Freedom smelled wrong.
Ajifa noticed it immediately—too open, too careless, outside the prison gates, life moved without caution, cars sped past without checking blind spots, people laughed loudly, exposing their throats to the world. It was obscene.
Yejide Adeola did not give her time to absorb it. "Change," she said, handing Ajifa a sealed bag. "We don't keep the past."
Ajifa complied without hesitation. She had learned long ago that obedience, when chosen, was power, they drove for hours, roads changed from broken tar to smooth asphalt to dust again. Ajifa memorized landmarks automatically, even when she knew it was pointless.
"Where are we going?" she asked eventually.
Yejide glanced at her once. "Somewhere that only keeps what survives."
That was enough.
The compound was quiet in the way predators are quiet—deliberate, alert, cameras were disguised as lights, armed men stood like statues, relaxed but ready.
Ajifa was catalogued, blood drawn, scars measured, reflexes tested, psych evaluations designed to provoke fear, guilt, empathy, she gave them nothing.
"She dissociates instinctively," one evaluator murmured.
"No," another corrected. "She's already dissociated."
Ajifa slept deeply that first night. No dreams. No memories.
Her training in the facility was relentless, not loud like prison violence—this was surgical, they broke bodies carefully so they could rebuild them better.
She learned:
How to disarm someone twice her size in under five seconds, how to shoot accurately while running, bleeding, half-blind, how to kill without leaving marks, how to make death look like coincidence, failure meant punishment.
One trainee hesitated a bit during a drill. The instructor shot him in the leg and left him screaming on the floor for an hour.
"Mercy," the instructor said calmly, "is how you get killed." Ajifa didn't blink, she adapted faster than anyone else, when they deprived her of sleep, she functioned. When they starved her, she conserved energy. When they humiliated her, she didn't react.
That unnerved them more than resistance ever could.
Her first real assignment was simple—too simple. A trafficker hiding in a rural estate. Minimal guards. Predictable routine.
Ajifa infiltrated at dusk, her movements smooth, unhurried. She observed for hours, mapping patterns, exits, habits. When the man stepped onto his balcony to smoke, Ajifa aligned the shot. One bullet. No follow-up. She waited thirty seconds, then left.
Back at the facility, the handlers watched her footage in silence.
"Any reaction?" one asked.
Ajifa shrugged. "He died."
That was when they stopped calling her a recruit.
The second mission was designed to test composure. A politician. Crowded event. Cameras everywhere.
Ajifa disguised herself as staff, moving through the crowd with a tray in her hands. Her pulse remained steady as she passed within arm's length of the target.
She injected the poison cleanly.
The man collapsed minutes later, foaming, panic spreading through the crowd.
Ajifa was already gone.
That night, she ate calmly while the news replayed the footage over and over again.
Her hands didn't shake.
The third mission came without warning.
The file was thin. Too thin. "Collateral risk," the handler said. "We can't afford hesitation."
Ajifa studied the woman through binoculars—young, visibly pregnant, gentle movements. For the first time since prison, something stirred. Not emotion. Calculation.
She adjusted her angle, waited until the woman was alone, and ended it quickly. No suffering. No witnesses. Later, alone in her room, Ajifa sat on the bed for a long time.
She felt nothing, that frightened her—not because she wanted to feel guilt, but because she realized something essential had been removed from her, she was no longer capable of stopping.
Success bred resentment,other operatives sabotaged her equipment, altered mission intel, spread rumors. Ajifa responded the way prison had taught her. She waited.
One by one, her rivals failed missions—mistakes that only happened when someone had interfered with their preparation. Someone tipped off handlers anonymously. Someone moved pieces quietly.
Ajifa never confronted anyone.she didn't need to.The organization began assigning her as:
Cleaner
Fixer
Insurance
When a mission could not fail, Ajifa went.
Years passed, her identity changed multiple times. New passports. New faces. New languages. She trained others now—correcting posture, adjusting grip, teaching silence. "Don't hate your target," she told them once. "Hate makes you sloppy."
A senior operative laughed. "You don't hate anyone, do you?"
Ajifa met his gaze. "No."
That night, he died during a routine operation. Official report: friendly fire.
The organization finally tested its own fear.
A director leaned back during a closed meeting. "You've become very independent."
Ajifa said nothing.
"If you ever decide to leave us," he continued, "we'd have to kill you."
Ajifa tilted her head slightly. Calm.Thoughtful.
"If I ever leave," she said evenly, "you won't know." Silence fell like a blade.
That was when they understood—
They hadn't created a weapon.
They had unleashed one.
From that day on, Ajifa was no longer just an operative, she was contingency, inevitability, the thing they sent when fear failed, and somewhere, far away, a young detective named Ayotundun was beginning to notice that the pattern of deaths was too precise, too intelligent, too human to be random.
The board had been set and
The game just begun.