Lagos, 2079 – Third Mainland Docks, Sector 17B – 2:14 A.M.
The docks stank of salt, rust, and something more artificial — like burned plastic and industrial sweat. Cargo containers stood like tombstones under the blue glow of aerial surveillance lights. In the distance, the ocean grumbled, its surface rippling with toxic algae blooms.
Tunde, dressed in a patched utility jacket and faded goggles, crouched behind a derelict drone-loader, studying the target zone. The coordinates from Chrome's flashchip had led him to a decommissioned loading platform — once used for exporting smart textiles, now a ghost yard for forgotten shipments and dirty deals.
He checked his implant feed.
"No NDLEC signals detected. External drones: 3. Lifeforms: 2."
Only two people nearby — one could be Chrome's missing runner. The other… maybe Alero.
He slid out of cover and moved silently toward the designated container: H23-Zeta. Painted black, worn by time. A flickering tag confirmed it was registered under a shell company linked to offshore accounts. That tracked with the Dust network's MO.
He placed a hand on the biometric lock — and froze.
A shadow moved behind him.
"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," said a voice, smooth and sharp like a blade.
Tunde turned slowly.
She stood five meters away, leaning against a crate with one leg propped, arms crossed. Short platinum braids, a sleeveless tactical vest showing a serpent coiled around her shoulder — ink or implant, he couldn't tell. Her eyes glowed amber, not from cybernetics — but something deeper, wilder.
"Alero," he said.
"Nice to know my name still has that effect."
She stepped forward. No rush. Predators don't rush.
"You're not Chrome's usual errand boy."
"I'm not anybody's boy," Tunde replied coolly, watching her hands.
Alero smiled. "So you're the Benin ghost. The one trying too hard not to be noticed."
She circled him once, gaze sharp. "You're clean. Too clean. Not a street rat, not a cop… which makes you interesting."
Tunde's mind raced. She hadn't drawn a weapon. That meant one of two things — she didn't need to, or she wanted him alive. Either way, she was dangerous.
"I'm just trying to earn my cut," he said.
Alero stopped. "Is that what they told you? That there's a cut for you?"
Before he could respond, a scream tore through the night — short, abrupt, human.
Tunde turned instinctively. Behind a half-open crate, a young man in blood-streaked clothes stumbled out, clutching his side.
"Help…" the man gasped before collapsing.
Tunde rushed over, scanning him with his implant. Heartbeat weak. Gunshot wound. Left lung collapsing.
"Don't waste your breath," Alero said behind him. "That was Chrome's runner. Thought he could skim Dust from the shipment. Someone found out."
Tunde looked back at her. "And you just watched?"
"I watched him make his choices," she said, cold and unapologetic. "Just like I'm watching you."
A low hum filled the air — drones approaching.
Tunde cursed under his breath. "You brought heat?"
Alero raised a brow. "You think I'm that reckless? They're not here for me. They're here for you."
Tunde didn't wait for more. He triggered the magkey Chrome had embedded in the flashchip. The crate's side hissed and slid open, revealing a stash of Neon Dust canisters disguised in smart foam boxes.
He grabbed one box, slammed the crate shut, and turned to Alero.
"Help me carry this, or move."
Alero tilted her head, amused. "You've got fire. That's rare."
She lifted another crate with surprising ease and followed him toward the drainage corridor — a hidden access route leading away from the docks.
Just as they disappeared into the shadows, three black-clad enforcers emerged at the far end of the platform, guns drawn, eyes glowing red behind their masks.
Shots rang out.
Tunde didn't look back. He had the package. He had the name. And now, he had Alero.
Whatever this mission had started as — it was no longer just undercover.
It was war.