The living room was dark except for the glow of the muted TV. Osaze stood in the doorway, bag still on his shoulder, exhaustion written into every line of his body.
His father sat in the armchair, hands folded, waiting.
"Close the door," his father said quietly.
Osaze closed it. The sound echoed in the silence.
"Sit down."
Osaze dropped his bag, moved to the couch, and sat. His chest was tight—not from the sickle cell this time. From something else.
His father didn't look at him right away. Just stared at the TV, the flickering images casting shadows across his face.
"Where have you been?" his father asked finally.
"I told you. School, then Damian's."
"And the hospital? Professor Adeyemi?"
Osaze hesitated. "He needed help. I couldn't say no."
His father's jaw tightened. "That's the problem. You never say no. You keep pushing yourself, running yourself into the ground, and for what?"
"For school. For my future. For—"
"For nothing if you're dead."
The words hit like a punch.
Silence filled the room. Heavy. Suffocating.
His father leaned forward, his voice rising slightly. "You need to start making decisions, Osaze. Real decisions. About what you want. About who you are. Because right now, you're just... surviving. And that's not enough."
Osaze let out a bitter laugh. "What do you want me to do? I have sickle cell. I'm barely holding on as it is. You think I have *choices*?"
"Yes!" His father's voice cracked, louder now. "You do! You're talented. Gifted. Professors see it. Doctors see it. Everyone sees it except *you*."
Osaze stood, his hands clenched into fists. "Because it doesn't matter! Talent doesn't cure this! Skills don't stop the pain! You act like I'm wasting something, but I'm just trying to *live*!"
His father stood too, matching his energy. "And what kind of life is this?! Running yourself into exhaustion? Collapsing in alleys? Relying on Kemi to save you every time someone wants to fight?"
"What do you want from me?!" Osaze shouted, his voice breaking.
"I want you to *see yourself*!" his father shouted back. "I want you to stop acting like you're not enough! Your mother—"
He stopped.
Abruptly.
Like he'd said something he shouldn't have.
Osaze went cold. "My mother isn't here."
His father's expression crumbled for just a moment. "I know."
"You don't know what it's like," Osaze said quietly, his voice sharp as broken glass. "You don't know what I deal with every day. You don't know—"
"I know you're my son," his father interrupted, his voice softer now, pained. "And I know you're more than this sickness. But you refuse to see it."
Silence.
Osaze looked away, his jaw tight, his chest heaving.
"I'm trying, Dad," he said finally, barely above a whisper. "I'm trying."
His father sighed, sitting back down. He suddenly looked older. Tired. "I know you are. But trying isn't the same as living."
Osaze didn't respond. Couldn't.
"Go to bed," his father said quietly. "We'll talk tomorrow."
Osaze grabbed his bag and walked to his room without another word.
The door closed softly behind him.
His father sat alone in the dark, staring at the muted TV.
---
Osaze woke up to his alarm screaming at 5:47 AM.
He hadn't slept well. His body ached—not just from the sickle cell, but from the weight of last night's argument pressing down on him like a stone.
*Trying isn't the same as living.*
He shook his head, forcing the words away.
The apartment was quiet. His father's door was still closed. They hadn't spoken since last night. Osaze didn't knock. Didn't try.
He moved through his routine on autopilot—shower (cold, because the water heater was still broken), brush teeth, throw on his uniform. His reflection in the mirror looked tired. Older than twenty.
He grabbed his bag and left without saying goodbye.
---
The morning air was cool, the city still waking up. Osaze walked fast, ignoring the tightness building in his chest. Abu's kiosk was closed, the holographic sign dark. Too early even for him.
The bus arrived half-empty. Osaze took his seat near the back and watched the city scroll past—towers lighting up, holographic billboards flickering to life, the first wave of traffic starting to clog the streets.
By the time he reached campus, the sun was up.
---
Caliphate University was already buzzing. Osaze walked through the gates and headed straight for the lecture complex.
Advanced Human Biology. Mr. Okoro's class.
He slipped into the classroom, took his usual seat, and pulled out his tablet. The lecture hall filled slowly—students yawning, complaining about the time, the workload, the unfairness of life.
Mr. Okoro walked in exactly on time. He set his tablet on the podium, pulled up the holographic board, and turned to face the class.
"Good morning," he said flatly. "Let's see if any of you remembered what we covered last week."
Someone groaned.
Mr. Okoro ignored them. "Today we're covering hemostasis—specifically, the coagulation cascade. I want you to explain the intrinsic and extrinsic pathways, the role of clotting factors, and what happens when—"
The door opened.
Professor Adeyemi stepped inside—older, gray-haired, the kind of man who'd seen every excuse and didn't care about any of them.
