The SkyLuxe Tower wasn't on any tourist map. It wasn't meant to be.
At the top floor of the 40-story private building, behind smoked glass and silent scanners, five men lounged around a dark oak table that cost more than most people's salaries.
Cigars curled smoke into the dim air. Whiskey glasses clinked softly, and behind them, a city sprawled like a sleeping beast — unaware of what fed on its bones.
> "So the boy cried," said Mr. Abiola, the man from real estate, swirling his drink. "Actually cried. Begged me to let him keep his name on the patent."
He chuckled. "Can you believe that? As if this was some motivational movie."
The others laughed.
"At least he begged," said Mr. Sang, the pharmaceuticals rep. "Mine tried to fight. Took me to court. The poor idiot thought justice was an option."
He leaned back, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "The judge's son is on my scholarship program. Case dismissed."
"Justice," muttered Mr. Falo, the telecom giant, puffing smoke. "Is just a five-letter illusion."
"Spoken like a true villain," said Mr. Kareem, the oil magnate, grinning.
Mr. Toma, the fifth man — younger, sharper, dressed in tailored navy — tapped the black folder in front of him.
"Let's not get sloppy. This isn't about ego. It's about control. If they think they can win, we lose. Fear is good. Ruin is better."
He opened the folder and passed it around.
"This is the next one. Name's Idris. Young, brilliant, stubborn. Tech background. Already making noise online."
Abiola flipped through the document. "Too clean. No scandals, no debts. What's the plan?"
Toma smiled, slow and cold.
"We'll start a scandal."
They toasted — five glasses raised in a quiet room where laughter was more dangerous than silence.
As the businessmen laughed and lit another round of cigars, the room fell back into its casual rhythm. Crystal clinked, smoke swirled, and the lights of the city twinkled far below them — unaware of the poison being brewed in silence.
But across the street, behind the glass of an unlit apartment window in a building just tall enough, a man stood — still as a shadow.
A long-range lens rested on the tripod before him.
Each face at the table was captured, framed, and filed — click, click, click.
The man didn't speak. He didn't blink.
A row of photos already lined the board behind him — Dalton, Jim, Lady Calderon, and now… the Table of Five.
He scrawled something beside the name "Mr. Toma":
"Next layer. Pattern confirmed."
The window reflected only darkness.
Who he worked for, what he was collecting, and why… remained a mystery.
The National Forum Hall gleamed under the amber wash of crystal chandeliers, flags of every state aligned behind the grand podium. Rows of carefully curated politicians, business moguls, foreign observers, and sharply dressed media personnel lined the seats like chess pieces waiting for a match to begin.
At the center, a large stage bore the seal of the House of Assembly. It was not just ceremony — it was legacy.
The voice of the Master of Ceremonies echoed through the room, crisp through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the official introduction of our newly elected Honourable House Member for Region Nine… Honourable Philip J. Damsen."
Cameras flashed. Reporters craned for better angles.
Philip walked up the polished aisle like he'd done it in his dreams a thousand times. His suit was tailored to perfection, his jaw locked in a firm smile, and his eyes gleamed with restrained ambition.
Among the crowd sat Senator Dalton, Jim Wathers, Lady Calderon, and other political figureheads — all in calculated silence, watching.
He raised a hand to the crowd. Polite applause. He approached the podium, cleared his throat, and leaned into the mic.
"My fellow citizens… I stand here not as a man of promises, but as a man of action. We have witnessed stagnation, we have endured compromise, but today—today begins a new chapter."
The applause grew.
"I do not serve the chambers that built me… I serve the people who believed in me."
A camera panned to Senator Dalton, who gave the smallest nod — almost unreadable. Jim whispered something to his assistant and crossed his legs.
Philip finished his speech with a fist on the podium.
"Change isn't coming. Change is here. I am the voice you voted for. And I will not disappoint."
The RHL Chamber's top floor exuded the type of silence that only power could buy. Valen sat at his office window, scanning through legal files when his PA knocked lightly and poked his head in.
"Sir, you… um, you have a visitor."
Valen didn't look up. "Who?"
The PA looked mildly embarrassed. "She said… she's your girlfriend."
Valen blinked. "My what?"
"Your girlfriend, sir. She's downstairs. Waiting."
He straightened and turned slowly. "Describe her."
"Tall, elegant, burgundy dress… same woman from that political matchmaking dinner."
Valen muttered under his breath. "Of course she came."
Moments later, the door to his office opened. She entered without hesitation — a silk blouse, dark tailored pants, and a look that belonged on campaign posters. Her perfume preceded her, floral and expensive.
