Sweet Sensation, Ikeja: three floors of sizzling woks and clinking cutlery. The air is thick with pepper, palm oil, and the low hum of ceiling fans. Behind the counter, Prince Awoyemi (Leo, 16) flips a pan of jollof with one hand while dicing onions with the other. His red button-up is rolled to the elbows, black apron dusted white with flour.
"Prince, shift don end o," calls Tolu, wiping sweat. "Na 8:00 p.m. sharp."
Prince glances at the wall clock. "True talk. See you tomorrow." He unties the apron, grabs his backpack, and melts into the Ikeja night.
Agege, 8:27 p.m.
Danfo coughs to a stop. Prince hops off, sneakers hitting cracked asphalt. The street is alive: okada engines, gospel blasting from a barber shop, the sweet smell of boli. Then—
BOOM!
A grenade arcs from a cluster of five thugs in torn singlets. Flames swallow two wooden shops. Screams slice the air: "Inááááá!"
Prince doesn't hesitate.
He blurs.
One punch—crack—first thug folds.
One spinning kick—thud—second drops.
Three more hits, three more bodies on the ground.
The fire roars higher. Prince raises his right hand, palm flat. A golden heat ripples from his skin. He sweeps left—
WHOOSH.
Every flame snuffs out like candles under glass.
The crowd erupts: "Miracle! God don do am!"
Prince smiles, small and secret. The thugs scramble up and bolt into the shadows.
8:31 p.m.
A black cloth drops over his face from behind. Strong arms pin him.
"Mmmph—!"
A cold needle pierces his neck.
Synthesizer.
Vision tunnels.
Black van doors slam. Tires screech.
No one in the rejoicing crowd notices the Leo vanish.
Inside the van
Prince slumps, unconscious. A gloved hand lifts his sleeve—revealing a golden lion tattoo glowing faintly on his forearm.
Voice from the darkness: "Second warrior secured. Scorpio's next."