The Stranger's Name
The back corridor smelled like damp concrete and old cardboard — the kind of forgotten hallway that only staff or ghosts ever used. The man in the navy hoodie walked ahead with controlled urgency, checking each corner before letting Dombi follow.
Her heartbeat hadn't slowed since she left the computer desk. Every time her footstep echoed, she expected Mandla's men to burst through the door behind them.
But the stranger didn't panic.
He moved like a man who'd done this a hundred times.
At the end of the corridor was another door — metal, scratched, with paint peeling around the lock. He tried the handle.
Locked.
He clicked his tongue softly, not frustrated… just calculating.
Then he knelt and pulled something from his pocket.
A lockpick.
Dombi's breath caught.
"You're… a criminal?" she whispered before she could stop herself.
He didn't look up.
Didn't pause.
"Everyone's a criminal to someone," he said simply.
The lock clicked open.
He pushed the door just wide enough for her to slip through.
The outside alley was colder, dimly lit by the side of the old building. Trash bins lined the walls, and a stray cat darted away at the sound of the door opening.
He stepped out behind her and closed it quietly.
Only then did he turn to face her.
"Alright," he said, adjusting the hood so it shadowed his eyes. "We don't have long. They'll circle the building once they realize you're gone."
She held her backpack tightly.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He nodded, as if expecting the question.
"I'll tell you in a minute," he said. "But first — you need to move."
"Move where?"
"A safe place. Somewhere Mandla doesn't have eyes."
She stiffened.
"How do you know about Mandla?"
Something flickered in his stare. Not fear. Not guilt.
Recognition.
"I've known Mandla longer than you think," he said quietly. "Long enough to know what he's capable of. And long enough to know you shouldn't be anywhere near him."
Her throat tightened.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
His answer came without hesitation.
"To keep you alive."
The alley opened into a narrow street. He checked it, then motioned her to follow.
She didn't move.
Not yet.
"Your name," she said firmly. "I won't take another step until you tell me who you are."
He exhaled — not irritated, but resigned.
"Fine."
He pulled down his hood.
And for a moment, Dombi forgot how to breathe.
He was younger than she thought. Sharp features. Scars along his jaw like someone who'd been through things he didn't talk about. Eyes that held too much knowledge for his age.
And then — suddenly — familiarity struck her.
Those eyes.
She'd seen them somewhere.
He noticed the recognition forming in her expression and spoke before she could.
"My name is Kabelo Molefe," he said.
Her stomach dropped.
"Molefe?" she repeated, voice cracking. "As in—"
"Yes," he said. "Molefe's son."
Everything inside her froze.
Her vision.
Her breath.
Her thoughts.
Kabelo continued, his voice lower now.
"My father trusted you. He protected you when no one else would. And before he disappeared…" — his jaw clenched — "he told me that if anything happened to him, I needed to find you."
Her knees felt weak.
"Kabelo…" she whispered. "Your father… he's—"
"I know," Kabelo said, looking away for a second. "I know he's gone."
The ache in his voice said it all — grief buried under focus.
He stepped closer, eyes steady on hers.
"My father died trying to protect the truth," he said. "Now it's my turn."
Dombi's throat tightened.
Kabelo Molefe — the son of the only man who fought for her.
He took a breath and added:
"Now come on. If Mandla's men find us here, not even my father's memory will save us."
Dombi nodded.
Together, they ran...