"We is doomed!" screamed an utterly horrified bondsman in misplaced English, toiling on a farm plantation. And he wasn't far from the truth.
All eyes shot up toward the sky. They needed no prophet to tell them what was falling.
"Heaven's Hammer is upon us!" another bondsman yelled, involuntarily falling on his knees and vehemently began to pray for forgiveness.
Another, a bondswoman, refusing to believe what her eyes were showing her in the suddenly, mysteriously darkened sky, gasped: "No! This can't be happening!"
But it was happening. Just as she was witnessing it. For up above the earth, a menacing meteorite hurled its plasma-like spear across the suddenly twilighted sky.
Panic kicked in. Farm workers trembled, scrambled for available hiding places that may offer safety despite the shouting and whippings from the taskmasters trying desperately to maintain order amid the brewing chaos.
However, one worker remained un-rattled by the mayhem all around her, as the meteorite plummeted toward them at an incredible speed, its luminous arc catching the eye of the seemingly unperturbed woman toiling in a cornfield alongside other panic-stricken captives.
To her, the celestial visitor painted a brief, beautiful moment of wonder across the darkening canvas above.
The era in history was Fifteenth Century, somewhere in Medieval London.
The young serving woman straightened her aching back, gazing upward, momentarily forgetting the calluses on her palms and the sweat that trickled down her temples. How long had it been since she'd noticed anything beyond her daily misery?
The light streaked through purple clouds, a rare beauty piercing through her grim existence, reminding her of childhood tales her grandmother once whispered about heavenly messengers.
Her chapped lips parted in awe as the flaming star plummeted toward a distant forest and struck the earth with startling violence.
Suddenly, a young man bolted upright, torn from his slumber. It was merely a dream—yet in that haunting vision, the shooting star's catastrophic impact had wrenched him violently awake—
With a blood-curdling scream that tore from his throat.
His agonized cry shattered the night's silence like crystal breaking against stone. Cold sweat drenched his forehead and soaked through his thin t-shirt as his heart throbbed frantically against his ribcage, each beat a desperate hammer threatening to burst through flesh and bone.
His hands trembled uncontrollably as he clutched the damp sheets, knuckles whitening with strain, his countenance contorted in a dizzying kaleidoscope of fear.
This was Present Day... Somewhere in the bustling metropolis of Laygos, where millions slept peacefully while he battled his demons alone.
His modest room felt impossibly smaller now, the walls seeming to inch closer with each labored breath he took. Menacing but imaginary shadows seemed to linger in the corners, taking shapes that reminded him of figures from his nightmare, watching and waiting with malevolent patience.
"A nightmare," he thought, trying to steady his breath. His copper-honey eyes scanned the moonlit room as familiar objects came into focus.
His shirt clung to his skin, soaked through. A savage migraine throbbed behind his eyes. He pressed his palms to his temples as though suppressing the pain, but the pain only grew.
Fragments of the dream lingered: the falling star, the tremor, the dread. Yet the more he tried to recall the details, the tighter the pain gripped him—until at last, he surrendered.
Just another nightmare, he reassured himself. Or was it? If only he knew...
Yet, a cold shiver traced his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
His biracial heritage manifested in features that blended Black and White ancestry into a harmonious whole. Fair-skinned with prominent cheekbones that caught the light, his tight curls framed a face that spoke of complex identity and quiet strength. His well-defined physique came from dedicated exercise—a discipline born of necessity rather than vanity. Each morning's routine grounded him, offering control in a world where he often felt adrift.
Something magnetic resided in his dark eyes—a charismatic intensity that drew people closer, yet concealed a vulnerability he guarded fiercely.
Few had glimpsed beyond this careful barrier, fewer still understood the pain it protected. He possessed an unconscious grace, a fluid elegance that turned heads wherever he went. This attention often made him uncomfortable, preferring to blend into backgrounds rather than stand at their center.
He lumbered into the bathroom. The cold bath sent shivers up his spine but helped ground him. After toweling off, he slipped into a fresh t-shirt and worn jeans.
Still, the migraine lingered. The dim bathroom light felt like a knife.
"Maybe a walk will help," he muttered.
He wandered along the bustling street of Ikeja, letting Laygos's nighttime rhythm surround him. The city pulsed with life even at this hour, a living organism that never truly slept. Neon signs blurred in his vision, splashing colors across the darkness like an abstract painting.
Vendors called out their final offers of the day, their voices harmonizing with distant music, while the air hung thick with the tantalizing scent of roasted meat and pungent spices that made his empty stomach rumble in protest.
Slowly, the headache that had plagued him since his nightmare loosened its grip, retreating like a reluctant tide. The evening breeze caressed his skin with merciful coolness, carrying away the day's frustrations and allowing his thoughts to finally emerge from their foggy prison with surprising clarity.
He glanced down at his Omega wristwatch—his father's parting gift before sending him to Laygos to experience life as a young man—the familiar weight on his wrist both a comfort and a burden of memory. It was late, the elegant hands indicating, but not midnight yet.
