Chapter Five
1036 Words
The Fire in Her Veins
The silence after a mission was always the loudest.
Zaria sat on the rooftop of the safehouse, the Lagos skyline blinking around her like a restless constellation. Below, the city moved in its usual fractured rhythm—horns, voices, generators humming—but none of it reached her. Not truly. Not after what she’d seen. Not after Dr. Amaka's rescue.
She couldn't stop thinking about the way the woman had clutched her sleeve. That last flicker of recognition in her drug-dulled eyes. It stayed with her like a burn.
She hadn't told anyone about the whisper.
Not Malik. Not even Ruin.
Just before they carried her out, Amaka’s cracked lips had moved—barely. And in a rasp so faint it could’ve been a breath, Zaria was certain she'd said one word:
"Monarch."
Two Years Ago — Unilag, Department of Political Science
Zaria had been the last to leave the lecture hall, as always. Dr. Amaka stood by the window, watching students stream across the campus like water over stone.
"You have a mind like a trap," she’d said to Zaria without turning. "That's dangerous in a country like this."
Zaria had smiled nervously. “You make it sound like a crime to think.”
“It is,” Amaka had murmured. “When your thoughts pierce the veil.”
The veil had been shredded now.
Zaria leaned forward, hands braced on the railing. She was shaking again. Not from fear. From anticipation. From anger.
From knowing too much.
Behind her, the rooftop door creaked open.
She didn’t need to look.
Ruin’s presence pressed against her like static before a storm.
“You’re not supposed to be up here,” he said. His voice, always a blend of rasp and velvet, carried something heavier tonight.
Zaria didn’t move. “Since when do I care about rules?”
A beat. Then the whisper of footsteps as he approached. He stopped beside her, arms crossed.
“You haven’t told Malik,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” she replied.
He nodded slightly. “Good.”
Zaria glanced at him, searching his face. “What is Monarch?”
His jaw ticked. “Something old. And very buried.”
“But not dead.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Never dead.”
Elsewhere — Maitama, Abuja
Alhaji Umar watched the footage on the encrypted screen—grainy, black-and-white security cam replaying the warehouse breach. He paused at the exact moment Zaria’s face came into view.
He zoomed in.
Enhance.
A name blinked in red: ZARIA OMOTOSHO.
Another window opened beside it. Background report. Academic record. Recent job history. Family status. Medical records. Last known address.
He frowned.
“She's too green,” he muttered. “Too impulsive.”
Across from him, a woman with close-cropped hair and a voice like broken glass replied, “But not stupid.”
Umar looked up. “Is she usable?”
The woman nodded slowly. “Maybe. Or… breakable.”
Lagos — Safehouse, Sublevel
Malik was on the phone again, pacing.
“She said Monarch?” he whispered harshly.
Zaria nodded. “I didn’t imagine it.”
He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“That changes everything.”
Ruin stood behind her, silent as a shadow.
Malik looked between them. “We need to move. The files we decrypted last week? They weren’t just shipment manifests.”
Zaria frowned. “Then what were they?”
“Coordinates,” Malik said. “Drop points. And sleeper nodes.”
Ruin stepped forward, his voice hard. “How many?”
“Seven in Lagos. Fifteen nationwide. Someone’s been building a shadow network inside our intelligence structure.”
Zaria’s heart pounded. “To what end?”
Malik held her gaze.
“To resurrect Monarch.”
Later — Briefing Room
A hologram flickered to life, projecting a map of Nigeria. Glowing red dots blinked ominously across the terrain.
“This isn't just another operation,” Malik said. “This is a legacy war. Something started long before we were born.”
“Then why now?” Zaria asked. “Why is it resurfacing?”
“Because someone cracked the old code,” Ruin answered. “And they're moving fast.”
Malik threw a manila envelope onto the table. “There's a name that keeps coming up in the old files.”
Zaria opened it.
A photo slid out.
Black-and-white. Crisp suit. Sharp eyes.
Her breath caught.
“My father?”
Malik nodded grimly. “He was involved. Deeply. Maybe even a founding architect.”
Zaria’s world tilted sideways.
Her father had died in a car crash when she was twelve. Or so she’d been told.
“You think he's alive?” she asked, voice shaking.
Malik exchanged a glance with Ruin.
“We think he never died at all.”
Elsewhere — Unknown Location
A man in shadows stood before a wall of vintage servers, murmuring into a secure line.
“She’s in,” he said.
The voice on the other end was distorted.
“Does she know about her father?”
“No.”
“Then she’s still useful.”
The man clicked off the call and turned toward an old wooden desk. On it lay a faded photograph:
Zaria as a child.
Her father holding her hand.
And behind them, a plaque.
“Project Monarch: Legacy is a Weapon.”
Lagos — Rooftop (Later That Night)
Zaria stood alone again. Wind tugged at her dress.
So much had shattered in the span of hours.
Dr. Amaka. Her father's ghost. Monarch. Secrets that changed the shape of the world she'd believed in.
Ruin approached from behind, but this time, he didn’t speak.
Instead, he reached out and brushed her hand—just barely.
And it was like setting fire to the night.
She turned to him. Saw not just the shadow, but the man behind it.
“What are you?” she asked softly.
He tilted his head. “What you’re becoming.”
Then he kissed her.
Not soft. Not slow.
Like truth poured straight into her veins.
And in that kiss, Zaria felt the fracture widen—and knew she’d never be the same.
- Writer
