The first thing Amina felt wasn't pain. It was the cold.
It was a deep, medicinal chill that seemed to have crawled into her marrow and made a home there. It was the kind of cold that didn't just touch the skin; it extinguished the soul. She tried to draw a breath, but her lungs felt like they were filled with wet cement. Her eyelids were leaden, glued shut by something sticky and metallic-smelling.
Where am I?
She tried to move her hand, but her fingers were stiff, frozen in place like a statue's. Her mind was a fractured mirror—shards of images flashing and disappearing. A white dress. The scent of expensive cologne. The screech of tires. The feeling of a hand around her throat.
Victor.
The name sparked a flare of heat in her chest, a momentary flicker of life. With a Herculean effort that felt like tearing her own muscles, Amina forced her eyes open.
The world was gray. A dim, flickering fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting sickly yellow shadows against a stained concrete ceiling. She wasn't in a bed. She was on a flat, metal table. There was no pillow, only the hard, unforgiving bite of steel against her spine.
She turned her head slowly, her neck clicking with the sound of dry bone. To her left was another table. On it lay a shape covered in a heavy, plastic sheet. A tag dangled from the foot of the sheet, swaying slightly in the draft of an air conditioner that sounded like a dying beast.
Amina's heart gave a sudden, violent thud. She wasn't in a hospital.
She was in a morgue.
A strangled gasp escaped her throat—a dry, rasping sound that hurt like swallowing glass. She tried to sit up, her body protesting every movement. Her skin felt tight, and as she looked down at her chest, she saw the pale, translucent quality of it. She was wearing a thin, white shroud that offered no warmth.
"I'm alive," she whispered, though the words were barely a vibration in the air. "I'm alive."
She swung her legs off the table. Her feet hit the floor, and the contact felt like stepping on needles. She swayed, grabbing the edge of the metal slab to keep from collapsing. The room was silent, save for the hum of the light and the distant, muffled roar of Lagos traffic somewhere far above.
Then, a sound.
Click. Click. Click.
The rhythmic tapping of expensive shoes on a hard floor.
Amina froze. Every instinct she had—instincts she didn't know she possessed—told her to hide. But there was nowhere to go. She was trapped in a room built for the dead.
A door at the far end of the hallway creaked open. A sliver of light cut through the gloom, and a silhouette stepped through. He was tall, dressed in a suit that looked like it cost more than a human life. The light caught the sharp line of a jaw and the glint of a watch as he checked the time.
Amina backed away, her heels hitting the edge of a refrigeration unit. "Who... who are you?"
The man stopped. He didn't seem surprised to see a "corpse" standing in the middle of the room. He took a slow, deliberate drag of a cigarette, the cherry-red tip glowing in the dark like a predatory eye. He exhaled a plume of smoke that swirled around his head like a halo.
"You're late, Amina," the voice said. It was deep, smooth as aged whiskey, but with an edge of something dangerous. "I expected you to wake up twenty minutes ago. The sedative must have been stronger than I calculated."
Amina's vision blurred. "How do you know my name? Where is Victor?"
At the mention of the name, the man's posture shifted. He stepped into the light. He was handsome in a way that felt like a warning—eyes the color of obsidian and a mouth that looked like it hadn't smiled in a decade.
"Victor Eze is currently at the Ikoyi Cemetery," the man said, flicking ash onto the floor. "He's giving a very moving speech about his tragic, departed fiancée. There are cameras, flowers, and a choir. It's quite the performance. You should be flattered. He spent a fortune on your casket."
Amina felt the world tilt. "A funeral? But I'm here. I'm standing right here!"
"No," the man corrected, stepping closer until he was inches from her. She could smell him now—sandalwood and gunpowder. "Amina Okonjo died three days ago in a tragic accident. The police found the body. The family identified it. The world has moved on."
He reached out, his gloved fingers catching a stray lock of her hair. Amina flinched, but he didn't let go.
"The woman standing in front of me doesn't exist," he whispered. "You are a ghost, Amina. And in Lagos, ghosts are either hunted or they are owned."
"I don't belong to anyone," she hissed, trying to pull away, but her legs gave out.
The man caught her before she hit the ground, his arms like iron bands around her. He held her close, his breath warm against her cold ear.
"You do now," he whispered. "Because the moment you walk out of that door, Victor will find out his mistake. And he won't use a 'tragic accident' the second time. He will burn you until there isn't even a ghost left."
Amina looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears of rage and terror. "Why are you doing this? Who are you?"
The man tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "My name is Zayn. And I'm the only reason you're still breathing. But don't mistake me for a hero, Amina. I didn't save you to be kind."
He straightened up, pulling her with him. He draped a heavy, cashmere coat over her shivering shoulders. It felt like a shroud of a different kind.
"I saved you because you are the only person who can help me destroy Victor Eze. You want your life back? You'll have to earn it. One lie at a time."
He turned and began to walk toward the exit, not checking to see if she was following. He knew she had no choice.
Amina looked back at the metal slab she had crawled off of. Her name was on the register by the door. Amina Okonjo. Status: Deceased.
She took a step forward, then another. As she reached the door, she saw a small mirror hanging on the wall. She stopped, staring at her reflection.
Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, but there was a fire starting to burn in the depths of her pupils. She didn't look like the socialite who had been "murdered." She looked like something new. Something vengeful.
Zayn was waiting by his car, a black SUV that disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway. He opened the door for her.
"Welcome back to the world of the living," he said as she climbed in. "Try not to die again before Monday. We have a gala to attend."
As the car sped away from the morgue and toward the glowing lights of Victoria Island, Amina looked out the window. She saw a billboard with her own face on it, draped in black ribbon. Rest in Peace, Amina.
She reached out and touched the window, her fingers leaving a smudge on the glass.
"I'm coming for you, Victor," she whispered to the night.
Zayn glanced at her through the rearview mirror, his dark eyes unreadable. "Careful, Amina. If you stare into the abyss too long, you might find you like the view."
He pressed a button on the dashboard, and a hidden compartment opened. Inside was a new passport, a new credit card, and a handgun.
"From now on," Zayn said, his voice dropping an octave, "your name is Raven. Forget Amina. Amina is under six feet of dirt. Raven... Raven is the one who bites back."
The car turned onto the Lekki Link Bridge, the city lights reflecting off the water like fallen stars. Amina—no, Raven—clutched the coat tighter around her.
She was a ghost in a city of monsters. And the hunt had just begun.
Chapter 1 Ending:
As the car reached the end of the bridge, a black sedan pulled up alongside them. The window rolled down just an inch. Amina caught a glimpse of a ring—a gold signet ring with a lion's head.
Victor's ring.
Her heart stopped. He wasn't at the funeral. He was right next to them.
Zayn didn't speed up. He didn't look over. He simply reached over, took Amina's hand in his, and squeezed until it hurt.
"Don't look," he commanded. "If he sees your eyes, we're both dead before the next red light.