Gozie sensed with absolute clarity that nothing would ever be the same again. The realization both terrified and exhilarated him, like standing at the edge of an abyss that might contain either salvation or destruction.
What am I becoming? he mused in silent reflection.
Later that day while he slept, his consciousness floated gently into the Realm of Dreams. Here, reality's rigid boundaries softened and curved, allowing memories to merge and intertwine like watercolors on damp canvas. Time abandoned its linear path, folding upon itself with the delicate precision of an origami master creating an unfinished story.
The familiar weight of his daily anxieties lifted, replaced by a curious lightness that both thrilled and unsettled him. Fragments of his childhood in Lagos danced alongside visions of possible futures, their edges blurring until he could no longer distinguish hope from memory. Gozie's breath deepened as he navigated this ethereal landscape, his sleeping face reflecting the wonder and occasional terror of a mind untethered from waking constraints.
He found himself once again on the chaotic, nerve-rattling streets of Allen Avenue in Lagos—only this time, everything shimmered with a surreal sharpness. The night air was humid, thick with the acrid scent of burning petrol and the stale tang of sweat and beer. Neon signs of roadside clubs flickered overhead like fireflies trapped in glass. Loud music pulsed faintly from somewhere in the distance, yet the street itself felt hollow, deserted—eerily still.
Then, his eyes fixed on it. A grotesque sight in the middle of the road: the lifeless, crumpled body of a man sprawled unnaturally across the cracked tar. The figure was unmistakable.
The Daemon.
The same inhuman being he had exorcised in what he thought had been a dream three months ago. Its skin looked like scorched charcoal, yet it glimmered faintly under the streetlight—almost alive, as if feeding off the darkness. Despite lying dead, the body seemed to radiate malevolence.
Not far from the corpse, something throbbed with unsettling vitality: a human heart. Fresh. Wet. Beating as though it refused to surrender life. It convulsed rhythmically on the cracked pavement, emitting a squelching sound that made Gozie's stomach churn.
He hesitated, gripped by a gnawing sense of dread that slithered up his spine like cold mercury. He inched forward. His breath grew shallow. His mind screamed turn back, but his feet disobeyed.
As he stared down at the cadaver, guilt hit him like a sledgehammer.
What have I done? he thought remorsefully
The question barely formed in his mind when the corpse's eyes snapped open—milky white orbs devoid of pupils, yet alight with a hellish glow. The body jerked violently.
"You are who you are," the corpse rasped. Its voice sounded like a thousand whispers all speaking at once, layered with growls and echoes from unseen dimensions. "And there's no escaping your destiny!"
In a flash of unnatural speed, a decayed hand shot out and latched around Gozie's throat. The strength behind the grip was inhuman. Cold fingers like rusted iron squeezed tighter and tighter.
Gozie gasped, thrashing, his lungs burning. The world around him began to darken, his peripheral vision collapsing into shadow. The street melted away. The sound of his heartbeat thundered louder than the distant music.
He was dying. And then—
With a strangled cry, Gozie jerked upright in bed.
He clutched his throat, his chest rising and falling in desperate, ragged breaths as terror coursed through his veins. His body glistened with sweat, dampening the sheets beneath him. The dim room swam before his eyes—the familiar scent of old books and polished wood gradually grounding him, reminding him that he remained safe in the Vice Chancellor's manor.
Just a dream, he told himself, though the conviction in his thoughts wavered. The phantom sensation around his neck lingered, an invisible noose that refused to dissipate. His skin tingled where the corpse had touched him, a memory so vivid it felt etched into his flesh. The rotten stench of decay seemed to permeate the room still. Or perhaps his frightened mind merely conjured the smell, another cruel trick of his traumatized senses?
"You are being taunted by Baalzebub," remarked a calm, familiar voice from somewhere within the shadows, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Gozie spun around, heart racing anew, his fingers gripping the bedsheets.
Standing near the wardrobe, casually unpacking a suitcase as if nothing were amiss, was a man. Though his back remained turned, the distinctive voice left no room for doubt about his identity.
The chauffeur. Raph.
They haven't met before now. But Gozie knew who he was because Professor Kwame had sent him earlier to retrieve Gozie's belongings, so his presence shouldn't have been shocking.
Yet something felt... off. Something to do with Raph's voice. Gozie felt he had heard that voice before. But how could he have recognized the voice of someone he had never met before? Unless he had met him... before.
And that chill again. That deep, primal awareness crawled up Gozie's spine, whispering that something beyond mortal comprehension was unfolding before him.
"Turn around," Gozie commanded sharply, his voice low and taut with suspicion, fingers curling into fists at his sides.
The man hesitated, shoulders tensing visibly before he turned slowly, deliberately, as if revealing himself was a calculated decision rather than compliance.
Their eyes met—and recognition struck Gozie like lightning, electric and paralyzing.
"You again!" he gasped, stunned, his heart hammering against his ribcage as memories flooded back.
The mysterious figure he met three months ago who seemed to transmute Gozie's reality into the dream state—who had haunted his dreams for weeks—now stood before him again in flesh and blood. The enigmatic presence who spoke in riddles that lingered in Gozie's mind long after waking. The one who had, impossibly, stopped time itself with a single whispered word.