Micheal
The world came to him in whispers. Never in noise.
That was how he liked it. Silence was the only true luxury left for a man in his position, and he had paid for it in blood, in secrets, in empires carefully built so that his name traveled further than his face.
This morning, though, the whispers were louder.
Micheal leaned back in the leather chair of his Ikoyi penthouse office, a crystal glass of Azul catching the morning light at his side, untouched but waiting. Across from him, one of his men scrolled nervously through a tablet.
"She posted again, sir," the man said, clearing his throat. "Anna Obi. The influencer."
Micheal's eyes narrowed at the name. Of course he knew her—his people had brought him a file days ago. Bright, reckless, beautiful in the way fire is beautiful when you forget how quickly it spreads.
"What did she say?" His voice was smooth, calm, the kind of calm that made lesser men sweat.
The man handed over the tablet. Micheal skimmed the words, her post dissecting his latest acquisition as if she'd been in the boardroom herself. She hadn't uncovered anything lethal—yet—but her tone was what concerned him. Sharp. Unafraid. And dangerously persuasive to the gullible masses who fed on outrage like oxygen.
Beneath the post were replies. Tens of thousands of them.
Some mocking. Some praising.
And then, the ones he cared about most—the faceless accounts. His people. Already warning her, already tightening the circle.
Micheal let the tablet fall to the desk. He steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowing on the skyline as if Anna's voice itself were scratching at the glass.
"She talks too much," he said flatly.
The man swallowed. "Should we... deal with it, sir?"
Micheal's lips curved into a slow smirk. "Deal with it? She isn't a threat. She's an insect buzzing at my ear. Irritating, yes—but you don't burn down the house to kill a mosquito, do you?"
The man shifted nervously. "Then what do you suggest we do, sir?"
Micheal leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His tone dropped, quiet but edged like a blade. "Nothing. Not yet. Let her shout. Let her believe she's untouchable. When the time comes, she'll learn noise has a price."
Only then did he reach for the glass, swirling the Azul lazily before taking a slow sip. The tequila burned smooth, settling like fire in his chest.
Because in truth, he had all the time in the world.
And somewhere out there in the chaos of Lagos, Anna had just written herself into his silence.