*Two months before Osaze Evbuomwan would return to New Lagos, the police were already looking for him.*
Osaze opened his eyes.
He was standing.
But he didn't feel it.
The ground beneath him existed—he knew it did—but there was no weight to it. No texture. No resistance. It was like standing on the memory of a floor, something his body recognized but couldn't quite touch.
The air was wrong too. Not cold. Not warm. Just... absent. He tried to breathe and felt nothing enter his lungs. No rise, no fall, no relief.
He looked down at his hands. They were there. Solid. Real.
But when he clenched his fists, there was no sensation. No pressure. No warmth.
*Where am I?*
The space around him was white. Not bright—just white. Endless. Featureless. And scattered across the emptiness were small bushes. Red. Vivid. Bright as fresh blood against the pale void.
Osaze took a step forward.
No sound.
No echo.
Just silence.
He turned slowly, scanning the horizon. Nothing. Just white and red. White and red. White and—
He felt it before he saw it.
A presence.
Heavy. Ancient. Watching.
Osaze turned.
And there it was.
A leopard.
White fur. Red spots. Eyes like molten gold.
It stood perfectly still, watching him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Not hostile. Not curious. Just... *aware*.
Osaze's breath caught—or it should have. But he felt nothing. Just the distant, hollow sensation of fear without a body to hold it.
The leopard didn't move.
Osaze took a step back.
Still nothing.
"What..." His voice came out flat. Distant. Like it didn't belong to him. "What are you?"
The leopard tilted its head.
And then it moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Osaze tried to run, but his body didn't respond. The leopard was on him in an instant—massive, overwhelming, inevitable.
Its jaws opened.
And it devoured him.
Not violently. Not painfully.
Just... consumed.
Osaze felt himself disappear—piece by piece, sensation by sensation—until there was nothing left.
---
He shot upright.
Gasping. Shaking. His hands clawing at the air.
The white void was gone.
He was back.
Back in—
No.
He looked around.
He was still there.
The white void. The red bushes. The silence.
And the leopard was still standing in front of him.
Staring.
Osaze's chest heaved—or tried to. But there was no air. No breath. Just the motion of panic without the substance.
"What do you want from me?!" he screamed.
The leopard didn't answer.
It just watched.
And then Osaze felt it—a pull. Sharp. Violent. Irresistible.
His vision blurred.
The white void collapsed.
---
Osaze woke up screaming.
His eyes shot open, his body jerking upright, his hands grabbing at the sheets beneath him.
He was in a bed.
White walls. Sterile smell. Machines beeping softly in the background.
A hospital.
His chest heaved. His heart hammered. His vision swam.
And then he saw it.
In the corner of the room.
The leopard.
White fur. Red spots. Golden eyes.
It stood perfectly still, watching him.
Osaze froze.
His scream died in his throat.
The leopard didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared.
And then—
Footsteps.
Voices.
"Did you hear that?"
"Room 304—someone's screaming—"
The door burst open.
Two nurses rushed in, their faces tight with concern.
"Are you okay? We heard—"
Osaze's eyes snapped to the corner.
Empty.
The leopard was gone.
The nurses followed his gaze, saw nothing, looked back at him.
"Sir, are you alright?"
Osaze stared at the empty corner, his hands shaking.
"I... I'm fine."
One of the nurses checked the monitors, the other moved closer, her voice soft. "You were screaming. Are you in pain?"
"No. I... I just had a nightmare."
The nurses exchanged a glance.
"You've been through a lot," one of them said gently. "Your body is still recovering. It's normal to have nightmares after trauma."
Osaze nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
The second nurse prepared a syringe. "We're going to give you something to help you rest. You need sleep."
"I don't—"
"It's okay. Just let yourself relax."
The needle slid into his arm.
Osaze felt the cold spread through his veins.
His vision blurred.
The nurses' voices faded.
And darkness pulled him under.
---
Detective Chidi Okafor walked into the Seventh District Police Station at 6:47 AM, a cup of terrible coffee in one hand and a case file in the other.
