Chapter 2: The Whisper of Shadows
Divine's Perspective
I couldn't tear my eyes away from Joseph's gaze. His words hit me like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through my mind, refusing to settle. "Defenders." The word echoed, sharp and heavy, clawing at something deep inside me I didn't even know was there. My chest tightened, like my ribs were squeezing my heart too hard.
"Defenders?" I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Sin world? What the hell is that?" I felt my pulse quicken, a mix of confusion and something colder—fear, maybe.
Joseph's hand landed on my shoulder, steady and warm, like he'd known me forever. A strange calm washed over me, like a memory I couldn't place, something buried in the back of my mind. It was unsettling, but I didn't pull away.
He didn't answer my question. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he pointed across the room. My gaze followed his finger to a man in a sleek black suit, standing near an elderly woman seated in a creaky wooden chair. The guy looked normal enough—clean-cut, polished, like he belonged in a boardroom, not this dusty community hall. But there was something off about him. Something in the way he stood, too still, like he was holding a storm inside.
"That man," Joseph said, his voice low, almost reverent, like a priest reciting a prayer. "He's a Defender. One of us."
I blinked, stumbling back a step. "A Defender?" My voice cracked, louder than I meant it to be. "But… he's just standing there. People can see him."
"He hasn't modified his body," Joseph said, calm as ever. "So he's visible to all. Unlike others."
I stared at the man again. His face was plain, unremarkable, but his eyes… they carried something heavy. Like he'd seen things no one else could. Like he was fighting a war no one else knew about. My stomach churned.
"Why is he here?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady.
"To protect you," Joseph said, his tone unwavering.
"Protect me?" I echoed, my mind spinning. "From what? Sins?" The word felt ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but it carried a weight I couldn't shake.
Before Joseph could answer, a sharp sting exploded at the back of my head. I winced, my hand flying to the spot where Maria's slap had landed.
"Who the hell are you talking to?!" she barked, her eyebrows arched high, her eyes drilling into me like I'd lost my mind.
I rubbed my head, forcing a shaky laugh. "Sorry, I'm just… memorizing my school notes," I lied, my voice tripping over itself. It sounded pathetic even to me.
Maria squinted, her gaze flicking to where Joseph stood. For a split second, her eyes lingered, like she sensed something—a shadow, a presence. The air in the room seemed to thicken, heavy with an unspoken tension. But then she shrugged, muttered something under her breath, and walked off, her heels clicking against the floor.
I turned back to Joseph, my heart still racing. "What the hell do you mean, 'enemies'?"
He stepped back, his expression unreadable. "You'll understand. In time."
"Wait!" I shouted, my voice slicing through the room. "What the hell do you mean, enemies?!"
The room went quiet. Heads turned, eyes locked on me. Whispers started to creep through the crowd.
"What are you doing?" someone asked.
"Who are you talking to?" another voice chimed in.
"Why are you yelling?" a third added, sharp with annoyance.
I froze, heat creeping up my neck. "Sorry," I said, forcing a smile and scratching the back of my head like it was no big deal. "Just… thinking out loud. Got carried away."
When I looked back, Joseph was gone. Vanished, like he'd never been there at all. My stomach dropped. Had he even been real?
Agbarho City
The city of Agbarho pulsed with life as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the skyline in hues of amber and violet. At its edge, where the chaos of the city gave way to quieter streets, a small eatery glowed like a beacon in the gathering dusk. Its neon sign flickered, casting a warm, unsteady light over the cracked pavement outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fried plantain, smoked fish, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke.
Roger Ebert sat alone by the window, a cigarette dangling between his calloused fingers. Gray smoke curled upward, twisting like ghosts in the dim light. He exhaled slowly, his eyes distant, lost in the rhythm of the city beyond the glass. The chatter of other patrons—market traders winding down, students laughing over cheap beers—faded into a dull hum. For Roger, the world was a blur, a place he drifted through, untethered, hiding from a past he'd buried deep.
He took another drag, the ember flaring briefly before fading. The routine of it, the inhale and exhale, was his only anchor. A man in his late forties, Roger carried the weight of his years in the lines etched into his face, in the gray streaks threading through his hair. To the other customers, he was just another loner, another soul seeking solace in the dim glow of a roadside joint. But beneath the surface, Roger was a man at war with himself, haunted by memories he'd spent years trying to drown.
Then, it began.
A sound pierced the quiet of his mind—a bell, sharp and discordant, ringing not in the room but inside his skull. It started faint, like a distant chime carried on the wind, then grew louder, more insistent, until it was a cacophony, a relentless tolling that felt like it would split his head in two. Roger's cigarette fell from his fingers, smoldering on the table as he clutched his ears, his face contorting in pain.
The other patrons turned, their conversations faltering. A woman at the counter frowned, her spoon hovering over a bowl of egusi soup. A group of teenagers at a corner table exchanged glances, unsure whether to laugh or intervene. To them, Roger was just a man having a breakdown, maybe drunk, maybe mad. But to Roger, it was something far worse.
