The apartment was full of people.
Osaze sat on the couch, staring at nothing. Voices filled the room—neighbors, distant relatives, people he didn't recognize. They spoke in low tones, their words blending together into a meaningless hum.
Someone touched his shoulder. He didn't look up.
"Osaze," a voice said. Soft. Familiar.
Kemi.
She sat down beside him, her wolf-cut hair falling into her eyes. She didn't say anything at first. Just sat there, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence.
"You need to eat," she said finally.
Osaze didn't respond.
"Osaze—"
"I'm fine."
Kemi's jaw tightened. She looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. She just nodded, stood, and walked away.
Osaze went back to staring at the wall.
The police had come and gone. Asked questions. Took photos. Wrote things down in their tablets. They'd found the two bodies—both dead, both unidentified. No leads. No witnesses. Just another unsolved case in a city full of them.
They'd asked Osaze what happened.
He'd told them the truth.
Sort of.
Two men broke in. His father fought them. He ran. He came back. His father was dying.
He didn't mention the blood. The inscriptions. The way his eyes had burned red for a moment before everything vanished.
They wouldn't have believed him anyway.
The door opened.
Damian stepped inside.
He looked the same as always—pale, tired, dressed in black like he was perpetually attending a funeral. His eyes scanned the room, landing on Osaze.
He didn't say anything. Just walked over, sat down in the chair across from him, and waited.
Osaze looked at him. "You knew."
Damian's expression didn't change. "Knew what?"
"What my father was. What he could do."
Damian was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"It wasn't my place."
Osaze laughed—bitter, hollow. "Of course it wasn't."
Damian leaned forward, his voice low. "Your father wanted to protect you. He thought if you didn't know, you'd be safe."
"Safe," Osaze repeated. "He's dead. I'm sitting here covered in his blood. How's that for safe?"
Damian didn't answer.
Osaze looked away. "Get out."
"Osaze—"
"Get. Out."
Damian stood slowly, his expression unreadable. He walked to the door, paused, looked back.
"When you're ready to talk, I'll be here."
Then he left.
Osaze sat alone in the crowded room, surrounded by people who couldn't see him, couldn't reach him.
He felt nothing.
The funeral was held in Benin City.
Not New Lagos. Not the city his father had lived in for decades. But Benin City—the floating empire on the edge of the human colonization system, built on the remains of a massive meteorite that had been terraformed, shaped, and turned into one of the wealthiest territories humanity had ever claimed.
It hung in the void, tethered to the planet below by antigrav bridges and transport ships. From a distance, it looked like a bronze crown suspended in space—ancient architecture blended seamlessly with cutting-edge technology. Towers rose from the meteorite's surface, their walls carved with traditional Edo patterns that glowed faintly with embedded energy. Gardens floated in midair, held aloft by invisible fields. Holographic displays flickered beside bronze statues of past Obas, their faces watching over the city like silent guardians.
Osaze's father's body was placed in a sleek, climate-controlled canister—modern, efficient, respectful. It was loaded onto a transport ship alongside Osaze, his uncles, and a handful of close family members.
The journey took six hours.
Osaze sat by the window, staring out at the stars, feeling nothing.
When they arrived, the city welcomed them with ceremony. Drummers at the landing platform. Traditional dancers in white and red. Elders in flowing robes, their faces solemn, their voices chanting prayers in Edo.
Osaze walked through it all like a ghost.
The funeral ceremony was held in a massive courtyard near the city's center. The space was open to the void above, the stars visible through a shimmering energy field that kept the atmosphere stable. Hundreds of people gathered—family, friends, dignitaries, people Osaze had never met but who claimed to have known his father well.
The walls were draped with bright fabrics—red, gold, black—traditional patterns woven into every surface. Music played softly in the background—drums, strings, voices singing in Edo. There was food. Laughter. Stories.
Because in their culture, death wasn't just an ending. It was a doorway. A transition.