The station was already awake—officers filing reports, desk sergeants answering calls, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Someone had brought in akara and bread from a street vendor. The smell filled the air, warm and familiar.
Chidi nodded at a few coworkers as he passed.
"Morning, Chidi."
"Detective."
"Okafor, you see the game last night?"
He didn't respond to any of them. Just kept walking toward his desk in the back corner, the one with the broken chair and the flickering holo-display that maintenance kept promising to fix.
Sergeant Amara was already there, leaning against his desk, her cyborg arms resting on the surface. She looked up when he approached, grinning.
"You're late."
"I'm early."
"You're *always* late. I've been here since six."
Chidi set his coffee down, tossed the case file onto the desk. "You sleep here?"
"Might as well." She picked up the file, flipped through it. "This the murder case?"
"Yeah. Boss wants us on it."
"Why us?"
"Because the senior detectives couldn't crack it. Now it's our problem."
Amara snorted. "Of course it is."
Chidi sat down—or tried to. The chair groaned, tilted, and he caught himself before it collapsed completely.
"I hate this chair."
"File a complaint."
"I did. Three times."
"File it again."
Chidi sighed, pulling up the case files on his holo-display. Multiple victims. Strange circumstances. No leads.
His comm-link buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered. "Okafor."
A voice—young, nervous—came through. "Detective? This is Officer Bello. Forensics. Dr. Adewale says you finally got clearance. He's ready to show you the bodies."
Chidi glanced at Amara. "Now?"
"Yeah. He's been waiting."
"Alright. Tell him we're on our way."
He ended the call, stood, grabbed his coffee.
Amara raised an eyebrow. "Forensics?"
"Yeah. Finally got clearance."
"About time."
They walked through the station, past the holding cells, down the narrow staircase that led to the basement. The air got colder as they descended—sterile, chemical, wrong.
The forensic lab was at the end of a long hallway. The door slid open with a soft hiss.
Dr. Adewale stood in the center of the room, surrounded by examination tables, holographic displays, and equipment Chidi couldn't name.
He was tall—taller than most humans—with four eyes arranged in two rows across his face. His skin had a faint blue tint, and his hair was pulled back in a neat bun. He wore a lab coat stained with things Chidi tried not to think about.
When he saw them, he grinned.
"Ah! The dynamic duo! Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in."
Chidi and Amara stepped inside.
"Morning, Doc," Chidi said.
"Morning? It's always morning down here. No windows. No sunlight. Just me and the dead." He gestured dramatically at the examination tables. "Speaking of which—ready to see something interesting?"
"That's why we're here."
Dr. Adewale clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Follow me."
He led them to the first table. A body lay beneath a white sheet. He pulled it back, revealing the victim—a man, mid-thirties, his body torn apart in ways that made Amara look away.
"This one," Dr. Adewale said, his tone shifting from cheerful to clinical, "is a brutal way to go. Look at the trauma. Limbs torn off. Ribs shattered. No weapon marks. No tool residue. Just... raw force."
Chidi leaned closer. "Telekinetic?"
Dr. Adewale shook his head. "That's what I thought at first. But no. Human-telekinetic hybrids? They can barely lift a rock. And the alien species that *can* do this? Every time they use their power, it lights up every police scanner in a ten-kilometer radius. Zero chance it's them."
"So what, then?"
"I don't know. But whatever did this didn't leave a trace. No fingerprints. No glove residue. Nothing. It's like something grabbed him and just... tore him apart."
Amara frowned. "That's not normal."
"No. It's not."
Dr. Adewale moved to the second table, pulled back the sheet.
"This one looks like an explosion. Burns. Charring. I thought maybe an RPG or a Resonance grenade. But look at the way the burns spread." He pointed at the patterns across the victim's chest. "This wasn't external. This was *internal*. Like someone detonated something inside his body."
Chidi stared. "How is that even possible?"
