Someone shot at me.
Not the man the world thinks is Michael Obinna Igwe. Not the carefully crafted image of power, wealth, and untouchable perfection.
The real Michael Igwe.
Sitting here. Alive. And mildly… irritated.
I can't stop the slow smirk that creeps across my face as the realization hits: I have a mole.
The absurdity of it is almost laughable. Someone among my most trusted men — the ones who have been in my confidence for years, who know who I really am — actually had the audacity to try and kill me. And they missed. Missed, of all things, a target that was right in front of them.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. My eyes narrow. My mind moves faster than my pulse.
Impossible. No, improbable. No, unacceptable.
Something bigger is happening. Someone knows me well enough to anticipate my movements, my routines. Someone I cannot place. Someone outside my control.
And control is my life.
My most valued weapon. My currency. My insurance.
And right now, someone is chipping away at it. Slowly. Deliberately. Calculated.
A flash of irritation crosses my face, unbidden, as I realize the stakes: if I lose control, everything I've built, every quiet corner of my empire, every hidden movement, every untouchable layer of my life — it could collapse in seconds.
But I push it aside.
Anna.
Her wide eyes, trembling hands, flushed cheeks. Fear written in every line of her body. She thinks my men are aiming at her. She doesn't understand the truth. I almost laugh at her misconception, but I clamp down the amusement. I cannot let anything, not even a private joke in the form of a smirk, compromise her trust — or my control of this moment.
I step closer, my tone calm, deliberate.
"Come," I say, each word measured. "I'll drop you off. Our little date has been ruined."
She blinks, frozen. The comprehension seems slow, sluggish, weighed down by the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. I reach for her hand — not to pull, but to guide. Her fingers brush against mine briefly, and I notice the slight quiver, almost imperceptible, of someone caught between fear and fascination.
I lead her through the chaos outside, over uneven pavement, past the rain-slicked street reflecting the city lights. Every movement is precise. Every step calculated.
Into the car.
Once seated, she gathers herself, her body still rigid, but her breathing slower, controlled. And then the inevitable questions come — a rapid-fire torrent of them.
"What… what was that all about? Who is trying to kill you? And… what kind of job do you have that lets you act so casually when someone shoots at you?"
Her words tumble out, uneven, anxious, desperate for an answer. Her curiosity pierces me more sharply than the bullet that was meant for me, and I allow the barest smile to brush my lips.
"The less you know, the safer you'll be," I reply, my voice smooth, calm, and unflinching. "Just relax, and—"
The car jolts abruptly. I freeze.
Every muscle, every nerve, every instinct snaps tight. My eyes snap to the windshield.
And then I see him.
Someone I haven't laid eyes on in years. Someone whose presence twists the air itself into a charged, heavier reality.
A silhouette steps out from the car directly in front of ours. Familiar, commanding, tense with the weight of history I've always respected and, at times, feared.
"Hello, brother," the voice calls, steady and confident.
A slow, deliberate smile spreads across my face.
Yes, I live for silence. I crave quiet. But challenges? I devour them. And this — this unannounced, unexpected challenge — is exactly the sort of chaos that awakens the part of me that loves risk, danger, and power.
Anna, of course, is oblivious. Wide-eyed, frozen in the passenger seat, still processing the rapid turn of events. Fear and curiosity intertwine in her expression, creating a fascinating tapestry I cannot stop watching. She does not know who he is, nor could she. And that is exactly how it should remain.
I glance back at her, leaning slightly toward her, letting my hand brush lightly against the seat beside her — a grounding gesture, subtle, reassuring, calculated. She catches it, shivers slightly, and looks at me with a mixture of fear and wonder.
She doesn't realize that while she wonders, I am already calculating. Already assessing. Already planning.
Who knows how long this stranger — my brother — has been watching? How long he's waited for this opportunity? He moves with purpose, confident in ways only someone intimately familiar with me could manage. My mind races, connecting threads, anticipating moves, possibilities, contingencies.
And all the while, Anna is right there beside me, a living anchor. Her presence pulls me back from a spiral of strategy, reminding me that control, while slipping, can always be regained — if only I keep my wits about me.
The city hums around us, lights reflecting off wet asphalt, honking horns echoing faintly through the distance. I can feel the tension in her, the pulse of uncertainty. She wants answers. She wants clarity. She wants the chaos to make sense.
I can't give her that. Not yet. Mystery is a weapon, and right now, it's more effective than any explanation I could offer.
"Yes," I murmur under my breath, almost to myself, "life has just become infinitely more interesting."
Anna shifts slightly, and I catch the subtle rise of her eyebrows, the tightening of her grip on the door handle. She is processing the scene before her, unaware of the full spectrum of danger and power she is witnessing.
I can almost hear her thoughts: Who is he? Why is he here? What is happening?
And all I do is smile. Let the questions linger. Let her curiosity burn. It is, after all, a rare pleasure to watch someone stumble so close to truth and yet remain on the edge of understanding.
The figure outside — my brother — moves slowly, confidently, deliberately. Every step measured. Every motion telling a story I know too well, and yet do not yet fully understand. The history, the rivalry, the complicated bond — it is all there in the way he carries himself.
I lean back in my seat, eyes locked on him, taking in the sight with a satisfaction I haven't felt in years. The thrill of challenge courses through me, sharp and intoxicating. Quiet and control are my comfort, yes, but challenges like this? They are my indulgence.
I glance at Anna again. Her pulse has slowed, but her body remains taut, alert. Fear still laces her voice, her eyes, her movements. And she trusts me enough to stay. That trust is… useful. Indispensable.
The night has shifted, changed. A simple drive has become an arena. A meeting turned into a battlefield of perception, power, and hidden intentions. And I am alive in it, fully awake, fully aware, savoring every fraction of anticipation, every silent calculation.
Anna, in her ignorance, does not know that this is only the beginning. That the return of this figure — my brother — marks the start of a game I have longed for but did not expect so suddenly.
I allow her to watch, to wonder, to puzzle. Questions left unanswered are always more dangerous than truths, and for now, they are my weapon.
I take a slow breath. Let the thrill settle deep into my chest.
The night is far from over. The danger is far from gone. And for the first time in a long while, I am not just surviving.
I am alive.
I am ready.
I am about to play.