You really need to teach your PA the definition of appointment," she said, smiling like this was her office.
Valen exhaled slowly, setting the glass down.
"You didn't book one."
Spontaneity, darling. It's good for political chemistry."
"Valen," she greeted, like they were already familiar. "You left me curious."
"And you came all this way just to kill the suspense?"
"I came for a tour… and a second opinion."
"Opinion on what"
She strutted in, glanced at the television, and let out a hum.
"Look," she said, pointing casually, "My mom. Doesn't she look radiant?"
Valen folded his arms. "Like a dragon in Chanel."
She laughed — a bright, practiced sound. "You're still charmingly toxic. I like that."
"Why are you here?" he asked plainly.
"To say hi," she replied, circling his office like she owned it. "And to remind you that power pairs better with legacy."
"Sounds like a perfume commercial."
"You're cute when you're cornered."
Valen moved to sit behind his desk, fixing her with a look.
"I'm not your political pet project. Your mom and mine can play chess. I don't like being a pawn."
She walked closer, eyes daring.
"Then be the player. I'm offering partnership."
He stared at her for a moment. Then looked back at the screen. Philip was shaking hands. Smiling too hard.
"You're here to secure your future."
"So are you, Valen. You just don't know which path to take yet."
The tension hovered, not loud but palpable.
Then she straightened, flipped her hair back, and smiled again.
> "Don't worry. I'll call next time. Maybe."
She turned and walked to the door.
Just before she left, she glanced over her shoulder.
"Tell your PA I'm still your favorite rumor."
And then she was gone.
Valen leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
"I don't like surprises."
But he knew politics never asked for permission.
The morning air inside Langford High Court was stiff with silence. Rows of citizens filled the gallery, their whispers hushed by the thick air of anticipation. The crest of the National Judiciary loomed above the mahogany bench, polished to reflection.
Judge Hamilton Creed sat high and still at the center, silver hair like a faded crown, spectacles balanced on a nose that had sniffed out lies for over thirty years. To his right, the bailiff gave a quiet nod.
"Call the case."
"State v. Leon Matthews," the court clerk announced. "Violation of Section 38, Controlled Substances Act: Possession and trafficking of restricted narcotics."
The defendant, Leon Matthews, stood in his grey blazer, worn and rumpled. Late twenties. Sharp jaw. Shaky hands. The kind of man who had once believed in shortcuts and now stood staring at the edge of ruin.
Across the courtroom, Prosecutor Kayden Locke rose slowly.
He adjusted his tie with a calm precision, stepping forward like a blade unsheathed.
His voice was low, clear, and lethal.
"Your Honor. The State intends to prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that the accused not only possessed but distributed high-grade synthetic opiates, linked to three overdoses within Langford South."
Gasps flickered from the gallery. The defense attorney — Mr. Greyson, a veteran with tired eyes — rose with a frown.
"Objection. Prosecutor Locke is using language prejudicial to the jury."
Judge Creed raised an eyebrow.
"Mr. Locke, tone."
Kayden nodded. "Withdrawn, Your Honor. The evidence will speak for itself."
A woman was called — frail, mid-thirties, face drawn. She took the stand. Her voice trembled.
"He gave it to my brother. Said it was new\... clean. My brother didn't wake up."
Greyson rose. "Do you have proof, Miss Hargrove, that my client sold anything? Did you witness a transaction?"
She shook her head, voice cracking. "No. But I saw the label. It had his name. I know his handwriting."
Kayden stepped in, calm.
"Exhibit C," he said. A photo appeared on the projector. A tiny bag with a handwritten label: *Blue Tide - L.M.*
He turned back to the witness. "Did your brother keep a log of suppliers?"
"Yes. He was trying to quit."
"And what name appears five times in the last seven entries?"
"Leon Matthews."
The courtroom stilled.
Greyson tried to spin. "Circumstantial. Anyone could've written that."
Kayden didn't flinch. "Then let's talk about phone records. Calls traced between Mr. Matthews and three known dealers within a 48-hour window. Traced, timestamped, and archived."
Greyson shifted. "That doesn't prove distribution."
Kayden walked forward, now closer to the jury. "No. But it builds a pattern. And the law does not require that we see the crime as it happened — only that we prove intent, opportunity, and action."
He held up a slim book.
"Section 38. Subsection B. Possession with intent to distribute, established through communication, repeated contact, and controlled testimony."
Judge Creed tapped his gavel lightly.
"We'll break for recess. Court resumes in one hour."
Kayden didn't sit. He stared at Leon Matthews across the room. Not in anger. Not even in victory. But like a man watching a puzzle click into place.
Something about the case still felt too clean. Too rehearsed.
