The warehouse smelled like rust and decay.
Osaze stood in the center of the empty space, staring at the leopard. The creature sat perfectly still, watching him with golden eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness.
"Alright," Osaze said, his voice rough. "Enough. What are you?"
The leopard tilted its head, and for a moment, Osaze could've sworn it was smiling.
"Finally," it said. "Took you long enough."
Osaze's hands clenched into fists. "Answer the question."
The leopard stood, stretched, and padded closer. Its white fur seemed to shimmer in the dim light, the red spots dark as dried blood.
"My name is Ìgè," it said. "But your bloodline has always called me the Blood-Stained Leopard."
"That doesn't—"
"I'm an ancestral spirit," Ìgè continued, cutting him off. "Bound to your family through blood pacts made centuries ago. Before colonization. Before your people forgot who they were."
Osaze stared at it. "Ancestral spirit."
"Yes."
"And you expect me to just... believe that?"
Ìgè's tail flicked. "You can see me. You can hear me. Your bones healed in seconds after you shattered them against a wall. What part of this is unbelievable?"
Osaze opened his mouth. Closed it. He had no answer.
Ìgè sat down again, looking almost bored. "Ancestral spirits are tied to families over generations. We guide. We protect. We help you navigate this world you're just beginning to see." Its tone was casual, almost playful. "Though I'll admit, I didn't expect to be stuck with someone so... underwhelming."
"Thanks," Osaze said flatly.
"Don't mention it." Ìgè's tail flicked with what might have been amusement.
"And I'm supposed to just... accept this?"
"You don't have a choice." Ìgè's voice was matter-of-fact. "The spiritual world has opened to you. You can see things now. Things that have always been there, but you were blind to. Most humans live their entire lives as dreamers—walking through the world reacting only to what they can touch, ignoring the forces that shape everything around them."
Osaze's chest tightened. "And now?"
"Now you're awake," Ìgè said. "And there's no going back."
---
The leopard began to pace, its movements smooth and predatory.
"I don't understand why you summoned me," Ìgè said, more to itself than to Osaze. "You're weak. Sickly. You don't look like someone with power."
Osaze's jaw tightened. "Thanks."
"I'm not insulting you. I'm stating a fact." Ìgè stopped pacing, turned to face him. "Your father was strong. Very strong. He had the discipline. The presence. But you?"
It studied him with those unblinking golden eyes.
"You shouldn't have been able to call me. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"Then how did I?" Osaze asked quietly.
Ìgè's ears flattened. "I don't know. Something happened when your father died. When you made that promise. Something... cracked open. Just enough."
The words hung in the air.
Osaze looked away. "So what now?"
"Now?" Ìgè's tail flicked. "Now you learn. Your body is changing. Healing faster. Seeing things you couldn't see before. But you have no control. No discipline. You're leaking power like a broken vessel."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're drawing attention," Ìgè said. "Spirits. Monsters. Things that hunt people like you. In this city, that kind of power is blood in the water."
Osaze's stomach dropped. "And you're here to... what? Protect me?"
Ìgè snorted. "I'm here to keep you alive long enough to be useful. Right now, you're a danger to yourself."
"So what do I do?"
"You listen. You learn. You stop running from what you're becoming." Ìgè's eyes narrowed. "And you accept that the world you thought you knew was just a dream. This—" it gestured around them with one paw, "—this is reality. The spiritual shapes the physical. Always has. You just couldn't see it before."
---
Osaze took a shaky breath.
Everything felt too heavy. Too fast. Weeks ago, he was a medical student. Tired. Sick. Normal.
Now his father was dead. His body was healing in ways that shouldn't be possible. He could see spirits. And apparently, he'd summoned an ancestral leopard that thought he was useless.
"I don't know if I can do this," he said quietly.
Ìgè's expression softened—just barely. Then it grinned. "Well, you're about to find out."
"You don't have a choice," it said. "But you're not alone. That's what I'm here for. To guide you. To teach you how to regulate the power inside you. How to survive in this new world."
Osaze's hands clenched into fists. "My father just died. I'm supposed to be mourning him. I'm supposed to be figuring out how to survive without him. And now you're telling me I have to fight *monsters*?"
"Yes."
"I didn't ask for this."
Ìgè's eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement. "No one ever does. But here you are anyway."
"And if I can't do it?" Osaze asked, his voice tight with anger and exhaustion. "If I can't survive this?"
"Then you die," Ìgè said simply. "And I find another host."
The bluntness of it hit like a slap.
But before Osaze could respond, the air changed.