"No idea. But it's fast. Instant. Whoever did this wanted him gone, not suffering."
He moved to the third table.
"This one? Straight-up evil."
He pulled back the sheet.
The body was covered in stab wounds—dozens of them, precise and deliberate. The cuts were clean, too clean.
"Resonance weapon," Dr. Adewale said. "Multiple stabs. Untraceable. They didn't just kill him—they *defiled* him. This is personal. This is rage."
Amara's jaw tightened. "Jesus."
"Yeah."
Dr. Adewale moved to the fourth table.
"And this one. This is the weird one."
He pulled back the sheet.
The body was cut cleanly in half. The edges were smooth. Perfect. Like the victim had been sliced by something impossibly sharp.
"Resonance weapons leave traces," Chidi said. "Always. Small crystals. Energy signatures. Where are they?"
"Exactly," Dr. Adewale said, his four eyes gleaming. "There's nothing. It's like someone used *pure light* to cut through him. No weapon. No tool. Just... light."
"That's not possible."
"And yet here we are."
Chidi stepped back, looking at all four tables. "You think one person did all of this?"
Dr. Adewale shook his head. "No. I think *multiple* people did this. Each one has a different method. Different style."
He counted on his fingers.
"Killer One: Likes to tear people apart. Wants them to suffer.
Killer Two: Wants instant death. No suffering. Just gone.
Killer Three: Personal rage. Defilement. Makes it hurt.
Killer Four: Clean. Efficient. Doesn't want to be noticed. Cuts so precise the victim never stood a chance."
Amara crossed her arms. "So we're not hunting one killer. We're hunting a team."
"Looks like it."
Chidi pulled up his holo-display, scrolling through the case files. "You said there was another victim. Where's the body?"
Dr. Adewale's expression darkened. "Benin Empire demanded it. Claimed jurisdiction. They took it before we could even process the scene."
"Why would Benin care?"
"No idea. But they don't usually get involved unless it's one of their own."
Chidi frowned. "And the survivor? The file mentioned a witness."
"Yeah. That's the thing." Dr. Adewale pulled up a holographic image—a young man's face, tired eyes, medical student ID. "Every other victim? Dead. No exceptions. But this time? They left someone alive."
"Who?"
"Name's Osaze Evbuomwan. Twenty years old. Medical student. Sickle cell disease. Son of one of the victims."
Chidi studied the image. "Where is he now?"
"Not in the city. Went to Benin to bury his father. But I asked around for you guys—because we're pals—and he's coming back. Should be here in about a month."
Amara glanced at Chidi. "A month."
"Yeah. When he gets back, you can talk to him. Until then?" Dr. Adewale spread his hands. "You're stuck."
Chidi stared at the bodies, the files, the dead ends.
"A team of killers. No traces. One survivor. And we have to wait a month."
Amara nodded. "So we wait. And we dig. There's something here."
Dr. Adewale grinned. "Good luck. You're gonna need it."
---
They were halfway to the exit when Chidi's comm-link buzzed.
Dispatch. Urgent.
He answered. "Okafor."
"Detective, we have a situation. Gunfight in the industrial district. Corporate-owned warehouse. Multiple armed suspects. Can you handle it?"
Chidi glanced at Amara.
She grinned.
"Yeah," Chidi said. "We're on our way."
---
The warehouse sat on the edge of the industrial district, a massive structure of rusted metal and cracked concrete. The windows were shattered. The doors hung off their hinges. Graffiti covered the walls—gang signs, territorial markers, warnings.
Chidi parked the patrol car a block away, killed the lights.
He and Amara stepped out, checking their gear. His comm-link was live, connected to her earpiece.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Always."
They moved toward the warehouse, keeping to the shadows. The sound of voices drifted through the broken windows—low, tense, paranoid.
Chidi tapped his earpiece. "These guys almost wiped out the other gangs in this district. I thought they were all on the same side."
Amara's voice came through, calm. "Guess not."