Mr. Okoro stopped mid-sentence. "Professor."
"Apologies for interrupting," Professor Adeyemi said. His eyes scanned the room and landed on Osaze. "Evbuomwan. Come with me."
The room went silent.
Osaze blinked. "Sir?"
"Now, please."
Osaze stood, grabbing his bag. He could feel the eyes on him—curious, confused, jealous. Stone, sitting three rows back, looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.
Osaze followed Professor Adeyemi into the hallway.
The door closed behind them.
"Am I in trouble, sir?" Osaze asked.
Professor Adeyemi smiled—brief, tired. "No. I need you at the hospital. We have cases that need your eye."
Osaze hesitated. "Sir, I have class—"
"I've already cleared it with Mr. Okoro. You'll get the notes later." The professor started walking, not waiting for a response. "Come. We're wasting time."
Osaze followed.
---
The hospital was chaos.
They walked through the main entrance—past the waiting area packed with people, past the triage desk where nurses shouted instructions, past gurneys lined up in the hallways because there weren't enough rooms.
"What happened?" Osaze asked, struggling to keep up.
"Gang fight," Professor Adeyemi said. "Tuned vs. Tuned. Escalated fast. We have twelve in critical, another twenty with serious injuries. I need every pair of hands I can get."
They pushed through double doors into the emergency wing. The smell hit Osaze first—blood, antiseptic, burned flesh. Then the sounds—groaning, shouting, machines beeping in urgent rhythm.
A nurse ran past, carrying a tray of surgical tools. Another was on a comm-link, shouting for more plasma. A doctor stood over a patient, hands glowing faintly as he used his Tuned abilities to stabilize internal bleeding.
Professor Adeyemi stopped at a gurney near the far wall. A young man—maybe mid-twenties—lay there, unconscious, his left arm mangled, bone visible through torn flesh.
"Osaze," the professor said, stepping aside. "Tell me what you see."
Osaze dropped his bag, moving closer. His exhaustion faded into the background. His mind shifted gears.
He looked at the arm—the angle of the break, the way the bone had shattered, the amount of blood loss. He checked the patient's pulse, his breathing, the color of his skin.
"Compound fracture of the radius and ulna," Osaze said, his voice steady. "Severe tissue damage. Radial artery is compromised—he's losing blood fast. Needs immediate surgery to repair the artery and stabilize the bone. If we don't move now, he'll lose the arm."
Professor Adeyemi nodded. "Good. What else?"
Osaze leaned in, looking closer. The patient's breathing was shallow, irregular. His lips had a faint blue tint.
"Possible internal bleeding," Osaze said. "Chest trauma. Could be a punctured lung or rib fracture pressing on the lung tissue. We need imaging—fast."
The professor smiled. "You're wasted in classrooms, Evbuomwan."
He turned to a nearby nurse. "Get him to imaging, then prep for surgery. Move."
The nurse nodded, already pushing the gurney toward the elevators.
Professor Adeyemi looked at Osaze. "You're with me. We have more."
---
The next two hours were a blur.
Osaze moved from patient to patient—assessing injuries, assisting doctors, holding pressure on wounds while nurses prepped IVs. He diagnosed a ruptured spleen, caught a missed concussion, identified a patient going into shock before anyone else noticed.
His body screamed at him the entire time—chest tight, heartbeat irregular, vision blurring at the edges. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Because people were dying. And he knew how to help.
By the time the rush slowed, Osaze was leaning against a wall in the hallway, hands shaking, sweat dripping down his face.
Professor Adeyemi appeared beside him, holding a bottle of water.
"Drink," he said.
Osaze took it, drank half in one go.
"You did good today," the professor said quietly. "Better than most of my residents."
"Thank you, sir."
"You sure you're feeling alright? You look—"
"I'm fine," Osaze said automatically.
Professor Adeyemi studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Get some rest. You've earned it."
He walked away, leaving Osaze alone in the hallway.
---
Osaze made his way to the staff break room—a small space with a few chairs, a table, and a coffee machine that barely worked. He sank into a chair, closing his eyes.
The door opened.
He looked up.
A nurse stood in the doorway—young, maybe his age, dark skin, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wore the standard hospital uniform, a name tag pinned to her chest.
She froze when she saw him.
"Oh," she said softly. "Sorry. I didn't know anyone was—"
"It's fine," Osaze said, sitting up. "Come in."
She hesitated, then stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She moved to the coffee machine, fumbling with the controls.
Osaze watched her, too tired to look away.
She glanced at him, then quickly looked back at the machine. "You're... you're the medical student, right? The one Professor Adeyemi brought in?"
"Yeah."
"I saw you earlier. With the patient who had the compound fracture." She finally got the coffee machine working, pouring a cup. "You were... really good."
