The girls—Nina and Rukky—stood frozen behind me. I turned slightly, desperate to find something—anything—human in their faces. But all I saw was terror. Pale skin. Wide eyes stretched so far they barely blinked. Their breaths were trapped somewhere between their ribs and their throats, tears streaking down in streams. The sight only made the fear twist sharper inside me, so I looked away. I couldn't look at them. I couldn't look anywhere but at him.
The man who ruled this country by fear alone.
The man whose name made people cross themselves without even knowing why.
And I was on the floor before him—still bound, still aching, now marked forever by the memory of the man who'd just died inches from me.
I had never seen a dead body this close before. Not even when my grandparents passed—first my grandfather, then two years later, my grandmother. My mother had refused to let me near their coffins. She'd cupped my face in her hands, soft but firm, and told me some things were not meant for my eyes. She shielded me from that. And during the cult clashes, when bodies sometimes lay in the streets or when they burned thieves alive in broad daylight, I made sure never to look. Even when my friends tried to drag me to see, calling me soft boy, I held my ground. Let them say what they liked—I knew how to fight when I needed to. But I refused to watch death like it was entertainment.
But now—now it was too close. Not just seen, but felt. The heat of the blood, the ragged breath that never came again. A man's life snatched away right before my eyes. I wanted to vomit, to pass out, to scrub this moment from my mind, to be anywhere but here.
My breath came in sharp, broken bursts. My chest felt too tight. My stomach twisted violently, the acid burn crawling up the back of my throat. I could still hear the gunshot ringing in my ears, still smell the sharp bite of gunpowder on the air.
"Kneel," Black Tiger said softly.
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The weight of the word alone pinned me in place. He stepped closer, and through the blinding pain—the unbearable ache in my gut—I forced myself upright, my hands clutching my stomach, my legs trembling as I shifted to my knees.
Was this some kind of initiation? Was this how gangs brought new members in? Was this some sick test? The thought spun wild and frantic in my head.
I thought I would throw up. The bile was thick in my mouth. God, I hated the idea—the mess of it, the taste, the loss of control. But I forced it down. Somehow.
He crouched in front of me. His hand caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.
I didn't want to. I couldn't. But I did.
His eyes were the first thing I saw—dark, not just brown but abyss-dark, endless, unreadable. The kind of dark you find in the souls of men who have forgotten mercy. Then he smiled. Slowly. His teeth were too white, too perfect, his canines slightly too sharp, and somehow that made everything worse. My stomach flipped.
"Do you know you're a fine boy?" he asked, voice almost soft. Almost kind. But I saw it—the twitch of his lips, the way someone behind him caught their breath like they were stifling laughter.
"Answer me," he said, sharper this time.
I nodded. Shakily. My heart pounded so hard it felt like my ribs might snap. I had no idea what this meant—was he mocking me? Branding me? Choosing me for something worse?
He stood slowly, turning to his men. His gaze swept the room like it already owned every breath inside it.
"The theatrics," he said flatly. "This little boy. Two girls. And you let them outsmart you."
His voice barely lifted. But then—without warning—it rose, a roar that shattered the air.
"AND YOU SPEAK?"
The warehouse itself seemed to flinch. Even the shadows froze. I flinched too. My whole body locked.
It was as if God himself had spoken judgment.
"You laugh," he said coldly. His eyes narrowed. "Wait. Who just tried to laugh now?" His voice dipped quieter, but the menace in it was unmistakable. Like the very idea of laughter in his presence was a personal insult.
No one answered.
"I SAID WHO?!"
The man beside him—the one who'd grabbed me—dropped instantly to his knees. "Boss, abeg! Abeg no vex!" His voice broke in panic, hands raised, body trembling like he knew death was seconds away.
"I would like to know," Black Tiger said, voice almost conversational, "what was funny."
The silence was unbearable. Thick. Choking. My heart thundered so loud I could barely think.
And for just one wild second, something inside me wanted to move. To fight. To spit at him. To become something—someone—stronger. I imagined myself leaping at him, becoming a hero, a fighter.
But no. This wasn't the movies.
Heroes don't exist. Only monsters like him.
I killed the thought before it could live.
I would never be like him.
Never.