit more than a literal belief.
But now, her heart was thumping for real. "I don't have time to think of this," she told herself, forcing a shaky laugh. "Not today, not on my first day."
She inhaled deeply, straightened her bag strap, and pushed forward. The city was already waking up around her — buses honking, street vendors shouting, sunlight beginning to press against the grey of dawn. She moved faster, focusing on the familiar: the smell of roasted groundnuts at the roadside, the distant sound of gospel music from a kiosk radio.
She could feel her hands tremble slightly as she walked. But she repeated under her breath, "Work first. All this na later. Work first."
Within minutes she reached the main gate of the building — tall glass panels reflecting the morning sky, the letters LN Bootley glinting like a beacon above the entrance.
She entered into the building; the glass doors slid open automatically as though sensing her arrival. Her scrubs fit neatly against her frame, her clean white shoes squeaking softly with each step. The air-conditioning brushed her skin, cooling the nervous heat rising inside her.
She quickly pulled out her phone, thumbs flying over WhatsApp:
"I'm inside already. You dey around?"
Message sent to Riley, just to confirm she was nearby. Abby slipped the phone back into her pocket before she could second-guess herself.
Almost immediately, a warm voice called out.
"Good morning. You must be Abby, right?"
She turned, and there stood the manager of nursing department — a tall woman with short hair, dressed in an immaculate suit. Her smile was professional, yet kind enough to ease the stiffness in Abby's shoulders.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm Abby," she replied, her voice steady though her heart skipped.
"Welcome to LN Bootley," the manager said, offering a handshake. "We've been expecting you. Let me officially welcome you to the team."
They exchanged a firm shake. Then the manager gestured toward the elevators on the far side of the lobby. "I'll direct you to your department. From there, you'll be shown your station and briefed on today's orientation schedule. Don't worry, we'll take things step by step."
Abby nodded quickly, grateful for the clarity. "Thank you, ma'am."
The woman gave her an encouraging smile before leading her toward the elevators, her heels clicking smartly on the marble floor.
Abby followed, shoulders squaring just a little.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Abby stepped in beside the manager, the mirrored walls reflecting her own nervous face back at her. She adjusted the strap of her bag and tried not to fidget.
As the elevator rose, the manager glanced at her. "You'll be assigned to Ward C for now. It's a general ward — busy, but a good place to learn the ropes. The head nurse there will supervise you. Just stay attentive, and you'll be fine."
"Yes, ma'am," Abby said, her voice polite, but inside she repeated the words like a prayer: Stay attentive. Stay fine.
The elevator dinged, and the doors parted. The hallway ahead was wide, painted in calming shades of pale blue. Nurses in scrubs moved briskly between rooms, pushing trolleys, checking charts, carrying trays. The low hum of activity filled the space — beeping machines, shuffling footsteps, and occasional murmurs of patients.
The manager walked Abby down the corridor until they reached a large double-door marked Ward C. She pushed it open, and Abby stepped inside.
Rows of beds stretched across the ward, some occupied, some neatly made and waiting. A few patients were sitting up, reading or speaking softly to visitors. Abby's heart raced. This wasn't a classroom or a lecture hall anymore — this was real.
A woman in her mid-40s, wearing a navy-blue scrub top that marked her seniority, came forward. Her sharp eyes softened with a smile as she looked at Abby.
"Abby James, yes?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," Abby replied quickly.
"I'm Head Nurse Cole," the woman introduced herself, extending a hand. "I'll be guiding you for your first weeks. Welcome."
Abby shook her hand firmly, relieved at the warmth in her tone.
"Go put your things in the staff room," Nurse Cole instructed. "Then come back here. I'll walk you through your duties for today. We like to keep new staff moving, not standing idle."
Abby nodded eagerly, clutching her bag. "Yes, ma'am. Right away."
As she turned toward the staff room, her nerves began to settle just a little. She had made it this far — and maybe, just maybe, she could really belong here.
Hi everyone, I truly hope you're enjoying this novel so far❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ I know many of you are eager, waiting to see how things will unfold, and especially curious about the male character who's yet to be revealed😉😉😉😉😉— his time is coming soon. For now, I just ask for your patience as the story builds. Trust me, when he finally steps into the light, it will all be worth the wait