*Life started with a cry,* the elders would say, *and it will end with a cry. But in between? We celebrate.*
A baby's first breath is a cry. The mourners' grief is a cry. The cycle completes itself.
But death itself? Death is not the end. It is a doorway—out of the suffering of life, out of pain and struggle, into something beyond understanding. Something greater. That's why they celebrate. Not because they are happy someone is gone, but because they believe the departed has moved on to something new, something unknowable, something sacred.
The sorrow is for those left behind. The celebration is for the one who has passed through the door.
Osaze sat at the front, dressed in white, staring at the holographic projection of his father displayed above the casket. His father smiled back at him, frozen in a moment Osaze couldn't remember.
People came up to him one by one, offering condolences.
"Your father was a good man."
"He loved you so much."
"He's in a better place now."
Osaze nodded. Said thank you. Went through the motions.
He heard none of it.
And then his uncle stepped forward.
His father's second brother.
Uncle Omonigho.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been carved from stone. He wore traditional attire—rich fabrics, gold accents, the kind of outfit that said *I am important.*
He placed a hand on Osaze's shoulder.
"Come with me," he said quietly. "We need to talk."
Osaze followed him outside, into the hallway. The music and laughter faded behind them.
Uncle Omonigho turned to face him, his expression serious.
"Your father was the eldest," he said. "Do you know what that means?"
Osaze stared at him. "What?"
"In our family, the eldest carries the legacy. The bloodline. The responsibility." His uncle's eyes bore into him. "Your father is gone. But his line doesn't have to end with you."
Osaze's chest tightened. "What are you talking about?"
Uncle Omonigho stepped closer. "You're sick, Osaze. We all know that. The sickle cell—it's killing you. Slowly, but it's killing you."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not." His uncle's voice was firm, unyielding. "And when you die, everything your father built, everything he protected, dies with you."
Osaze's hands clenched into fists. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Get married."
The words hung in the air like a punch.
Osaze laughed—sharp, disbelieving. "You're joking."
"I'm not."
"My father just died. I buried him *today*. And you want to marry me off?"
Uncle Omonigho's expression didn't change. "There's a girl. From a good family. Old family. Our families have had connections for over three hundred years. Strong ties. Respected. They're willing."
Osaze took a step back, his voice rising. "Do you want me to die? Is that it?"
"I want you to live," Uncle Omonigho said, his voice hard. "And if you can't live, then at least leave something behind. A child. An heir. Someone to carry on what your father started."
"I don't want this—"
"It's not about what you want." His uncle's voice was cold now. "It's about responsibility. Duty. You are the eldest now. Act like it."
Osaze opened his mouth to argue—
And then Uncle osegale stepped between them.
Uncle Osegale.
His father's youngest brother.
Shorter, thinner, with kind eyes and a soft voice. He placed a hand on Omonigho's chest, gently pushing him back.
"Brother," he said quietly. "Calm down."
"I am calm—"
"He just buried his father." Uncle Osagie's voice was firm but not harsh. "Decisions are already made, but we need to break it to him gently. Let him understand our reasons."
He turned to Osaze, his expression sympathetic.
"Look, Osaze. We don't know what's going to happen to you. We don't know how long you have. But we can't let everything fall apart. Your father would've wanted this. Not because he didn't care about you—because he *did*."
Osaze looked away, his jaw tight. "I don't want to get married."
"I know," Uncle Osagie said. "But just... meet her. Talk to her. That's all we're asking."
Osaze didn't answer.
Uncle Omonigho crossed his arms. "The meeting is already arranged. Tomorrow."
And then they walked away, leaving Osaze alone in the hallway.
After the ceremony, the gathering moved to a private hall reserved for the family.
This was where the elders spoke. Where old families reconnected. Where alliances were quietly reaffirmed.
Osaze stood near the edge of the room, holding a cup of palm wine he hadn't touched. He wanted to leave. Wanted to disappear into one of Benin City's winding streets and never come back.
But Uncle Omonigho found him first.