---
The temperature dropped.
His breath misted.
Ìgè's body went rigid, ears flat, hackles raised.
"What—" Osaze started to say.
"Quiet," Ìgè hissed.
The pressure in the room grew. Heavy. Suffocating. Wrong.
Ìgè's ears perked up. Its tail stopped moving.
"Oh," it said, almost cheerfully. "Company. And here I thought this evening would be boring."
Osaze turned slowly.
And froze.
It stood in the shadows near the broken doorway.
Massive. Hunched. Moving on all fours like some twisted predator.
Its body was humanoid—arms too long, legs bent at unnatural angles, skin gray and cracked like old stone. But its face—
It wore a mask.
Carved wood. Tribal patterns etched deep into the surface. No eyes. No mouth. Just a smooth, silent scream frozen in time.
Osaze's heart hammered in his chest.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
This was the first time.
The first time he'd seen something like this. Not a spirit in passing. Not a shadow at the edge of his vision. But something real. Something HERE. Something that wanted to hurt him.
His father had just died weeks ago. He'd been grieving. Lost. And now—
Now this.
"Ìgè," he whispered. "What is that?"
"A hunter," Ìgè said, voice low and dangerous. "Drawn to your power."
The creature tilted its head.
And then it moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
One moment it was at the doorway. The next, it was right in front of him.
Osaze didn't even have time to scream.
The creature's fist connected with his chest.
The world exploded.
Pain. Blinding, overwhelming pain.
Osaze flew backward—weightless, breathless—and slammed into the corner of the building. Brick and concrete crumbled under the impact.
Something snapped.
Ribs. Spine. Maybe more.
He hit the ground hard, gasping, choking on blood.
His vision blurred. His body screamed.
He tried to move.
Couldn't.
The creature stalked toward him, slow now. Deliberate. Its claws scraped against the concrete, leaving deep grooves in the floor.
It made no sound. No breath. No growl. Just the scrape of claws and a smell—rot and burnt copper, like old blood left in the sun.
Osaze's hands shook. Blood poured from his mouth.
THIS IS IT, he thought distantly. THIS IS HOW I DIE.
He couldn't process it. Couldn't understand. Everything was happening too fast. Too much. Too overwhelming.
He was just a medical student.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
And then Ìgè's voice cut through the haze.
"Get up."
Osaze's eyes focused—barely. The leopard stood between him and the creature, teeth bared, fur bristling.
"I said get up, boy."
Osaze coughed. Blood splattered the ground. His ribs ground together as he tried to push himself up.
"I... I can't..."
"You can," Ìgè said, not looking back at him. "And you will. Because if you don't, you die here." Its voice shifted, almost teasing. "And honestly? That would be embarrassing for both of us."
The creature—the Abíkú—tilted its masked head, studying them.
Osaze's vision swam. His ribs screamed. Blood filled his mouth.
"You said I was leaking power!" he gasped. "You knew something would come!"
Ìgè dodged left as the Abíkú swiped at it. "Of course I knew."
"Then why didn't you—"
"Because you needed to see it," Ìgè said, landing gracefully a few feet away. "To understand what's out there. What's hunting you." Its tail flicked with something that looked like amusement. "Besides, I wasn't in any real danger."
Osaze's eyes widened. "You used me as BAIT?!"
"I used you as a student. There's a difference." Ìgè's voice shifted—still firm, but something warmer underneath. Almost parental. "Now stop whining and MOVE!"
The Abíkú lunged.
The restaurant was expensive.
Not the kind of place normal people could afford. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting soft light over polished marble floors. The tables were spaced far apart, each one draped in white cloth. Holographic menus floated in the air, displaying dishes in three dimensions.
Privacy screens shimmered between sections, ensuring no one could overhear conversations they weren't meant to hear.
At a table in the corner, five figures sat.
Number Four leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He was massive—easily the largest person in the room. His skin was dark, his frame packed with muscle. He wore a simple black suit that strained against his shoulders.
Across from him, Number Two smiled as she traced her fingers along the silver bracelets on her wrists. She was young, mid-twenties, with light brown skin and bright eyes. She wore a white dress that looked too innocent for someone who killed for a living.
"You need to relax," she said, her voice light and warm. "God is with you. He protects you. Always."
Number Four grunted. "God protects the faithful. Not killers."
"We're not killers," Number Two said, still smiling. "We're soldiers. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
She reached across the table, placed a hand on his. "There is. We're doing His work. Protecting His church. That matters."
Number Four didn't respond. But he didn't pull his hand away either.