Trekking home, he realized with a sigh, was no longer a sensible option. He had wandered much farther than intended, lost in his troubled thoughts. The prospect of midnight catching him on these streets—when even Laygos's bravado gave way to whispered dangers—sent a chill down his spine. With a resigned gesture, he stepped to the curb and flagged down a passing taxi.
At Allen Avenue, the vehicle came to a halt, stirring him from his reverie. A familiar security pipe blocked their entry, its metal frame gleaming under the streetlights like a sentinel guarding the passage home.
"How we go do am, bros?" the taxi driver said in Pidgin English, his weathered fingers nervously tapping the steering wheel. "As I no fit pass."
The young man's heart sank as he realized that the entrance to the avenue was always barricaded at midnight—a security measure common in this part of Lagos. He checked his watch: it was seventeen minutes after twelve midnight.
On the other hand, the two-thousand, five hundred Naira fare agreement clearly mattered deeply to the driver, whose tired eyes revealed a day of endless hustling. The man's worn clothing and the faded interior of his vehicle suggested he needed every kobo. Failing to complete the journey might violate their verbal contract, leaving both parties dissatisfied.
"No be your fault, my guy," the young man replied back in Pidgin English, with a sympathetic smile, stepping out into the humid night air. He reached into his pocket and pressed a crisp three thousand Naira note into the driver's calloused palm, feeling a small surge of satisfaction at his own generosity. "Keep the change," he added.
The driver's face transformed instantly, fatigue vanishing as joy illuminated his features like the first rays of dawn breaking over the Laygos lagoon. Not only had he failed to fulfill the rule of his contract, he was also being tipped on top of his failure to do so.
"You be correct guy!" he exclaimed with a respectful salute gesture, his voice carrying through the otherwise silent street. "You be more than too much—in fact, you be three much!"
With an enthusiastic wave that spoke of renewed energy, the driver reversed his vehicle and disappeared around the corner, engine sounds gradually fading into the quiet Laygos night.
The street now lay still, embraced by shadows and the occasional flicker of distant security lights.
The young man ducked under the security bar and and started walking home, the streetlights stretching his shadow far ahead of him.
However, halfway down the street, a peculiar occurrence unfolded — a vivid, elongated shadow emerged from a bright-yellow streetlight, looming ominously before him, far surpassing the length of his own.
Involuntarily, a primal sensation coursed through his body, a biological response triggered by the uncanny sight. His head swelled with a sensation akin to encountering a ghost, an inexplicable tingling that defied rational explanation. After all, unless the perpetrator of this intrusive shadow was a giant, the notion of a human shadow stretching to such lengths defied all earthly logic.
Momentarily startled, he cast a swift glance over his shoulder, yet found no one behind him. Returning his gaze forward, he found the eerie shadow was no longer showing. After a moment of contemplation, he rationalized the experience as a trick of his mind and proceeded with his journey. Glancing back once more, he reassured himself as he confirmed the absence of any lurking figures.
However, when he turned back to his front, the mysterious shadow loomed forward ahead of his own shadow.
Swinging back in alertness, the long shadow's owner was not in sight. Flipping to his front, the long shadow was gone!
"What the hell?" he gasped.
Visibly frightened, he hastened his steps, darting his views here and there like a man ghost-haunted.
"What's the matter, desperado?" echoed a ghastly voice from behind him, sending shivers down his spine. "Do you think you can actually elude your own shadow?"
Startled, the young man whirled around, only to find the street deserted. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, he broke into a panicked run.
I must be imagining things, he pondered as he fled.
"Think again!" the spectral voice bellowed, seeming to pierce his thoughts with eerie precision.
Abruptly halting in his tracks, the young man watched in horror as the sinister, elongated shadow materialized before him. Whirling around, his eyes widened in terror as he identified the source of the ominous silhouette.
Standing just a few poles away loomed the terrifying embodiment of a living nightmare: a demon!
To the young man's eyes, the demon assumed the appearance of an imposing black figure, commanding attention through sheer presence. Yet beneath this superficial observation, a primal intuition stirred within him, whispering a chilling revelation: this entity transcended the boundaries of both mortality and common demonology.
The terrified young man stood before an Ancient One, an Alpha emerging from Time's shadowy antiquity, descended directly from the Daemons—those primordial architects of demonic lineage.
The young man felt his heart quicken, a cold sweat breaking across his brow as he confronted this reality. Something in the Ancient One's obsidian eyes reflected millennia of witnessed history, civilizations risen and fallen under his gaze.
The air around the figure seemed to distort slightly, as if reality itself bent uncomfortably in his presence.
As the demon moved, his gestures carried an unsettling grace—fluid yet precise, like a predator who had perfected the art of the hunt across countless centuries. The young man found himself simultaneously drawn to and terrified by this being whose very existence challenged everything he understood about the world.