The night market

The Keeper again

The Keeper was not wrapped in mystery now. Not hidden.

He stood tall and still, terribly human in outline yet wrong in every detail.

Its face shifted subtly, never settling, as if made from fragments of other faces, Chike almost recognised.

Including his own.

Chike struggled to sit up. His head throbbed with memories that didn't want to stay buried.

"You remember now," the Keeper said.

Its voice didn't come from one direction. It came from everywhere — inside his skull, inside his chest.

Chike swallowed. "I didn't mean to..."

"Intent is irrelevant," the Keeper replied calmly.

"You came seeking relief. You offered guilt. You begged to forget."

Chike shook his head violently. "I didn't know the cost."

The Keeper stepped closer. The ground beneath its feet cracked like glass.

"You knew enough," it said.

"But your sister knew more."

The night market stirred at that remark. A low murmur rippled through the stalls.

"She took what you could not carry," the Keeper continued.

"Your truth. Your memory. Your punishment."

Chike's vision blurred. "Then give it back to me," he whispered. "I'll take it. All of it."

The Keeper tilted its head.

"That is why you were allowed to return."

A long pause.

"But balance must be restored."

The glass coin floated up from Chike's pocket on its own, spinning slowly between them. A c***k split its surface, light leaking out like blood from a wound.

"In the next trade," the Keeper said, you will give willingly."

Chike's stomach sank. "Give what?"

The Keeper leaned closer. Close enough that Chike could see people's memories moving beneath its shifting face.

"What you value most."

The lanterns flared once—bright, blinding—and then went dark.

As the Night Market began to rearrange itself for the final exchange, Chike understood the truth with terrifying clarity:

This time, no one else would pay the price for him.