The bell gave way to visions—flashes of blood and fire, a young girl's scream piercing the darkness. He saw her face, her wide, terrified eyes, her small body crumpled in an alley. The memory hit him like a blade, slicing through the walls he'd built around it. He had raped her. He had killed her. He had buried her body and her memory, convincing himself it was a nightmare he could outrun. But now, it was here, clawing its way back.
A shadow rose in his mind, coalescing into a figure draped in black cloth. It had no face, only a twisted, eternal grin that seemed to mock the very concept of mercy. Its presence was suffocating, like smoke filling his lungs.
"This will be the last time we see each other," the figure said, its voice dry and cold, like wind scraping over bones. "And you will forget me… until the day of your death."
"Who the fuck are you?!" Roger screamed, his voice raw, echoing through the eatery. Heads turned again, some patrons edging away, others pulling out their phones to record.
"You have committed your first sin," the figure continued, unmoved. "It is now written in the sins Holy Book."
"Shade? Sin?" Roger's voice trembled, his mind grasping for meaning.
"When you reach your tenth sin," the figure said, its grin widening, "we shall come for your soul."
The vision dissolved, leaving Roger gasping, his chest heaving as if he'd been underwater. The eatery came back into focus—the clatter of plates, the hum of voices, the flicker of the neon sign. But the weight of the vision lingered, heavy and inescapable. His hands shook as he fumbled for another cigarette, his eyes darting around the room, searching for something—someone—to anchor him to reality.
He didn't have to wait long.
The floor beneath him cracked, a jagged fissure splitting the tiles like a wound. The patrons didn't notice, their eyes blind to the horror unfolding in Roger's reality. Two hands emerged from the ground, blackened and skeletal, followed by two towering figures, their bodies wreathed in flames that flickered like dying stars. Their eyes burned red, twin embers glowing with a hunger that chilled Roger to his core.
He screamed, scrambling to his feet, knocking over his chair. The figures moved with unnatural speed, one grabbing him by the throat and hurling him through the eatery's glass window. The crash was deafening, shards of glass scattering across the pavement like a thousand tiny knives. Outside, cars screeched to a halt, horns blaring as pedestrians screamed, their phones already raised, capturing the chaos.
To the world, it looked like a man possessed, a spiritual attack straight out of a preacher's sermon. But to Roger, it was judgment. The flaming shade loomed over him, its serrated silver blade glinting in the streetlights. It slashed across his throat in one swift motion, blood spraying across the asphalt, a crimson arc that glistened in the neon glow.
Roger's body crumpled, lifeless, his eyes wide with terror even in death. The figures stood over him, their flames casting long shadows across the street. One began to chant, its voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of divine retribution.
"The Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom everything that causes sin and all who do evil."
Matthew 13:41.
The ground opened beneath them, swallowing the figures whole. The flames vanished, leaving only silence—and the growing crowd of onlookers, their phones still recording, their voices a mix of fear and fascination. Videos of the incident spread across the internet within minutes, each clip racking up views, fueling speculation about demons, curses, and the end of days. To the world, it was a mystery. To Roger, it was the end.
Gloria's Room
In a quiet corner of the town, far from the chaos of Agbarho City, Gloria sat alone in her softly lit bedroom. The walls were adorned with faded photographs and trinkets, remnants of a life she clung to despite the years. In her hands, she held a worn photograph, its edges frayed from countless touches. The man in the picture smiled beside a younger version of herself, their faces alight with a joy that now felt like a distant dream.
"Choice," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Why would you leave me?" Her fingers traced the outline of his face, trembling as tears welled in her eyes. "I thought you promised me the world… but you left. Without a word."
The door creaked open, and Divine stepped inside, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. He paused at the threshold, watching her for a long moment, his heart aching at the sight of her grief.
"Mom," he said gently, his voice breaking the silence.
Gloria looked up, hastily wiping her tears. A fragile smile broke through her sorrow. "Divine," she said, her voice warm but unsteady.
"Finally, you're alone," I said, crossing the room and wrapping my arms around her. She leaned into me, her body trembling slightly. I could feel the weight of her pain, the way it clung to her like a shadow.
"I know you miss Dad," I whispered, holding her tighter. "But you still have us. I'm here. We're here."
"I know, son," she said, her voice soft and shaky. "But his memories… they're still here. They're a part of me. I can't let him go."
"We'll fight through this," I said, my voice firm despite the lump in my throat. "Together."
High above the quiet street, on the rooftop of a neighboring building, a figure stood silhouetted against the night sky. She was clad in a sleek, matte-black combat suit, its surface etched with glowing crimson lines that pulsed like veins of fire. A jagged, blood-colored blade rested on her back, its edge catching the moonlight. Her eyes, hidden behind a dark visor, were fixed on the scene below—Divine and Gloria, framed in the soft glow of the bedroom window.
Behind her, a man dropped to one knee, his movements precise, almost reverent. "Ma," he said, his voice low and steady. "Shall we proceed with the plan?"
The woman turned slowly, her visor reflecting the faint lights of the town. "Not yet," she whispered, her voice cold but measured. "Let him have this moment."
The two figures stepped back, melting into the shadows as if they had never been there at all.
End of Chapter 2