"Yeah. Corporate district. Gang safe house. This doesn't add up. Why fight each other when they've got a common enemy?"
"Maybe they don't see it that way."
Chidi stopped near the entrance, scanning the area. "Or maybe someone's playing them."
Amara's voice sharpened. "You want me to make an entrance?"
Chidi smiled despite himself. "Just wait for my signal."
He moved to the front door, checked it. Unlocked. He pushed it open slowly, stepped inside.
The warehouse was dark except for a few portable lights scattered around the main room. Crates stacked against the walls. Broken furniture. Bullet holes in the concrete.
And fifteen men. Armed. Twitchy. Eyes scanning every shadow.
Chidi stepped into the doorway, hands visible, posture relaxed.
"Hi, guys."
Every gun in the room snapped toward him.
He didn't flinch.
"I know, I know. You weren't expecting company. But here's the thing—I found an idea how this goes. You put the guns down, we talk, nobody gets hurt. Or..."
He tilted his head, smiling faintly.
"...we do this the hard way."
One of the gang members laughed—sharp, nervous. "It's just you? Man, you got balls."
Chidi shrugged. "I'm saying this for your own good. Because if my partner gets here, there's no mercy."
Another gang member sneered. "Where is she, then?"
Chidi pointed behind them.
"Don't bother looking. She's already here."
**CRASH.**
Glass exploded inward.
Sergeant Amara burst through the back window, landing in a crouch, her cyborg arms gleaming under the dim warehouse lights.
She looked up, grinning.
" Hello"
The gang members opened fire.
Chidi's hand moved.
A faint shimmer rippled through the air—barely visible, like heat rising off pavement. The sound of bullets changed—muffled, distorted, wrong.
They hit the invisible barrier and stopped. Suspended. Then dropped harmlessly to the ground.
Chidi exhaled slowly, his hand still raised, fingers moving in precise patterns. The sound shields around him pulsed faintly—mandalas of vibrating air, too fast to see clearly, but undeniably *there*.
"Told you," he muttered.
Amara was already moving.
She grabbed the nearest gang member by the wrist, twisted, and his gun clattered to the floor. Her cyborg hand closed around his fist—then *inverted*.
The joints dislocated with a sharp, wet sound.
The man screamed.
Amara threw him upward—one-handed, effortless—caught him mid-air, and slammed him into the concrete.
He bounced.
She stepped on his head with full force, pushing him sliding across the floor like a hockey puck. He hit the far wall with a sickening thud and went still.
"Next," she said cheerfully.
Two more rushed her.
She didn't dodge.
Bullets hit her—thunk thunk thunk—and ricocheted.
The gang members froze.
"What the hell?! She bulletproof?!"
Amara looked at Chidi.
He nodded, his hand moving again. The faint shimmer surrounded her—invisible shields layered over her body.
She started walking toward them. Slow. Deliberate.
They kept shooting. Bullets bounced off the shields.
One gang member dropped his gun, backing away. "The fuck is this man , just fucking die "
Amara reached him, grabbed his gun, and crushed it with her bare hand. Metal crumpled like paper.
"Not magic," she said, grinning. "Just good teamwork."
Chidi's voice echoed from across the room, calm and steady. "She's not bulletproof. I'm just good at my job."
The gang member looked between them, realization dawning.
Then Amara's fist connected with his jaw, and he dropped.
---
The fight became a rhythm.
Chidi moved through the chaos like a conductor—deflecting bullets with sound barriers, creating sonic cages that trapped attackers, disarming gunmen with pulses that knocked weapons from hands and sent bodies stumbling.
His shields flickered around the room—protecting Amara, cushioning the blows she dealt so her victims survived, redirecting stray bullets away from anything vital.
And the entire time, they talked.
"You know," Chidi said, blocking a spray of gunfire with a shimmering barrier, "we could've just arrested them quietly."
"Where's the fun in that?" Amara grabbed a gang member by the collar, lifted him, and threw him into a stack of crates. They collapsed with a crash.
