The street outside was no longer Lagos—it was something else entirely.
Horns blared, not in traffic this time but in terror. People poured out of flats, wrappers and slippers flapping, children crying. A man in agbada clutched his radio, shouting, "This is end times! Ogun and Sango have come for judgment!"
Someone else was yelling, "Na government experiment o! They have opened portal!"
The air reeked of smoke and burnt rubber. In the distance, the Third Mainland Bridge was a jagged silhouette of fire.
"Mela! Help me carry your sister!" Funmilayo shouted, dragging Amara by the wrist. The girl's eyes were still glazed, mouth moving in whispers:
"The sky is broken. The falcon has seen us. The hammer is falling."
"Shut up!" their mother barked, half in fear, half in desperation. She shoved her Bible into her wrapper. "We must reach church before it is too late!"
Mela wanted to scream. What church could protect them from this? But he kept quiet. His chest thudded like a drum.
They joined the stampede on the road. Neighbors pushed past, mothers clutching babies, men dragging sacks like they could carry their lives in nylon bags. Some people still stopped to argue—one woman yelling at a danfo conductor for not refunding her change even as thunder split the sky above.
Mela almost laughed. Only in Lagos could someone face apocalypse and still fight over fifty naira.
But the laughter died when a shadow swept across the street.
Everyone froze.
From above, something massive passed over the rooftops. Not a plane. Not a bird. Its wings blotted out the stars, stretching longer than a football field. The sound it made—half scream, half screech—rattled windows and made babies shriek.
"Jesu!" a woman wailed, dropping to her knees. Others followed, bowing, praying, crying.
But Mela couldn't kneel. His legs locked. His heart screamed: This is like Attack on Titan. First the wall falls, then the monsters come. And I'm still just a useless extra.
They kept moving, through streets lit only by burning cars. Somewhere ahead, a church bell rang frantically. People surged toward it like moths to flame.
"Quickly!" Funmilayo urged, her wrapper flapping as she ran. "God's house will cover us!"
Mela doubted it, but he helped steady Amara as they pushed along.
That's when he saw it.
Not in the sky. On the street.
Something crawled out of the crack that had split the tar road. At first it looked like smoke, twisting, writhing. Then the smoke hardened—shaped itself. Long arms. Too many fingers. A head that stretched like melted wax, no eyes, only a mouth that gaped wider and wider.
The thing screamed, a sound like tearing metal. Streetlights flickered, then burst.
The crowd exploded into chaos. People trampled one another. A boy fell, his screams cut off as feet crushed him. Mothers shrieked, fathers abandoned their bags.
"Mela! Run!" his mother cried.
But he couldn't move. His legs were lead.
The monster turned, its smoke-body stretching toward him, fingers reaching.
Mela's brain screamed a thousand things at once: If this was Solo Leveling, I'd have a dagger. If this was Tokyo Ghoul, I'd awaken kagune. If this was Naruto, I'd unleash chakra.
But this wasn't anime. This was Lagos.
And he had nothing.
The creature lunged.
Amara's voice cut through the chaos, sharper than thunder:
"Brother! Don't look away!"
Mela's eyes locked with the beast's mouth. For an instant, just one heartbeat, he saw something—runes glowing deep inside the smoke. The same symbols from his dreams.
Then the monster struck
And the world went black.