BENIN CITY
Jacob walked.
The road was wet from an earlier rain, the asphalt slick and shining under the streetlights. His suit—dark grey, well-tailored, expensive—was immaculate despite the hour. His shoes clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
Too fast, he thought. Calm down.
He couldn't calm down.
The pool bar appeared ahead, its sign flickering, its windows fogged from the heat inside. Jacob paused at the door, his hand on the handle, and took a breath.
You're late.
You're always late.
He doesn't like late.
He pushed the door open.
The room was warm, thick with cigarette smoke and the clack of pool balls. The chandelier was dimmed, casting long shadows across the green felt tables.
The Lord sat in the corner, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. He was average—average height, average build, unremarkable features—but the space around him felt compressed, like the air itself was afraid to move.
Four other men stood around the table. Jeremiah, his scarred knuckles white around his pool cue. A man with a dark red glass and a perm, his suit sharp, his expression blank. Two others Jacob didn't recognize—new recruits, probably, here to watch.
"Jacob."
The Lord's voice was warm. Pleasant. The voice of a favorite uncle.
"You're late."
Jacob bowed his head. "Traffic, my Lord."
"Traffic."
"Yes."
The Lord picked up a pool cue, examined the tip, set it down.
" Are you humiliated enough now."
Jacob's throat tightened. "Eloghosa is—"
"I know what Eloghosa is." The Lord's voice didn't change. Still warm. Still pleasant. "I told you…. He shouldn't be engaged."
He walked around the table, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
"What I don't understand is why you're still standing here. Why you're still breathing."
Jacob's hands trembled.
"My Lord, I—"
"Was your disobedience worth it, Jacob?"
The room went cold.
Jacob opened his mouth. No sound came out.
The Lord raised one finger.
"Think carefully before you answer."
Jacob thought.
And thought.
And thought.
The scene cut to black.
Ten Minutes Later
The pink dove landed on the pool table.
Its feathers were soft, luminous, out of place in the smoke-filled room. It tilted its head, chirped once, and then—
Eloghosa was there.
He stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets, his pink aura flickering faintly. The pool bar was empty. The tables were still. The chandelier hummed.
And on the floor, curled in the corner, was Jacob.
His body was already changing.
Bone-white branches pushed through his suit jacket, through his skin, through the carpet. His legs had fused into a trunk. His arms had elongated into twisted, skeletal limbs. His face—his poor, terrified face—was the only part of him still human.
His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. No sound came out.
Eloghosa walked toward him, his footsteps quiet.
"If i output healing will it work….. no I'll just use restoration."
His pink aura bloomed—warm, gentle, insistent—and wrapped around Jacob's body like bandages around a wound. The bone branches stopped growing. The trunk softened. The limbs shortened.
Jacob gasped, his lungs filling with air for the first time in minutes.
"Easy," Eloghosa said, kneeling beside him. "Easy. You're okay."
Jacob stared at him, his eyes wild.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why did you—"
"Because you're not a monster yet." Eloghosa helped him sit up, his touch careful, almost gentle. "And because I need information."
He looked around the empty room.
"Where is he?"
"Gone." Jacob's voice was hoarse. "He left. After he... after he did this."
"He left you alive."
"He wanted me to suffer."
Eloghosa was silent for a moment.
"Yeah," he said finally. "That sounds like him."
He stood, extending a hand.
Jacob stared at it.
"You're not going to kill me?"
"No."
"You should."
"Probably." Eloghosa smiled—small, tired, genuine. "But I'm not him."
Jacob took his hand.
A pink dove appeared on Eloghosa's shoulder.
"Me and you," Eloghosa said, "need to have a chat."
The world folded.
EKPOMA
The sun was brutal.
David stood on the sidewalk, squinting against the heat, his casual clothes already sticking to his skin. He'd changed into something light—a loose shirt, shorts, sandals—but it didn't matter. Ekpoma was hot. The kind of hot that made you question every decision that led to this moment.
Tessy stood beside him, still barefoot, still in socks. She'd changed too—black tank top, black joggers, silver chains—but her feet remained stubbornly uncovered.
"Aren't your feet burning?" David asked.
"Nope."
"How?"
"You'll know soon enough."
David sighed.
His phone buzzed. CJ, video call.
He answered.
"David!" CJ's face filled the screen, his afro huge in the frame. "Where the hell are you?"
"Ekpoma."
"EKPOMA?!"
Behind CJ, Israel's face appeared, his calm expression cracking into something like concern.
"David," Israel said, "have you not been listening to the news?"