As the crowd shuffled out, Kayden turned to his assistant.
"Check the arresting officer's report. The signatures don't match."
"Sir?"
"Just do it," he said.
Because sometimes, even justice wears gloves.
The courtroom buzzed with tension as the clerk called the case.
"Case #2025/178: The State vs. Leon Matthew , charged with trafficking and distribution of Class A narcotics under Section 14(b), Subsection 3 of the National Penal Code."
Judge Hamilton Creed silver-haired and sharp-eyed, adjusted his spectacles as he took his seat. Despite his age, his voice still cut through the hall like steel. "Begin."
The defense lawyer rose. A slick man in a navy suit, Mr Greyson known for defending powerful but guilty men.
"My Lord," Claude began, adjusting his cufflink, "the accused, Mr. is a small business owner wrongfully implicated. There is no direct evidence linking him to the trafficking ring. The supposed warehouse, Your Honor, was a shared space—anyone could have planted those substances."
Gasps rippled through the public gallery.
Kayden Locke stood. Calm. Precise.
"With respect, Your Honor," he began, lifting a remote. "Let the evidence speak."
The screen behind him flickered. CCTV footage played: Leon Matthew speaking with known cartel affiliates, unloading crates at midnight. Timestamped. Zoomed. Clear.
Then came the paper trail: phone records, falsified invoices, payments linked to off-shore accounts. And last—a witness statement.
A young man, trembling in the box, spoke through tears.
"He paid me to drive the van. Said it was electronics. I didn't know until the police stopped me. Please… I didn't know."
Judge Hamilton Creed watched silently.
Claude tried once more. "The witness is unreliable. Frightened. Possibly coached."
Kayden's reply was a dagger.
"Then let the toxicology reports of the seized drugs, bearing Matthew fingerprints on three sealed packages, do the talking."
A hush fell.
Matthew
Greyson cleared his throat. "Enough."
He leaned forward, gaze heavy on Matthew.
"Mr. Leon Matthew , this court finds you guilty of violating Section 14(b), Subsection 3. For the trafficking and distribution of Class A narcotics, with intent to supply, you are hereby sentenced to 8 years in federal prison without parole."
The gavel came down.
A scream echoed from the back—Mathew sister, collapsing into sobs. The courtroom guards moved swiftly.
Kayden closed his file, his eyes steady. Another win for justice. But another reminder: the system never sleeps.
Outside, reporters surged. But Kayden disappeared into the marble corridors, already preparing for the next war.
At the head of the walnut roundtable sat Senator Gregory Dalton, legs crossed, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of aged bourbon. To his left, Minister Charles Redford, silver-haired and always scowling, whispered something to Ambassador Linford Hall, who chuckled behind a thick cigar cloud.
Across from them sat a newcomer — younger than the rest by decades. Aaron Wycliff, recently appointed as Head of the National Anti-Corruption Task Force, bore the suit of a man who belonged… but the quiet rage of one who never wanted to.
He hadn't spoken a word.
Dalton broke the stillness with a chuckle. "Still not fond of gatherings, I see."
Aaron's jaw flexed. But he said nothing.
Minister Redford poured more bourbon into his glass. "Your father knew the value of alliances. Never too proud to listen."
He raised his glass. "May his soul rest."
Aaron nodded stiffly.
Ambassador Hall leaned forward. "Word is, you're stirring dust already. That energy of yours—it's admirable. But premature."
Still, Aaron didn't speak.
The youngest of the elders, Mr. Kendrick Baine, in his early forties and drunker than the rest, clinked his glass a little too loud. "I say let the boy chase ghosts. Eventually, he'll learn the files that bite hardest are meant to stay closed."
Dalton's smile faded slightly. "Which brings us to a matter of... interest."
He slid a thin manila folder across the table toward Aaron.
"The Case of The Hartman Consortium. You've opened an audit. That company has ties... delicate ones."
Aaron's eyes flicked to the folder. Then back up.
Still no word.
Redford sighed. "We're not saying drop it. Just... shelve it. Temporarily. Let the elections breathe."
Finally, Aaron leaned forward.
His eyes were sharp. Voice colder than the bourbon they were sipping.
"Tell me, gentlemen… is it justice you fear, or exposure?"
Silence.
Kendrick Baine slammed his glass on the table. "You little—"
He half-rose, but before he could reach across the table, Aaron stood. Calmly. His chair barely scraped.
The motion was precise. Unshaken.
He looked down at Kendrick, gaze like steel.
> "Try that again," he said, "and I'll have your entire offshore portfolio subpoenaed."
Baine froze.