"Osaze," he said, his voice low. "Come. There's someone I want you to meet."
Osaze followed him across the hall, weaving between clusters of people dressed in traditional attire. They stopped near a group of elders—older men and women, their faces lined with age, their presence commanding respect.
And standing among them was a young woman.
Osaze saw her before Uncle Omonigho said her name.
She was beautiful in the way that made people stop and stare—not because she demanded attention, but because she simply had it. Dark skin, smooth and flawless, catching the soft light of the floating lanterns overhead. Her face was angular, sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, full lips set in an expression that suggested she was perpetually unimpressed.
Her hair was braided intricately, pulled up and pinned with gold clasps that gleamed against the dark coils. She wore traditional attire—a wrapper and blouse in deep indigo, embroidered with gold thread that traced patterns across the fabric. Gold jewelry adorned her wrists, her neck, her ears. Expensive, but not showy. Elegant.
She looked like someone who had never needed to ask for anything in her life.
Uncle Omonigho placed a hand on Osaze's shoulder. "Osaze, this is Adesuwa. Her family and ours have had connections for over three hundred years. Strong ties. Respected."
Adesuwa's dark eyes shifted to Osaze.
She didn't smile.
Instead, she stepped forward—not to greet him, but to *look* at him.
She walked around him slowly, her gaze sweeping over his posture, his clothes, his face, his hands. She studied him the way someone might study a piece of art they were considering buying. Clinical. Detached. Evaluating.
To anyone watching, it looked polite. Respectful. A young woman meeting a fellow mourner.
But Osaze could see it in her eyes.
She was sizing him up.
And finding him lacking.
She stopped in front of him, tilting her head slightly.
"You're the one with the sickle cell," she said. Not a question. A statement.
Osaze's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
"And your father just died."
"Yeah."
She nodded slowly, her expression unchanging. "I'm sorry for your loss."
The words were correct. Polite. Expected.
But they landed like stones.
Uncle Omonigho cleared his throat. "Adesuwa's family has been very gracious. They understand the importance of preserving strong bloodlines. Of honoring tradition."
Adesuwa's gaze didn't leave Osaze. "My family believes in duty. Responsibility. Strengthening ties that have lasted centuries."
Her tone was smooth, measured. Professional.
But Osaze heard what she wasn't saying.
*This is business. Not personal.*
She reached out, adjusted the collar of his white mourning garment with the same detached precision she'd used to circle him. "You don't look like you're going to die anytime soon," she said quietly, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. "This feels like a waste of my time."
Osaze stared at her.
She smiled—small, sharp, barely there. Then she stepped back, turning to the elders with perfect composure.
"It was an honor to meet you, Osaze," she said, her voice louder now, formal. "I hope we'll have the opportunity to speak again."
And then she walked away, her footsteps light, her posture perfect, leaving behind the faint scent of something floral and expensive.
Uncle Omonigho watched her go, then looked at Osaze. "She's perfect. Strong family. Good connections. You'll see her again soon."
Osaze didn't respond.
He stood there, staring at the empty space where she'd been, his hands clenched into fists.
She'd looked at him like he was already dead.
And she didn't care.
The months that followed were a blur.
Osaze stayed in Benin City.
His extended family—distant cousins, aunts, uncles he barely knew—took him in. They were kind. They fed him. They left him alone when he needed it.
But he still felt nothing.
The city itself was beautiful. Impossible. A marvel of engineering and tradition woven together. Bronze towers rose from the meteorite's surface, their walls carved with patterns that glowed faintly at night. Gardens floated in midair, held aloft by antigrav fields. The streets were clean, organized, filled with people who moved with purpose and pride.
Osaze walked through it all like a ghost.
He spent his days wandering. Sitting in empty courtyards. Staring out at the void beyond the energy shields.
Three months passed.
And then, one day, his comm-link buzzed.
A message from the university.
*Classes resume next week. Will you be returning?*
Osaze stared at the message for a long time.