"Thanks."
She turned, holding the cup, and hesitated again. "Do you... do you want some? Coffee, I mean?"
Osaze smiled despite himself. "Sure. Thanks."
She poured another cup, brought it over, and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed. She pulled back quickly, almost spilling her own cup.
"Sorry," she said, laughing nervously. "I'm—sorry. I don't usually—"
"It's fine," Osaze said, taking a sip. The coffee was terrible. He drank it anyway.
She sat down across from him, holding her cup with both hands. "You're really dedicated. I mean, most students would've been overwhelmed, but you just... handled it."
Osaze shrugged. "Just doing what I can."
"Still." She smiled, shy and genuine. "It's impressive."
They sat in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just... quiet.
Then she stood, setting her cup down. "I should get back. My shift isn't over yet."
"Yeah. Me too."
She walked to the door, paused, looked back. "Maybe I'll see you around?"
"Maybe," Osaze said.
She smiled again, then left.
Osaze sat there for another minute, staring at his coffee.
*She didn't even tell me her name.*
Then he stood, dumped the rest in the sink, and left the break room.
---
The sun was setting by the time Osaze stepped outside.
The hospital entrance was quieter now—just a few people coming and going, the chaos from earlier settled into a tired hum.
Osaze pulled out his comm-link, checking the time. Late. Later than he thought.
He started walking toward the bus stop—
And stopped.
Kemi was leaning against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed, her wolf-cut hair catching the last light of the day.
She looked up when she saw him. "You done playing doctor?"
Osaze blinked. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you." She pushed off the wall, walking over. "You didn't show up at school after the professor pulled you out. I asked around. They said you were here."
"You didn't have to—"
"Come on." She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the street. "Family dinner. We've been waiting since this morning. You're not getting out of this."
"Kemi, I'm tired—"
"I don't care. You're coming."
Osaze sighed, but he didn't pull away.
They walked together, side by side, the city lights starting to flicker on around them.
---
Kemi's house sat on the edge of a quieter neighborhood, away from the chaos of central New Lagos. It wasn't fancy—just a modest two-story building with fading paint and a balcony that overlooked the street—but it was home.
Osaze could hear voices inside before they even reached the door. Laughter. Music. The smell of jollof rice and fried plantains drifting through the open windows.
Kemi pushed the door open without knocking. "We're here!"
The living room was warm, crowded in the best way. Kemi's mother stood near the kitchen, stirring a pot, her face lighting up when she saw them.
"Osaze!" she called, waving him over. "My son! Come, come, you look too skinny. Sit down, let me feed you."
Osaze smiled despite his exhaustion. "Good evening, ma."
"Evening ke? You're late! We've been waiting for you since morning!"
"Sorry, ma. Hospital—"
"I don't want to hear it. Sit. Eat."
Osaze's father was there too, sitting on the couch with a glass of something that wasn't water. He nodded at Osaze, his expression unreadable.
*Still angry? Still disappointed? Or just... tired?*
And Damian—leaning against the wall near the window, arms crossed, watching everything with that quiet, ancient patience.
Kemi dragged Osaze to the couch, shoving him down next to her. "Sit. Stop looking so miserable."
Her mother brought over a plate—jollof rice piled high, fried plantains, chicken, salad. "Eat. You need your strength."
Osaze took the plate, his stomach reminding him he hadn't eaten since morning. "Thank you, ma."
They ate together, the room filled with easy conversation. Kemi's mother told stories about the neighborhood, Damian made dry comments that made everyone laugh despite themselves.
And then—
Kemi's mother paused, looking at Osaze closely.
"Wait," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "Is that Osaze?"
Everyone stopped.
Osaze looked up, confused. "Ma?"
Her eyes widened. "How are you... you're walking? Standing? Last year, you couldn't even walk properly without help."
Osaze froze.
Kemi's mother leaned forward, studying him. "She's right. You were... you were worse. Much worse."
Osaze set his plate down, suddenly very aware of the eyes on him. "Yeah. I... I can't really explain it."
"Explain what?" Kemi's mother pressed.
Damian pushed off the wall, stepping forward. His voice was calm, measured. "He's been getting treatment. Special treatment."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"What kind of treatment?" Osaze's father asked, his tone careful.
"The kind that works," Damian said simply. "Abu's been helping."
Kemi's mother frowned. "Abu? The kiosk man?"
"Yes."
"What's he been giving him?"
"Fruit."
The room went silent.
Then Kemi's mother let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Fruit? You're telling me fruit is curing sickle cell?"
"Not curing," Damian said. "Helping. Slowing it down. Keeping him functional."
Osaze's father set his glass down, his expression hard. "We should talk about this. Privately."
