The thick, choking scent of betrayal lingered in the safehouse air. Adesuwa's hands trembled as she clutched the USB drive retrieved from Dipo's burnt apartment. It felt heavier now, symbolizing all they had lost and yet to face.
Tariq secured the doors with heavy metal bars, his expression unreadable under the dim emergency lights. In one corner, Kunle patched a shallow cut on his shoulder from the ambush. Everyone bore fresh wounds, but the real scars ran deeper, etched across their trust.
"We need answers," Tariq said, voice tight. "And we need them now."
Adesuwa inserted the drive into the old laptop Dipo had left for emergencies. It whirred loudly, like a beast waking from restless sleep. A folder blinked open: Project Atunwa.
Inside were files upon files of government contracts, mysterious offshore accounts, and classified videos, proof of the Circle's manipulation of elections, real estate grabs, and silent assassinations.
"These names..." Kunle whispered, scrolling. "These are the untouchables. Ministers, generals... even judges."
"And half of them have been on the news mourning Dipo," Tariq muttered, disgust thick in his throat.
Then they saw the footage that made Adesuwa gasp aloud. Her father, General Chima Okonkwo, a war hero... secretly shaking hands with the Circle's founder: a man long believed dead.
Her knees buckled. Tariq caught her before she hit the floor.
"Your father..." Kunle started.
"Was part of them," Adesuwa finished, her voice hollow.
The world blurred as Adesuwa stumbled outside for air. Lagos stretched before her — vast, glittering, and merciless. A city of masks and myths. Her whole life, she had fought to be different from her father's legacy. Now, it was part of her blood.
"Are you okay?" Tariq's voice followed her like a shadow.
"No," she said simply. "But we move."
A black SUV idled across the street, its windows tinted too dark for comfort. Instinct kicked in.
"Move!" she screamed as bullets shattered the night.
They scattered. Tariq pulled her behind a concrete pillar. Kunle returned fire with a pistol they had salvaged earlier.
The safehouse was compromised.
Again.
They fled across the city — alleys, rooftops, and abandoned train stations—each step heavier than the last.
By dawn, they reached an old newspaper press that Tariq's uncle once ran, now defunct but sturdy. The ink-smeared walls seemed almost welcoming.
"Here," Tariq said. "We regroup. We plan."
Kunle dragged in crates of bottled water and canned food from a hidden stash.
Adesuwa, still numb, opened the laptop again. There was more to see.
The Voice Memo.
Dipo's last message.
She pressed play.
"If you're hearing this, it means I failed to protect you all. But the Circle's greatest secret isn't just their crimes; it's their heir.
They're grooming someone new.
Someone born into their lies.
Look within your ranks.
You've been betrayed long before tonight."
The message ended with static.
A chilling realization dawned: the traitor wasn't just among them. It was someone trusted. Loved.
Three nights passed in uneasy truce.
Kunle grew distant, pacing often. Tariq sharpened knives obsessively. Adesuwa barely slept, haunted by her father's handshake.
On the fourth night, disaster struck.
Someone leaked their location. Again.
Masked mercenaries stormed the print shop, night vision goggles turning the darkness into bloody clarity. Kunle fought valiantly but was overpowered. Tariq was pinned under debris.
Adesuwa ran; she ran because she had no choice, the USB clutched against her chest like a lifeline.
She burst into a neighboring building and ducked into an elevator shaft. She climbed, floor by floor, hands slick with sweat and blood.
Above her, footsteps. Below her, gunfire.
Nowhere safe.
At the rooftop, she faced them.
Six mercenaries. A helicopter whirring above.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows.
Kunle.
Gun trained on her.
"You?" Adesuwa choked.
"Always was," Kunle said, voice devoid of warmth. "I tried to warn you, Ade. But loyalty... loyalty to the Circle runs deeper than friendship."
The helicopter's spotlight pinned her in place.
"Hand over the drive," Kunle commanded.
Adesuwa laughed bitterly. "You think it ends here? You think Lagos forgets its echoes?"
Kunle's face twisted. "No one will remember."
Adesuwa took a step back, toward the ledge.
"You're wrong," she said.
And jumped.
She landed hard on a scaffolding a story below, gasping as pain shot through her body. She rolled off the platform, tucked the drive deep into her boot, and disappeared into the labyrinth of alleyways below.
The city swallowed her whole.
By the time the Circle's men reached the street, Adesuwa was just another ghost in Lagos; wounded, hunted, but alive.
And as long as she breathed, the echoes would not be silenced.
Two Days Later.
Tariq found her hiding in a fishing village on the edge of the city.
"You're insane," he said, clutching her into a fierce hug. "But you survived."
"Barely," she muttered. "Kunle?"
"Gone. Probably getting rewarded."
They sat on the cold sand, watching the ocean breathe.
"We go public," Tariq said.
"We'll be dead in a day."
"Better than living as ghosts," he replied.
Adesuwa smiled weakly. "Then let's haunt them."
The plan took form in the cover of night.
Radio hacks. Pirate transmissions. Whisper networks. Anonymous tips to journalists too stubborn to be bought.
They would turn the Circle's greatest weapon, secrets, against them.
It would cost them everything.
It might not even succeed.
But Lagos had taught them:
You fight.
You bleed.
You echo.
And so, the war began.