"We need them *alive*, Amara."
"I know." She grinned, catching another attacker mid-charge and slamming him into the floor. "That's why I'm holding back."
Chidi sighed, projecting a barrier around a gang member just before Amara's boot connected with his ribs. The man flew backward, hit the wall—but didn't break anything.
"This is you holding back?"
"Yeah. No broken spines this time."
"Progress."
Amara ducked under a swing, grabbed the attacker's arm, and twisted. He screamed. She threw him across the room.
Chidi caught him mid-air with a sound cushion, lowered him gently to the ground, then knocked him out with a sonic pulse.
Three gang members rushed Chidi at once.
He moved his hands in a circular motion. The air around him vibrated, visible now—glowing faint blue as the sound waves condensed into a barrier.
The attackers hit it and bounced back, disoriented.
Chidi flicked his wrist. A blade of compressed sound shot forward, slicing through the straps holding their weapons. The guns clattered to the floor.
"Down," he said calmly. "Now."
They didn't listen.
Amara appeared behind them, grabbed two by their heads, and slammed them together. They dropped.
The third tried to run.
Amara caught him by the leg, dragged him back, and pinned him with one cyborg hand.
"Not today."
The last few gang members realized they were outmatched.
One threw his gun down, hands up. "Alright! Alright! We surrender!"
The others followed.
Amara stood, breathing hard, her cyborg arms whirring softly as they recalibrated. She looked around at the unconscious bodies, the surrendered gang members, the destroyed warehouse.
"Good warm-up," she said.
Chidi lowered his hands, the faint shimmer of his shields fading. He looked exhausted. "You call that a warm-up?"
She grinned. "What? You want me to go harder next time?"
"No. Absolutely not."
Backup arrived ten minutes later. They cuffed the gang members, loaded them into transport vehicles, and began processing the scene.
Chidi stood outside the warehouse, hands in his pockets, staring at the city lights in the distance.
Amara walked up beside him, wiping blood off her knuckles.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
"You don't look good."
Chidi didn't answer right away. Then: "This case. The murders. It's going nowhere."
"We'll figure it out."
"Will we?"
Amara looked at him, her expression softening. "Yeah. We will."
Chidi nodded, but the doubt didn't leave his eyes.
They were walking back to the patrol car when Chidi's comm-link buzzed.
Unknown number.
He sighed, answered. "Okafor."
A smooth, polished voice came through. "Detective Okafor. This is Marcus Adebayo, Director of Public Relations for Zenith Industries. We saw what you did today on our security cameras. You and Sergeant Amara saved lives in one of our districts. We'd like to thank you personally."
Chidi frowned. "Just doing our job."
"Of course. But we'd like to honor you publicly. A small ceremony. Press will be there. It'll only take a moment. Please come to our headquarters. We're sending a car now."
"We're off-duty—"
"We insist. It's already arranged."
The line went dead.
Chidi stared at his comm-link.
Amara raised an eyebrow. "Corporate bullshit?"
"Yeah."
"You going?"
Chidi sighed. "Guess we don't have a choice."
The ceremony was exactly what Chidi expected.
Sleek corporate headquarters. Holographic banners. News cameras. A crowd of employees and "concerned citizens" who looked like they'd been paid to smile.
He stood on a stage, uncomfortable in his uniform, while the CEO of Zenith Industries—a man with perfect teeth and an expensive suit—held a plaque and a check.
"Today," the CEO said, his voice booming through speakers, "we honor Detective Chidi Okafor for his bravery in protecting our citizens and securing peace in our facilities. As a token of our gratitude, we present him with the Zenith Heroism Award—and a financial bonus of fifty thousand credits."
The crowd clapped. Cameras flashed.
Chidi stared at the check.
Fifty thousand credits.
Enough to fix his marriage. Enough to stop his wife's nagging. Enough to—
He looked at the CEO. At the cameras. At the crowd.
And he saw it.
The performance. The manipulation. The purchase.
He didn't take the check.