"I've been busy."
"Ekpoma is under severe gang violence. Cultists. Gun battles in the streets. Even the military can't control it."
"It's bad, bro," CJ added. "Like, really bad. Ambrose Ali University students are being told to stay indoors. Why are you there?"
David rubbed his face.
"Work," he said.
"What kind of work?"
"Consulting."
"You're a consultant who goes to active war zones?"
"Apparently."
CJ and Israel exchanged a look.
"Your parents can't know," CJ said.
"Obviously."
"And Jane?"
David winced. "Tell her I'm... visiting family. In the village."
"You don't have family in Ekpoma."
"She doesn't know that."
"David—"
"I'll be fine. I'll be back in four days. Just... cover for me. Please."
Israel studied him through the screen.
"You're not going to tell us what's really going on, are you?"
"I can't."
"Can't, or won't?"
"Both."
A long pause.
"Four days," CJ said finally. "Then you're buying us lunch again."
"Deal."
"Don't die."
"I'll try."
David hung up.
A black SUV pulled up to the curb.
The windows were tinted, the engine quiet, the plates government-issue. The back door opened, and a woman leaned out—tall, dark-skinned, her hair in tight cornrows. She wore a simple black dress, no uniform, no visible weapons.
"David? Tessy?"
"That's us," Tessy said, already climbing in.
David followed.
The interior was cool, the air conditioning a mercy. The woman—Joy, according to her name tag—settled into the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb.
"I'll brief you on the way," she said. "The Phobia manifested two days ago. We don't have a name for it yet. What we do know is that it's responsible for at least eighty-seven casualties. Maybe more."
"Eighty-seven?" David's stomach dropped.
"Civilians. Students. Market traders. It doesn't discriminate." Joy's voice was flat, professional. "We sent five Vanguards ahead of you. They're all dead."
David stared at her.
"Five?"
"Five."
"And they just... died?"
"We don't have details. Their bodies haven't been recovered. Their last transmissions were... garbled. Something about shadows. Something about hunger."
The SUV was silent.
Tessy leaned back in her seat, unbothered, her bare feet propped up on the dashboard.
"How long until we reach the safehouse?" she asked.
"Twenty minutes."
"Good. I need to bathe. This heat is ridiculous."
David turned to stare at her.
"Five Vanguards are dead," he said. "Five. And you're worried about bathing?"
"I can't exorcise a Phobia if I'm sweaty, David. It's unprofessional."
"Unprofessional?"
"Also, I'm pretty sure I have sand in places sand shouldn't be."
David ran his hands through his face.
Existential dread, he thought. This is what existential dread feels like.
THE SAFEHOUSE
It was a bungalow.
Plain white walls, a red roof, a small garden in the front. It looked like any other house on the street—unremarkable, forgettable, perfect for hiding.
Inside, it was cooler. The floors were tiled, the furniture simple, the walls bare. A kitchen. A living room. Two bedrooms. A bathroom with a water heater that actually worked.
"Yours is the room on the left," Joy said, pointing. "Tessy, you're on the right."
Tessy disappeared into her room. David heard water running almost immediately.
He walked into his room, closed the door, and stood there for a moment.
Five Vanguards. Dead.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
The bruises were fading. The cuts were healing. But his eyes—his eyes looked older than they had a month ago.
He showered. Changed.
The Vanguard uniform was laid out on the bed—all black, fitted, the same design as the one he'd left behind in Benin. No green accents yet. No customization. Just the standard issue.
He put it on.
It fit.
He found Tessy in the living room, sitting on the couch, eating a donut . She was still barefoot. Still in socks. Her custom uniform—black jacket, silver tank top, joggers with chains—looked like it had been made for her.
"You're staring," she said.
"Why are you always barefoot?"
She smiled.
"You'll know soon enough."
David sat across from her, his hands on his knees.
"Tessy."
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to die here."
Her smile faded.
"Good," she said. "Neither do I."
She stood, stretched, her chains jingling.
"Come on. Let's get some Indomie before we go hunting."
"You want to eat noodles before facing a Phobia that killed five Vanguards?"
"I want to eat noodles before anything. It's called priorities, David."
Joy appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
"I'll drive," she said.
"You don't have to—"
"I'll drive."
David looked at the two women—Tessy, unbothered, almost cheerful; Joy, calm, professional, resigned.
This is my team now.
He picked up a Sanctite baton from a rack by the door. It was light, balanced, the metal cool against his palm.
"Ready," he said.
They walked out into the Ekpoma night heat.