The silence in Damian's apartment was heavy.
Osaze sat on the couch, his glasses reflecting the dim light from the window. His hands were folded in his lap, but his knuckles were white.
Kemi stood near the door, the axe leaning against the wall beside her. She looked exhausted. Hollow.
Damian leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
And standing in the doorway were Detective Chidi Okafor and Sergeant Amara Nkosi.
Chidi's eyes swept the room—cataloging, assessing, measuring.
Amara's cyborg arms clicked softly as she shifted her weight.
"We saw everything," Chidi said finally.
Osaze didn't move. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Chidi smiled faintly. "Don't play dumb. We followed you from the church."
Kemi's hand twitched toward the axe.
"Relax," Amara said, her voice even. "We're not here to arrest you."
"Then why are you here?" Damian asked quietly.
Chidi pulled out his tablet, swiping through files. "Because we've been investigating murders. Twelve victims over the last six months. And tonight, I watched a masked vigilante attack a pastor in his own church." He looked up. "So either you start talking, or I start making calls."
Osaze met his gaze. Steady. Tired.
"Fine," Osaze said. "Yes. I attacked him."
Chidi raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because he killed my father."
"How do you know?"
"I recognized his laugh."
There was a pause.
Then Chidi and Amara *laughed*.
Not cruelly. But genuinely—like they'd just heard the most absurd thing in the world.
Osaze's expression didn't change. He just stared at them.
Stone-faced.
"You attacked a man," Chidi said slowly, still smiling, "on the pretext that you recognized his *laugh*?"
"Yes."
The laughter stopped.
Chidi studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Alright. Let's say I believe you. Why didn't you finish the job?"
Osaze's jaw tightened. "I tried."
"You didn't try hard enough." Chidi tapped his tablet. "We were there. We saw the fight. And I saw something interesting."
He stood, walked to the center of the room, and raised his hand.
The air *shifted*.
A low hum filled the space, and suddenly, a translucent shield appeared in front of him—a circular construct made of sound, shimmering faintly, intricate patterns rippling across its surface.
Kemi's eyes widened.
"This is what I do," Chidi said. "Sound constructs. I'm Tuned. Tier Thirteen. Not the strongest, but functional." He dismissed the shield with a flick of his wrist. "Now, here's what I noticed. When you attacked that pastor, he didn't flinch."
Osaze frowned. "So?"
"So," Chidi continued, "a normal person flinches when they're about to get hit. It's instinct. But he didn't. Not even a blink. You know why?"
Osaze didn't answer.
"Because people with constructs defending them *don't* flinch," Chidi explained. "If you know—*really* know—that a punch won't touch you, you don't react. You don't even bother. A bullet could be fired point-blank, and if you're confident your shield will stop it, you don't blink."
He leaned forward slightly. "That pastor? He's not just some holy man. He's been trained. He's fought before. And he knew you couldn't hurt him."
The room went quiet.
Damian's expression darkened. "So you're saying he's military."
"Or something close to it," Amara said. She pulled out her own tablet. "We have information for you too. The man your father killed? Marcus Vance. British SIS operative. Went rogue six years ago. Started freelancing. And guess what?" She swiped the screen toward Osaze. "He was connected to New Dawn Church."
Osaze stared at the file. "Shit."
"It gets worse," Chidi said. "That church has ties to organizations that control roughly sixty percent of the human economy. Politicians. Corporations. Governments. They're not just rich. They're *embedded*."
Kemi spoke up, her voice quiet. "So what does that mean?"
Chidi pulled up another file. A map. Red markers scattered across it.
"Twelve victims," he said. "Different locations. Lekki. Ibadan. Accra. Nairobi. Johannesburg." He zoomed in on one. "This man, killed in Lekki. Blade cuts. Clean. Professional. His family descended from Ọṣun priests."
He swiped to another. "This woman, murdered in Ibadan. Bones ripped apart. Brute force. Her lineage traced back to Ṣàngó worship."
Another. "This one in Accra. Unusual stab wounds. Ritualistic patterns. Family tied to Anansi traditions."
He looked up. "Different methods. Different locations. But one pattern. They're all connected to *old gods*. Strong ancestral ties. Active worship lines. Not just casual believers—*direct descendants*."
Osaze felt a chill run through him.
"And it's not just humans," Amara added. "Some of the victims were hybrids. Yoruba-Arcturian. Edo-Sirian. Mixed bloodlines. But all of them had one thing in common—spiritual power."
Kemi stepped forward. "So they're hunting people like us."
"Exactly." Chidi closed the file. "They're cutting the roots. If you kill the roots, the tree can't stand. They're clearing the ground."
"For what?" Damian asked.
Chidi shook his head. "I don't know. But whatever they're planting... it's not good."
Kemi hesitated, then spoke. "There's something you should know."
She walked over to the axe and picked it up.
Chidi's eyes narrowed. "Is that—"
"A weapon forged by Ogun," Kemi said quietly. "The Yoruba god of iron and war. I didn't know until recently. A shaman named Adéọlá told me. She said I have ties to him. That my family... we might have been high priestesses. Or warriors. I don't know the full story. My mom never told me."
She held the axe out.
Chidi pulled out a scanner—a small device that projected a holographic readout.
He waved it over the blade.
The scanner beeped. Flickered. Then displayed: **[ERROR: MATERIAL COMPOSITION UNKNOWN. NO MATCH IN EARTH DATABASE.]**
Chidi stared at it. "This metal... it doesn't exist in any records. Not on Earth. Not on any colony. It's not classified. It's just... *not there*."
Amara leaned closer. "So either it's alien, or—"
"Or it's divine," Damian finished.
