Chapter Three
1530 Words
A Flame Without a Name
Zaria stood at the edge of the rooftop helipad, the Lagos skyline sprawling beneath her like a breathing mosaic—neon arteries, blinking towers, the restless sea in the distance. The wind whipped her braids across her cheek, and she welcomed the sting.
She wasn’t supposed to be up here. But rules had started to feel more like suggestions.
Especially since Ruin.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Malik.
Briefing moved to 0400. Come armed.
Zaria exhaled. Armed. As if the word didn’t knot something tight in her stomach. Two weeks ago, she’d never held a weapon. Now, there was a compact 9mm pistol in her desk drawer, and a sleek black blade hidden beneath her bedframe. Tools of a trade she hadn’t meant to learn. But there was no turning back.
Behind her, the stairwell door creaked open.
She didn’t turn. Somehow, she already knew it was him.
“I thought you didn’t like heights,” Ruin said.
His voice slid across the air like smoke.
“I don’t,” she replied. “But silence is hard to come by downstairs.”
Ruin stepped beside her, silent. He didn’t smell like cologne—he smelled like winter. Cold, clean, dangerous.
“What do you think Malik’s planning?” she asked.
“He’s not the only one planning something.”
She turned to him. “You think someone’s moving against us?”
“I think we’re already being watched.”
There was a long pause.
“And you?” he added. “Are you watching me, Zaria?”
Her pulse stuttered.
“That depends,” she said. “Are you hiding something worth watching?”
He didn’t smile. Not fully. Just the ghost of one—like he’d heard a joke she hadn’t meant to tell.
“I’m not the threat,” Ruin said. “But I know what’s coming. And I know Malik won’t tell you everything. Not until it’s too late.”
Zaria stared at him. “Then why are you telling me?”
He stepped closer, their breath mingling in the wind.
“Because you still have a choice,” he said.
She swallowed. “A choice to what?”
“To survive. Or to become something else entirely.”
He turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the stairwell door.
“You dream about me,” he said, voice low. Not a question.
Zaria’s throat tightened. “You’re not special. I dream about everyone in this madhouse.”
He gave her that almost-smile again.
“But only I wake you up.”
And then he was gone.
4:06 a.m. – The Situation Room
The floor-to-ceiling screen flickered with maps and surveillance footage. Malik stood at the center, flanked by two senior analysts in gray tactical gear. The room was darker than usual. Tense.
“Operation Ikenga has been compromised,” Malik said, voice clipped. “Our contact inside the Ministry of Trade was found dead two hours ago. Staged to look like a suicide. We know better.”
A red dot blinked on the screen.
“Who?” Ruin asked.
“We’re tracking three potential leaks,” Malik said. “One is local. One’s military. The third…” He hesitated. “...may be internal.”
Zaria’s heart kicked.
“We have a short window before the surveillance net tightens. You’re going in, Tier Three protocol. Off-grid. No names. No backup. We recover the stolen data or we burn the entire operation to keep it from spreading.”
He turned to Zaria.
“You’ll lead.”
Zaria blinked. “What?”
Malik’s eyes were unreadable. “You’re the only one the target doesn’t recognize.”
Ruin tilted his head, arms folded. He didn’t protest. Which somehow made it worse.
“You’ll be paired with him,” Malik added, nodding at Ruin.
Of course.
11:49 p.m. – Ajah, Lagos
The safehouse was a shell of a building—unfinished concrete, hollow windows, the scent of mold clinging to the air.
Zaria sat in a wire-framed chair, gun holstered at her hip, her eyes locked on a single folder spread across the table. Inside: images of a woman named Serah Onwuatuegwu, a mid-level bureaucrat with access to something she shouldn’t have had—until she vanished.
“She’s not a traitor,” Zaria muttered, more to herself than anyone.
“You don’t know her,” Ruin said from across the room.
“I don’t need to. Look at her pattern—vanished the same night our data was breached, but didn’t access her offshore accounts. No ticket out. No signal. That’s fear, not treason.”
Ruin stepped into the light. “Then we find her before the others do.”
“You mean before Malik does.”
Silence.
Zaria’s eyes met his. “You trust him?”
Ruin paused.
“No,” he said. “But I understand him.”
She didn’t ask what that meant. Not yet.
3:03 a.m. – Ibeju-Lekki Outskirts
The house was small, nondescript. A flickering bulb lit the front porch.
Inside, Serah trembled.
Zaria offered her a cup of water. The woman clutched it like salvation.
“They came for me,” Serah whispered. “Not just men in suits. Soldiers. But wrong—too clean. Too fast. Like they knew I would run.”
“Did you take the file?” Zaria asked gently.
“No,” Serah sobbed. “I never even touched it. It was already gone when I looked.”
Zaria glanced at Ruin. He nodded once. She was telling the truth.
“Then why frame you?” Zaria asked.
Serah hesitated. “Because I saw the name on the retrieval log.”
Zaria leaned in. “Whose name?”
Serah’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Onilade.”
Zaria froze.
General Onilade.
Former National Security Chief. Supposedly retired. Rumored to have vanished from the public eye after a classified dispute with the presidency. No proof. No body. No closure.
Just a ghost.
Zaria’s stomach flipped. “You’re sure?”
Serah nodded. “I know what I saw. He’s back. And he’s not alone.”
5:00 a.m. – Safehouse Garage
Zaria stood beside the SUV, her thoughts racing.
Ruin leaned against the hood, watching her.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“You knew. About Onilade.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I suspected,” he said.
“You should’ve told me.”
He took a step toward her. “Would you have believed me?”
She glared. “That’s not the point.”
His eyes softened. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to see that look in your eyes. The one you’re wearing now.”
She blinked. “What look?”
“The look of someone who realizes the war just got personal.”
He was close now. Too close.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know me.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His touch lingered—warm and maddening.
“Because I do,” he said.
Zaria’s breath caught. “No, you don’t.”
“I know what you want, Zaria. Even if you don’t.”
She didn’t step back.
“You want to believe there’s still a line between good and evil,” Ruin said. “But there’s not. There’s just strategy. And survival. And people like us, trying not to drown in the middle.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I’m already drowning,” he said. “But I’m holding on to you.”
The silence stretched. And then—without permission, without warning—his lips found hers.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was fire meeting fire. Months of tension combusting in a single collision. Zaria’s hands tangled in his shirt, his fingers gripping her waist like a lifeline.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, Zaria stared at him.
“You’re dangerous,” she said.
He smiled—just barely. “So are you.”
Final Scene: Back at HQ, 7:00 a.m.
Malik waited in the operations room.
Zaria dropped the folder on the desk. “She’s innocent.”
Malik didn’t look up. “I know.”
Zaria blinked. “You set her up.”
“She was bait. For Onilade.”
Zaria’s voice rose. “You risked a civilian for intel?”
“She was never civilian. She used to be Tier One. Burned out. Recruited back in without her knowing. That was the deal.”
Zaria’s jaw tightened. “You used her.”
“I protected the mission.”
“You lied.”
“I led,” Malik said calmly. “And now we know Onilade is alive.”
He turned to her. “But he’s not the only ghost returning.”
Zaria froze. “What do you mean?”
Malik slid a photo across the desk.
Zaria’s blood turned to ice.
It was her mother.
But not as she remembered her. Not in Ankara or church lace. This photo was from a surveillance cam. Downtown Lagos. Two weeks ago.
Alive.
And running.
- Writer