Dalton raised a hand. "Let's not escalate."
Aaron turned to him.
"With respect, Senator—your words carry less weight than your secrets."
The room went still.
Aaron adjusted his jacket.
"Gentlemen," he said coolly, "my father may have bowed. I don't."
The silence was thick and deadly.
The elder man in his 70s gave a slow, crooked smile. "This… is what happens when you let the young run free. They think law is their sword."
Jordan looked down at him.
"Law is a mirror, sir. Some of us just don't flinch when we see ourselves in it."
He turned to Dalton.
"I'll run the bureau. But I won't run your errands."
Dalton's smile had faded. Only his glass caught the light now.
"You'll make enemies."
"Only if they deserve it."
The city auditorium was alive with applause. Cameras flashed. Journalists murmured. At the heart of it all stood Christopher Blaire — fresh-faced, sharp-suited, and already branded by the media as the future of youth innovation.
A glowing screen behind him read:
"NEXTGEN NATION: EMPOWERING FUTURE MINDS"
Christopher adjusted the mic with calm precision. His smile was soft but intentional — like it had been practiced a hundred times in a mirror.
"Thank you all for being here today. We're not just launching a campaign — we're launching a movement."
The crowd leaned in.
"In a country where talent is buried by bureaucracy, where young dreams are traded for power games, we say — enough."
A standing ovation rippled across the room. He waited patiently, hands folded.
"I stand before you not as a politician. Not yet," he said, smirking slightly. "But as a builder. A believer. A man committed to ensuring that no mind is ever stolen, silenced, or sold."
Backstage, a producer whispered to a staff member, "He's good. A little too good."
On stage, Christopher raised a hand.
"Innovation is not born in silence. It's born in chaos. In hunger. In rage. But most of all — in youth."
The applause swelled again. But this time, his eyes flicked to a camera at the far left of the room. His gaze sharpened for a split second — cold, calculating — before softening again into his winning smile.
"This is our time. Let's build something the old guard can't burn down."
The room erupted. And Christopher Blaire stepped back from the podium like a man who knew exactly how to set a stage — and what to hide behind the curtains.
The tinted black SUV pulled to a smooth stop in front of the towering glass facade of RHL Chamber.
Christopher Blaire stepped out — tall, clean-cut, His presence was composed but magnetic — the kind that cameras adored and critics secretly feared.
Inside the lobby, the air smelled of subtle cologne, polished marble, and calculated ambition.
A guard nodded as he entered. "Good afternoon.
"Afternoon," Chris said, his tone warm but brief.
Upstairs, Jim adjusted his cufflinks, already smiling before the door opened.
"Ah! The youngest tech miracle in the country graces my floor," Jim announced as Christopher entered.
Eliara stood beside him, arms folded, smirking. "He only walks this way when he wants to show off those tailored suits."
Chris laughed lightly and extended a hand to Jim. "Pleasure's mine, sir. You look sharper than ever."
Jim took the hand, pulling him into a half-embrace. "You remind me of your father. Except you actually win the interviews."
Eliara stepped forward, pouring two drinks without asking. "Sit. You've had every journalist in the country chasing you. I thought we were old friends."
Chris sat, accepting the glass. "We are. That's why I came straight here."
Jim raised his glass. "To power, charm… and controlled media."
They drank. Laughed.
Then, Jim leaned forward. "Your father was a friend of mine. A tough man. Honest, maybe to a fault. But you—" he tapped Chris's chest lightly, "—you've got something sharper."
Chris nodded slowly. "He always said honesty didn't fit into every room."
Eliara chuckled. "Smart man."
For a few more minutes, the conversation floated between polite compliments and quiet strategy. Then Chris stood.
"I should get going. Long day ahead."
Jim rose with him. "Anytime you want to walk these halls again… the door's open."
Chris smiled. "Appreciate that."
As he stepped into the hallway, Chris passed by a corridor leading to the prosecutorial wing. A soft click of heels echoed — and then, as if by design, Aria turned the corner.
Both paused.
Chris's eyes caught hers — just for a moment. Something flickered. A subtle, electric tension, like a forgotten chord being struck.
Aria bowed lightly. "Good afternoon."
"Afternoon," Chris replied, his voice gentler than he expected.
He kept walking.
Aria stood still for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then turned and disappeared into the elevator.
Inside the elevator, her brows furrowed. That face. It stirred something — but the memory didn't follow.
Outside, Chris's smile faded. Just slightly.
That voice. Why did it feel like déjà vu…?
"Stop him! That's the guy!"