Then he packed his things.
---
The transport ship back to New Lagos felt longer than the journey out.
Osaze sat by the window, watching Benin City shrink in the distance until it was just a bronze speck against the stars.
When he arrived in New Lagos, he didn't go home.
He couldn't.
The apartment was still there. His father's blood had been cleaned. His belongings boxed up. The landlord had been patient, but eventually, someone would need to clear it out.
Osaze couldn't face it.
Instead, he went to Damian's.
---
Damian opened the door, took one look at him, and stepped aside.
"Come in."
Osaze dropped his bag in the corner and collapsed onto the couch.
Damian didn't ask questions. Didn't offer condolences. Just sat in the chair across from him and waited.
"I can't go back to the apartment," Osaze said finally.
"I know."
"I don't know what to do."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a long time.
Then Damian spoke. "You can stay here. As long as you need."
Osaze nodded, staring at the ceiling. "Thanks."
---
The days bled together.
Osaze stayed with Damian. Wandered the city. Stopped by Abu's kiosk every morning, accepting the fruit without question, without understanding why it helped.
Abu never asked what happened. Never offered sympathy.
He just smiled, handed Osaze an orange, and said, "Eat. You'll need your strength."
Osaze always did.
And every time, the tightness in his chest eased. The pain dulled. His body felt lighter, stronger, more alive than it should.
He didn't question it.
He didn't have the energy.
---
Caliphate University looked the same.
The bronze statue in the courtyard. The holographic billboards. The students rushing to class, complaining about assignments, living their normal lives.
Osaze walked through the gates, his bag slung over his shoulder.
People stared at him. Whispered.
He ignored them.
He made it halfway across the courtyard before he heard the voice.
"Well, well. Look who's back."
Osaze stopped.
Stone stepped out from behind a group of students, grinning. His crystalline face caught the sunlight, refracting it into jagged rainbows.
His friends flanked him—two guys Osaze vaguely recognized. They looked uncomfortable.
One of them spoke up. "Guy, leave him alone. He just buried his dad."
Stone waved him off. "So? That was months ago. He should be over it by now."
The other friend hesitated. "Maybe this isn't the best time—"
"Shut up." Stone stepped closer, his grin widening. "You look like shit, Osaze. Guess losing your daddy really broke you, huh?"
Something inside Osaze cracked.
"What did you say?"
Stone laughed. "You heard me. Your old man's dead. And you? You're still the same pathetic—"
Osaze moved.
Fast.
His fist connected with Stone's face.
The sound was sickening—a wet crack, like glass shattering. Stone's crystalline jaw split, blood spraying across the pavement.
Stone stumbled back, eyes wide, clutching his face.
Osaze didn't stop.
He grabbed Stone by the collar, drove him to the ground, and started punching.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Stone's friends backed away, shouting for help.
Students gathered, recording on their comm-links.
Someone yelled for a professor.
Osaze didn't hear any of it.
He punched until his knuckles split. Until his hand broke. Until Stone's face was a bloody, cracked mess and he stopped moving.
Then he stood, breathing hard, blood dripping from his hands.
A professor ran out of the building, eyes wide. "Evbuomwan! What the hell—"
Osaze walked away.
He made it ten steps before someone grabbed his arm.
Maxwell.
The streamer. The guy who'd bumped into him months ago. His comm-link was out, recording.
"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?!" Maxwell shouted. "You just assaulted someone! I'm reporting this! You—
Osaze turned.
His fist connected with Maxwell's nose.
Maxwell dropped like a stone, his comm-link clattering to the ground.
Osaze kept walking.
---
Kemi caught up with him near the edge of campus.
"Osaze!" She grabbed his arm, forced him to stop. "What is going on?!"
Osaze pulled away. "Leave me alone."
"You just put Stone in the hospital! You broke Maxwell's nose! What the hell—"
"I said leave me alone!"
His chest tightened.
His vision blurred.
The world tilted.
And then everything went black.