What's my Crime ?

WHAT'S MY CRIME - Book II.

Chapter One: Shadows of a Broken Boy

Chuka stood alone before the mirror in his dimly lit apartment. The reflection staring back at him was no longer that of a boy. His shoulders were broader, his eyes colder, more calculating. A faint scar traced the line of his jaw, life’s reminder of everything he’d lost. Twenty-five now, with no family and no past he wanted to remember, Chuka was no longer the silent child who bore pain quietly. He was a man reborn from darkness.

The city outside was loud and indifferent, but Chuka thrived in its noise. Every street corner and alley whispered secrets. He had changed cities after university, becoming a shadow among strangers. No one asked questions; no one knew his name beyond what he gave. To most, he was just “CJ,” a quiet IT analyst who kept to himself. But in private, he was building a meticulous archive, one that documented every trace, every movement, every weakness of four women who once called themselves The Hinge.

Sandra. Aisha. Bella. Mira. Each name was a trigger, a memory soaked in shame, pain, and blood. Chuka’s bedroom wall, hidden behind a sliding bookshelf, was his sanctuary of vengeance. Red string connected photos, scribbled notes, email printouts, phone records. He knew where each woman lived, worked, shopped. He even knew their morning routines.

Sandra has become a motivational speaker on parenting and discipline. The irony burned. Aisha ran a boutique in Lekki, flashy and loud with her success. Bella lectured on gender studies at a university, and Mira, Mira became a birthing specialist, helping mothers birth new lives.

They had moved on. But Chuka had not. His pain was embalmed in silence, but now, he spoke in plans, in details, in inevitabilities.

Tonight marked fifteen years since his tenth birthday. The day innocence was mutilated. The day The Hinge took what wasn’t theirs. The anniversary of his silence, and the beginning of their reckoning.

Chuka closed the laptop he’d spent hours reviewing. It contained Mira’s schedule for the week. She would be the first.

He didn't choose her out of order. It wasn't a sentiment. It was access. Mira worked late nights, often alone, and trusted too easily. She had no security system beyond a standard lock, and she lived near the city’s older district, quieter and easier to slip in and out unnoticed.

He stood and walked toward his closet. Hidden beneath neatly pressed clothes was a black duffle. Inside: gloves, burner phones, disposable clothes, tools. He paused, took a deep breath, and ran a hand over his head. Revenge wasn’t a fire anymore,it was ice, slow and surgical.

He hadn't spoken to anyone about his plan. No allies. No sidekicks. This was his burden to bear, and his alone. After his mother died, nothing tethered him to light. Not faith. Not hope. Just purpose.

Chuka stepped out into the night, blending with the shadows like he was born from them. His car, a non-descript gray sedan, hummed quietly as he drove toward the district where Mira lived.

He parked three blocks away, walking the rest of the distance under the streetlights, each step rehearsed in his mind a thousand times.

At 9:47 p.m., he crouched behind a rusted fence, watching as Mira stepped out to throw trash in the bin outside her gate. She wore a robe, her hair tied loosely, phone in hand.

Perfect.

He moved silently, crossing into the compound like smoke. Before she could turn, his gloved hand was over her mouth. She struggled, but he was prepared. No hesitation. No faltering.

“Hello, Mira,” he whispered, cold and unforgiving.

Her eyes widened in recognition before the chloroform took hold.

He dragged her inside. No one saw. No one heard.

And for the first time since he was ten, Chuka smiled—not with joy, but with grim certainty.

The boy was dead.

Only the reckoning remained.

But even at that moment, with Mira unconscious at his feet, Chuka paused. His heartbeat was steady, too steady. He had envisioned this scene countless times over the years, how he’d feel, what he’d say, how he would make her remember. And yet, standing in her living room, breathing in the scent of lavender candles and freshly mopped floors, he felt… empty. No satisfaction. No joy. Just necessity.

He looked around the room, family photos on the wall, framed certificates, a bible sitting quietly on the coffee table. It made him sick. These women had sculpted new lives, rebranded themselves, but underneath the new paint was the same rot. Mira’s smile in those pictures, was it the same smile she wore when she whispered lies to him as a child? When she locked the door behind her?

He clenched his jaw and reached into his bag. He wasn’t going to kill her. Not yet. First, she needed to remember.

Mira stirred, groaning, her eyes fluttering open. The moment she saw him, saw the shadows in his expression, she gasped. “You, wait, what is this?”

Chuka leaned in close, his face inches from hers. “Do you remember the boy you and your friends used to play games with? The quiet one you thought would forget?”

Her breath hitched.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I never did.”

Back at his apartment hours later, Chuka wiped the sweat from his face. Mira was alive, but broken, mentally shaken and silenced. He didn’t need to leave her body in a gutter or send a public message. Not yet. This wasn’t about headlines. This was personal. And fear was a better message than death for now.

He opened a fresh page in his digital journal.

Target: Mira – Complete.

Status: Alive. Scarred. Watch for retaliation or confession.

He saved it, encrypted the file, and shut the laptop. One down. Three more.

But Chuka knew this wasn’t going to get easier. Each woman had shaped his trauma in a different way. And each deserved a punishment tailored to her sins.

As dawn began to creep over the horizon, Chuka stood at his window, eyes scanning the quiet city. A new day was beginning. For the world, it was just another Monday. For him, it was the next chapter in a story written in scars.

He wasn’t just getting revenge.

He was reclaiming his story.

And this time, no one would silence him.