A blur of motion tore past fruit stalls and startled pedestrians. The man was young — no more than twenty-three — draped in flashy sneakers, a silver jacket, sunglasses, and rings on almost every finger. His name? Jaylen Cross. Known on the streets as "Silvertongue" — small-time scammer, full-time show-off.
Two officers gave chase behind him, uniforms slicing through the crowd like sharks through water.
"Freeze! Jaylen Cross, you're under arrest!"
Jaylen vaulted over a crate of tomatoes, landed with a cocky spin, and grinned over his shoulder.
"Sorry boys, wrong clone!"
But he ran straight into a wall.
He spun around — cornered.
One of the officers, Detective Marcus Bane, approached cautiously, palm slightly raised.
"Relax, Jaylen. Don't make this harder."
Jaylen's hand went to his back pocket — not for a weapon, but a rusty fork from someone's lunch tray.
> "Back off, I swear I'll do something stupid!"
Bane raised an eyebrow. "With a fork?"
"You don't know me, man. I'm unhinged. I got trauma!"
"You've got unpaid parking tickets and a fake crypto app."
"Still counts!"
The crowd had gathered now — phones out, some laughing, some unsure. Bane sighed, walked closer, voice lowering.
"Look… give me five minutes, and I'll make sure the report says someone else used your ID. A ghost suspect. You disappear, no court."
Jaylen blinked. "For real?"
"Cross my badge."
Jaylen lowered the fork slowly. "You're different. I like that."
And then— click. The cuffs were on.
"Didn't say I was honest," Bane said with a shrug.
Jaylen gasped. "I thought we had a moment!"
"We did. It ended with justice.
Laughter erupted from the bystanders. Jaylen shook his head as he was escorted into the cruiser.
"Y'all are cold," he muttered. "I want my one phone call—and a lawyer who understands betrayal!"
The patrol car drove off, taillights fading into the city glow.
Back in the office, the smell of meat pie still lingered faintly in the air, though most of it was now memory and regret.
The laughter from the office still lingered as Aria slid into her chair, a quiet smirk tugging at her lips.
Felix had declared himself "Chief of Meat Pie Logistics," and Uche was still arguing that falling off a file cabinet shouldn't be counted as workplace injury.
Mr. Ebe passed her desk, munching what looked like the last of the stolen pastry.
> "Careful," he warned. "Stick around us long enough and you'll lose your sense of professionalism."
"That assumes I had any to begin with," Aria said dryly.
He winked and disappeared around the corner.
Then Ebe leaned over her desk, eyeing her folder. "You off the hook now? Eliara still breathing down your neck?"
Aria shrugged. "She's Eliara. I passed her test case… barely."
"You didn't pass," Uche said, biting into a biscuit. "You restructured that thing like an engineer. She just didn't want to admit you were better."
Aria smiled. She didn't say anything. But part of her still felt unfinished.
After they left for lunch, she lingered.
Something about the test case had gnawed at her — a name, maybe, or a date.
She sat down, tapped her pen once… then twice… and her eyes drifted.
To the drawer.
Eliara had returned the test file last week — slotted it in the shared drawer beside Aria's desk. Everyone forgot about it. But today, the metal looked slightly ajar.
Aria reached for it.
Inside, folders sat neatly labeled — but one was marked differently. Older paper. No tab. No barcode.
She pulled it halfway out.
Stamped in fading ink:
> "Julian Wade – Closed. 2022. Internal Transfer – Do Not Copy."
Her fingers froze.
Julian Wade. That name again.
She opened the file.
Inside, clipped loosely together, was a summary of a dismissed corruption inquiry — a local tech patent theft case, dismissed for "lack of evidence."
Aria blinked. That was the exact claim in the case Eliara tested her on — the one that felt too clean.
She flipped a page.
A list of related witnesses. One was Leon Matthews.
Another: "I. Bako" — the arresting officer from Kayden's case.
Her breath caught.
She flipped to the last page — but it was missing.
Torn.
Then—her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
> "Julian Wade asked the same questions. You're walking his path now."
She stared at the message.
Slowly, Aria slipped the document back inside the folder… but kept the page with the witness list.
She closed the drawer — this time locking it.
She blinked.
Another buzz.
> "Be careful, Aria. This city has no mercy for the curious."
As she turned to leave the office, her posture straightened, her breath steadied — but something inside her had shifted.
A grainy black-and-white surveillance screen flickered quietly in a dark room.
Aria walked down the hallway on-screen, folder in hand.
Behind the monitor, a man leaned forward — hoodie pulled low, face hidden in shadows.
He zoomed in. Enhanced.
He scribbled a note under her name.
> "Level 1: Activated."
He didn't speak.
Just stared.
Waiting.
Watching.