At the other end of the table, Number Three sat hunched over, hood pulled low over his face. He mumbled to himself—*"Not Clean Not Wash The Blood Won't"*—biting the edge of his sleeve between phrases.
Number One sat beside him, stiff and perfect in his white suit. His hair was blond, slicked back. His eyes were cold.
Ezekiel.
He scrolled through a holographic file, reading in silence. Then he spoke.
"Evbuomwan, Osaze," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Twenty years old. Medical student. Sickle cell disease."
He looked up, smirking. "Already dying. Not a threat."
Number Four's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Ezekiel continued, oblivious. "His father clung to pagan gods like some kind of primitive. Called us invaders, as if we don't belong here." He laughed—sharp, bitter. "The son's no different. Weak. Pathetic. The disease will kill him before we ever have to lift a finger."
Number Two glanced at Number Four, concern flickering in her eyes.
Number Four's fist clenched on the table.
Ezekiel noticed. He leaned forward, still smiling. "Something to say, Four?"
Number Four's voice was low. Dangerous. "That boy told you he's going to kill you."
Ezekiel waved a hand dismissively. "Empty words from a dying child."
"What if they weren't empty?"
Ezekiel's smile faltered.
Number Four leaned forward. "You killed his father. Called him a monkey. Mocked his bloodline. Dismissed him like he was nothing. And now you're sitting here acting like his son can't touch you."
"He can't—"
"Either you go finish your work," Number Four said, his voice hard as steel, "or your mistake will come back and bite you."
Ezekiel's face darkened. "Are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you."
The tension in the air thickened. Number Two's hand tightened on Number Four's, trying to pull him back.
Number Three kept mumbling.
And then the door opened.
---
A woman stepped into the room.
She was tall, elegant, dressed in a sleek black suit that looked more like armor than clothing. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was cold. Expressionless.
She didn't smile. Didn't greet them.
She just walked to the head of the table and sat down.
Her eyes swept over them—clinical, assessing, like she was looking at livestock.
Everyone went quiet.
"Sit," she said.
They were already sitting.
She pulled out a tablet, activated it. A holographic display appeared above the table—files, photos, names, faces.
"You've been busy," she said, her voice flat and clinical. "Thirty-two targets eliminated in the last six months. Clean. Efficient."
She swiped through the files. "But you're falling behind schedule. This district has more old bloodline families than we anticipated. The boss wants you to accelerate."
Number Two leaned forward slightly. "How many more?"
"Fifteen confirmed targets. Possibly more." The woman's cold eyes swept over them. "Which is why we're adding another operative to your team."
She tapped the tablet. A new file appeared above the table.
KYLE.
A young face. Early twenties. Brown skin. Bright, earnest eyes that seemed too kind for this line of work.
"He's a talented fighter," the woman said. "His power is rated to be the highest among this year's candidates and his skills are top notch."
Ezekiel frowned. "A recruit?"
"A necessity." The woman closed the file with a flick of her wrist. "He'll be joining you by the end of the week. Make sure he's properly educated on how we operate here."
Number Three mumbled something under his breath. The woman ignored him.
She slid a file across the table to Number Two.
"Your next assignment."
Number Two picked it up, flipped it open. Her smile widened as she read.
"Oh," she said, laughing softly. "This one's going to be interesting."
She stood, tucking the file under her arm. Her bracelets clinked softly as she moved.
"Alright then," she said brightly. "Let me go spread the good word."
She walked toward the door, still smiling, still humming softly to herself.
The woman watched her leave. Then she turned back to the others.
"The rest of you have your assignments. Stay focused. Stay quiet. Stay professional." Her eyes landed on Ezekiel, then shifted to Number Four. "And stay in line."
She stood, gathered her tablet, and paused at the door. She looked back at them, her expression unreadable.
"And remember," she said, her voice flat. "I'm not here to protect you. I'm here to make sure the work gets done. If any of you become a liability, you'll be replaced."
Then she left without another word.
The table was silent for a long moment.
Then Number Four stood.
He walked past Ezekiel without looking at him.
But as he passed, he spoke—quiet, cold, final.
"Finish your work, One. Before it finishes you."
And then he was gone.
Ezekiel sat alone at the table, staring at the holographic file still floating in the air.
**Osaze Evbuomwan.**
**Sickle cell disease.**
**Already dying.**
He closed the file with a swipe of his hand.
But the words lingered.
*I'M GOING TO KILL YOU.*
Ezekiel leaned back in his chair, jaw tight.
The boy was nothing. Weak. Dying.
But still.
Something about those words wouldn't leave him.