Damian nodded. "Agreed."
---
They moved to the balcony—Osaze's father, Kemi's mother, and Damian. The door slid shut behind them, leaving Osaze and Kemi alone in the living room.
Kemi looked at him. "What the hell is going on?"
"I don't know," Osaze said honestly. "Abu's been giving me fruit every day. And... yeah. I feel better. Not cured, but... better."
"That's not normal."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it pressing down.
Outside on the balcony, Damian leaned against the railing, looking out at the city lights.
Kemi's mother spoke first, her voice soft. "They're growing fast. Too fast."
Osaze's father nodded, his expression tired. "Osaze is pushing himself harder than ever. And Kemi—"
"She won't stop," Kemi's mother said. "The patrols, the fights. She thinks she's invincible."
"She's strong," Damian said quietly. "They both are. Stronger than they realize."
Osaze's father looked at him. "You're the only one who can keep up with them now. You've noticed, haven't you?"
Damian didn't answer right away. He stared out at the city, his ancient eyes reflecting centuries of weight. "Yes. I've noticed."
"They're changing," Kemi's mother said. "Faster than they should be."
Silence settled between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
Then Osaze's father spoke, his voice low. "It's not just them. Have you heard? About the others?"
Damian's expression darkened. "Yes."
"How many now?" Kemi's mother asked.
"Seven in the past month," Damian said. "Maybe more. The police aren't releasing all the details."
Osaze's father's jaw tightened. "And the bodies?"
"Different each time," Damian said. "No pattern the police can identify. Some found burned beyond recognition. Others torn apart. One looked like they'd aged a hundred years in a single night. The methods change, but the result is always the same—people with abilities. People like you."
Kemi's mother crossed her arms, her voice sharp. "They're hunting us."
"Yes."
"And the police?"
Damian shook his head. "They're struggling to investigate. No witnesses. No evidence. No leads. Whoever's doing this knows how to cover their tracks."
Osaze's father stared out at the city. "We need to be careful. Keep the children close."
"They won't listen," Kemi's mother said bitterly. "Osaze is too stubborn. Kemi is too reckless."
"Then we make them listen," Osaze's father said.
Damian turned to face them both. "I'll watch them. I promised you that, and I keep my promises."
Osaze's father studied him for a long moment. "You're the only one who can keep up with them now. If something happens—"
"It won't," Damian said firmly.
"But if it does—"
"Then I'll be there."
Kemi's mother looked at Damian, her expression unreadable. "You've always been there. For all of us. Why?"
Damian smiled, sad and distant. "Because someone has to be."
They came back inside. The TV was on, playing softly in the background.
Someone changed the channel. The news appeared.
"—string of murders across New Lagos. Victims found drained of blood. Police are investigating, but so far, there are no leads. Authorities are asking for public assistance. If you have any information—"
The image changed—crime scene photos, blurred but visible. Bodies. Blood.
Kemi's mother reached for the remote, turning it off.
"This city is getting worse," she said quietly.
Osaze's father's jaw tightened. He looked at Damian.
Damian's expression darkened.
"We'll talk more later," Osaze's father said.
Damian nodded.
---
Later that night, Kemi sat in her room, staring at the ceiling.
Her mother knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.
"Kemi," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "We need to talk."
Kemi sat up. "About what?"
Her mother hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "This job you're doing. The night patrols. The street work. I don't like it."
"Mom—"
"I know you can handle yourself," her mother interrupted. "I know you're strong, smart, capable. But I don't want to see my child being an unruly, desperate girl running around at night. You're better than this."
"I'm not desperate," Kemi said. "I'm trying to help people."
"I know. But at what cost?" Her mother reached out, touching her cheek. "You have so much in you, Kemi. More than you know. Don't waste it chasing danger."
Kemi looked away. "I'm fine, Mom."
Her mother sighed. "You always say that."
She stood, walking to the door. Then she paused, looking back.
"Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
Her mother nodded, then left.
Kemi sat alone in the dark, her mother's words echoing in her mind.
Osaze stood outside, looking up at the stars. The city lights drowned out most of them, but a few still shone through—distant, cold, indifferent.
Kemi stepped out beside him. "You good?"
"Yeah."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"Your mom's worried about you," Osaze said.
"I know."
"You should listen to her."
Kemi smiled, sad and tired. "You should listen to your own advice."
Osaze laughed despite himself. "Yeah. Probably."
They stood there a little longer, neither wanting to leave, neither knowing what to say.
Finally, Kemi spoke. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Osaze said. "Tomorrow."
She went back inside.
Osaze's father appeared at the door. "Ready?"
Osaze nodded. "Yeah."
They walked home together in silence.
That night, none of them knew it would be the last time they'd all be together.