SPARKS AND SHADOWS 👥
1372 Words
Chapter 2
If you’ve ever had your stomach drop so suddenly it felt like the floor gave way beneath you, you’ll understand exactly what that moment felt like.Femi was already halfway out my apartment door when I caught up to him. “You’re not giving me orders,” I snapped, more to cover my own panic than to challenge him. He didn’t even look back. “If you want your friend alive, you’ll follow me. Now.”I locked the door behind me and followed him down the stairwell.
The night air hit me like a cold slap. His SUV was still parked at the curb, engine idling like it had been waiting for me all along. He opened the passenger door again, this time without asking.
I got in.
The leather seat was warm, the cabin dim, the scent of cedar and faint smoke surrounding me again. He slid into the driver’s seat, pulled into the street, and for a while, we drove in silence.
The hum of the engine and the rhythm of Lagos at night became a strange soundtrack — the occasional shout from a sidewalk vendor, the stutter of motorbike engines, the high beep of impatient horns.
Finally, I said, “You still haven’t told me who you really are.”
Femi’s gaze stayed on the road. “Someone who knows what the people behind that message are capable of.”
“That’s vague and unhelpful,” I shot back.
“It’s intentional,” he said.
The corner of my mouth twitched despite the tension. “You like being mysterious, don’t you?”
His eyes flicked to mine briefly, then back to the road. “I like being alive. Mysterious keeps you breathing in my world.”
I leaned back in my seat, studying him in the low light. Strong jawline, the faint shadow of stubble, shoulders that looked like they could hold the weight of more than a few secrets. He didn’t belong in my world of paintings and gallery openings. He was sharp edges and locked doors.
And yet, there was something unsettlingly magnetic about him.
“Why me?” I asked finally. “You keep saying I’m in danger, but I’m just—”
“Ada,” he interrupted, his voice low but firm. “You’re not just anything. And if you think this is random, you’re already a step behind.”
Before I could respond, he slowed the SUV. We were pulling into a side street I didn’t recognize — narrower, darker, lined with old buildings that leaned toward each other like they were sharing gossip.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Safe house,” he said simply, cutting the engine.
The word safe didn’t make me feel safe at all.
He got out, walked around, and opened my door again — a habit, I realized, that made him seem both old-fashioned and in control.
In the next second, Femi had pushed me against the side of the SUV, his body shielding mine. My heart was in my throat, but instead of fear, my senses were suddenly full of him — his heat, the clean scent of his cologne, the low steadiness of his breath.
Then there was movement — a sharp scuffle, the sound of someone hitting the pavement, a muffled curse.
When Femi stepped back, the shadow was gone.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice a fraction softer now.
I nodded, even though my pulse was still sprinting.
“Good,” he said. “Because this was just the beginning.”
Femi unlocked a heavy steel door and motioned for me to step inside.
The safe house was nothing like my apartment. No art, no bookshelves, no warm lighting. Just bare walls, a wooden table, and a sofa that looked like it had been rescued from a storage unit. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the room.
I hesitated in the doorway. “You live here?”
He gave me a look over his shoulder. “No one lives here. That’s the point.”
I stepped inside, and the air smelled faintly of metal and something chemical, like a cleaning solution. Femi closed the door behind us, sliding three separate locks into place.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the sofa.
I didn’t. “You can’t just drag me to some secret hole in the wall and expect me to—”
“You were followed tonight. Your apartment was breached. Your friend has been taken. And the people who did it don't send polite invitations. This—” he spread his hands, “—is the safest place you’ll be for the next twelve hours.”
The matter-of-fact way he said it almost made me believe him. Almost.
I sat down, crossing my arms. “Fine. Twelve hours. Then I’m going to the police.”
His jaw tightened. “If you do that, you’ll never see Titi again.”
I looked away, swallowing hard. My mind kept flashing to the photo — her smile, the timestamp.
Femi moved to the table and pulled out a small black phone. It wasn’t a smartphone — more like the kind of burner you’d see in old spy movies. He pressed a button, the screen lighting up with a single number.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“They’ll call me,” he said simply, setting it down.
I hated how calm he was. Like this wasn’t life or death.
The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. My mind kept trying to piece together the little crumbs he’d dropped — The Archivist, “ledger,” knowing my name before I said it.
Finally, I asked, “How did you know my father?”
That got his attention. His gaze lifted slowly from the table. “What makes you think I did?”
“You know things you shouldn’t. My father… he wasn’t exactly ordinary.”
Femi leaned back in his chair, studying me. “No. He wasn’t.”
The way he said it made my skin prickle.
Before I could press him, the phone rang.
The sound was sharp, almost metallic in the small room.
Femi picked it up on the first ring, putting it on speaker.
A man’s voice, low and distorted, filled the room. “You have her.”
“Where?” Femi’s tone was flat, controlled.
The voice ignored him. “You know the rules. No police. No press. Deliver what’s owed, and she walks.”
I stepped closer. “What’s owed? She has nothing to do with this—”
The voice cut me off. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you, Ada.”
My stomach flipped. “Me? I don’t—”
“Tomorrow. Midnight. The Pier at Eko.” The line went dead.
The room felt colder.
I turned to Femi. “They’re lying. This isn’t about me. I haven’t—”
He shook his head. “You have. You just don’t know it yet.”
That infuriating calm again. “If you know something, tell me.”
His eyes held mine. “Your father owed The Archivist more than money. And you’re the only one left who can pay the debt.”
I laughed in disbelief. “That’s insane. He’s been gone for years.”
“That doesn’t erase what he did.”
I stared at him, my chest tight. “And you? What’s your role in all this?”
His expression didn’t change. “I’m the only one trying to keep you alive long enough to find out.”
I hated that a part of me believed him.
I hated it more that a part of me noticed how close he was standing, how the shadows made his jaw look sharper, how his voice seemed to sink under my skin.
“You think I’m just going to trust you?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
“I think you don’t have a choice,” he said.
For a second, neither of us moved. The air between us felt charged, like standing under a storm cloud that hadn’t broken yet.
Then his phone buzzed again — a text this time.
It was a live photo.
- Writer