Kemi pulled the axe back. "Adéọlá said Ogun blessed it. Renewed it. She said whatever's coming, he wants me ready."
Chidi exhaled slowly. "So we're not just dealing with assassins. We're dealing with... gods. Magic. Old power."
"Yes," Osaze said.
Chidi rubbed his face. "This is insane."
"But it explains everything," Amara said. She looked at Chidi. "The patterns. The victims. The way the case was buried. Someone didn't want us connecting the dots."
Chidi nodded slowly. "When I got close to finding answers, my boss told me to drop the case. Orders from above." He made a gesture—fingers pointing upward, then circling down. "Someone higher than him. Someone with enough pull to make a dozen murders disappear."
"So what do we do?" Kemi asked.
Chidi looked at her. Then at Osaze. Then at Damian.
"We leave it," he said finally.
Osaze stood. "What?"
"For now," Chidi clarified. "You just attacked a man in his own church. You're on their radar. If you keep pushing, they'll mobilize. And you're not ready."
"I'm ready—"
"You're *not*," Chidi said sharply. "I'm risking my career being here. My partner is risking hers. We're going off the books to help you. But if you keep acting reckless, you'll get us all killed."
From the back of Osaze's mind, a voice spoke.
**Ìgè.**
*"The mortal has a point. Listen to him."*
Osaze clenched his fists. But he nodded.
"Good," Chidi said. He handed Osaze a card. "If you need us, call. But don't do anything stupid."
He and Amara turned to leave.
At the door, Chidi paused. "One more thing. That pastor? Ezekiel? He's going to come looking for you. And when he does, you better be ready."
The door closed behind them.
The apartment fell silent again.
Osaze sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands.
Ìgè's voice echoed in his mind.
*"You acted like prey tonight. Not a predator. You broke character. That's why you failed."*
Osaze didn't respond.
He just sat there.
Tired. Angry. And afraid.
The Next Day - Morning
Kyle stood outside a rundown building on the outskirts of the city.
Behind him, a privatized SWAT team waited—six men in black tactical gear, weapons drawn.
"This is it?" one of them asked.
Kyle nodded. "Intel says this is a vampire den. Low-level. But someone here might know who attacked us."
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the building was dark. Old. The air smelled like smoke and rust.
And in the center of the room, a group of young vampires sat around a table, playing cards.
They looked up when Kyle entered.
One of them—a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes—stood slowly. "Can we help you?"
Kyle raised his hand, light flickering around his fingers. "We're looking for information. One of you attacked us last night. Summoned a swarm of bats."
The woman blinked. "What?"
"Don't play dumb," Kyle said. "We know it was a vampire."
The woman laughed. "You think *we* did that?"
"Who else?"
She shook her head. "Listen, kid. We're *low* vampires. We can enhance ourselves. Jump higher. Run faster. Control a few humans if we're desperate. But summoning a *swarm*?" She gestured around the room. "That's high vampire shit. We can't do that."
Kyle frowned. "What do you mean?"
Another vampire spoke up—a young man with scars across his face. "To control a swarm, you need power. *Real* power. Centuries of it. You're not controlling one mind. You're controlling hundreds. Coordinating them. Keeping them together. That takes a vampire who's lived long enough to develop that kind of strength."
The silver-haired woman crossed her arms. "Whoever attacked you? They're old. And dangerous. Way out of our league."
Kyle stood there, processing this.
Then he turned to the SWAT team. "Stand down."
"Sir?"
"I said stand down." Kyle looked at the vampires. "Sorry for the intrusion."
He walked out without another word.
The SWAT team followed, confused.
Behind them, the vampires exchanged glances.
"What the hell was that about?" one of them muttered.
The silver-haired woman sat back down. "No idea. But whoever that old vampire is... I don't want to meet them."
Caliphate University - Afternoon
Osaze sat in class, his notebook open in front of him, his pen moving across the page.
He was catching up on lectures he'd missed. Notes. Diagrams. Medical terminology.
His glasses reflected the afternoon light streaming through the window.
On his shoulder, invisible to everyone else, Ìgè sat curled up like a small cat.
*"You're tense,"* Ìgè muttered.
*I'm fine,* Osaze thought.
*"You're not. I can feel it. Something's wrong."*
Osaze glanced out the window. Students walked across the quad. Normal. Peaceful.
But something *did* feel wrong.
A pressure in the air. A weight.
*"There,"* Ìgè said suddenly. *"Do you feel that?"*
Osaze's hand stopped moving.
He looked out the window again.
And he saw him.
Ezekiel.
Walking across the campus. Smiling. Casual. Like he belonged there.
Osaze's heart stopped.
*No.*
*"Yes,"* Ìgè said quietly. *"He's here. And he's looking for you."*
Osaze watched as Ezekiel stopped a student. Asked a question. The student pointed toward the building.
Toward *this* building.
*Shit.*
Osaze stood, shoving his notebook into his bag.
The lecture wasn't over, but he didn't care.
He moved toward the door—
And froze.
Ezekiel was standing in the hallway.
Right outside the classroom.
Smiling.
Their eyes met.
And Ezekiel's smile widened.
He stepped into the doorway.
"Osaze Evbuomwan?" he said, his voice warm. Holy. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
The classroom went silent.
Every student turned to look.
Osaze's hand tightened on his bag strap.
Ìgè's voice was urgent in his mind.
*"Don't react. Stay calm. Don't let him see your fear."*
Osaze forced himself to breathe.
And smiled back.
"Sure," he said. "What can I do for you?"
Ezekiel's smile didn't falter.
"Just a few questions," he said. "It won't take long."