"I appreciate the gesture," Chidi said, his voice calm but firm. "But I didn't do this for you. I did it because people needed help. That's my job."
The CEO's smile froze. "Of course, but—"
"I don't want your award. I don't want your money. I don't work for you. I work for the city."
Chidi turned and walked off the stage.
The crowd went silent.
Then someone started clapping.
Then another.
Then more.
By the time Chidi reached the exit, half the crowd was applauding.
The CEO stood there, award still in hand, smile cracking at the edges.
Amara was waiting outside, leaning against the wall.
"That was stupid," she said.
"Yeah."
"Also brave."
"Maybe."
"Your wife's going to kill you."
Chidi didn't answer.
They walked to the patrol car in silence.
The news spread fast.
By the time Chidi got home, his comm-link was flooded with messages. News outlets. Social media. Strangers calling him a hero.
He ignored all of it.
They were leaving the district when Chidi's comm-link buzzed again.
Unknown number.
He sighed, answered. "Okafor."
A smooth, polished voice came through. "Detective Okafor. This is Marcus Adebayo, Director of Public Relations for Zenith Industries. We saw what you did today on our security cameras. You and Sergeant Amara saved lives in one of our districts. We'd like to thank you personally."
Chidi frowned. "Just doing our job."
"Of course. But we'd like to honor you publicly. A small ceremony. Press will be there. It'll only take a moment. Please come to our headquarters."
"We're off-duty now."
"We insist. It's already arranged."
The line went dead.
Chidi stared at his comm-link.
Amara raised an eyebrow. "Corporate bullshit?"
"Yeah."
"You going?"
Chidi sighed. "Guess we don't have a choice."
Chidi walked into his house at 11:34 PM.
The lights were on. The TV was playing. His wife was waiting.
She used to be beautiful, he thought as he closed the door. Calm. Everything I wanted. Before we got married. Before she moved into this house. Before everything changed.
"You rejected the money?!" she screamed the moment he stepped inside. "Fifty thousand credits! Do you know how much that was?!"
Chidi set his keys down, didn't look at her. "I couldn't take it."
"Why?! We need that money! But no, you had to be the hero again!"
"It wasn't about being a hero. It was about not being owned."
"You're so selfish! You think about your pride, your morals, your job—but never about me! Never about us!"
She stepped closer, jabbing a finger at his chest.
"You know Bayo? The customs officer down the street? Every time he stops contraband—rice, food, tech—he takes some for himself! Brings it home! His wife is happy! But you? You're too proud! Too righteous!"
Chidi looked at her. "That's called corruption."
"That's called taking care of your family!"
He turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?!" she screamed. "Don't you walk away from me! You think you're better than everyone! You think—"
The door closed.
Her voice was still yelling inside.
Chidi stood on the street, alone in the dark.
His comm-link buzzed.
Amara: "You good?"
Chidi: "Not really. Need a drink."
Amara: "On my way."
They sat in Amara's garage, cheap beer in hand, the sound of the city muted beyond the walls.
Amara watched him, her expression soft. She'd seen the signs. The exhaustion. The pain. The way his wife looked at him like he was a burden instead of a partner.
She suspected the truth. Had for a while now.
But she didn't say anything.
He's already breaking, she thought. If I tell him now, he'll shatter. Maybe... maybe I can help him heal first. Maybe he'll leave her on his own.
Instead, she just said: "You did the right thing today."
"Doesn't feel like it."
"That's because you're tired. Not because you're wrong."
Chidi took a long drink. "This case. The murders. We're stuck until the kid comes back."
"Then we wait. And when he shows up, we bring him in."
"For what? He's a witness, not a suspect."
"Doesn't matter. We need to know what he saw."
Chidi nodded, staring at his beer.
They sat in silence for a while.
Finally, Amara spoke. "You know you don't have to go back there, right? To that house."
Chidi looked at her.
"I know," he said quietly.
But he didn't say anything else.
They drank until the sun came up.