The street bowed to him as if he were both king and executioner. People didn't just move aside—they fled. Mothers pulled their children into the shadows, street vendors abandoned their stalls, gamblers scattered with dice still rolling across the pavement. All that remained was a trail of whispers.
"Guru… Guru… forgive me…"
"Guru, I need this… I need you…"
But he gave no answer. His stride was steady, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched as though the world itself was a burden too light to matter. His head tilted back, his eyes half-lidded, scanning the skyline as if even the crumbling rooftops owed him tribute.
Amara, Chima, and Ife followed at a distance, unsure whether they were pursuing a man or a myth.
Then came his voice—razor-sharp, slicing through the murmurs.
"I knew one day the old man would die," he said, not looking back. His tone carried no grief, no hesitation—only certainty. "And his so-called children would come looking for me."
Amara's breath caught in her chest. "He knew…" she whispered.
Guru scratched his head lazily, like a man swatting away flies, then shoved his hand deeper into his pocket. "He's been watching me all along," he muttered. "So have I."
At last, he stopped walking. The street froze with him. Those who had dared to linger shrank back into alleys, their eyes darting between the siblings and the man they revered. Silence pressed down like a heavy hand.
Guru turned. His face was half-shadowed beneath the broken neon light above a bar sign. His jaw was sharp, scar running across his cheek like a forgotten wound. His eyes—dark, unforgiving—landed on the three siblings as if he had already judged them.
"So," he said. "The replacements."
Chima's fists clenched. "Replacements? We're your blood—"
"Blood?" Guru's laugh was hollow, scraping at the air. "Blood makes you family? Don't fool yourself. Blood is just a curse passed down by men too weak to bury it."
Ife flinched at the cruelty, the photograph trembling in his hand. Amara stepped forward, holding her ground though her voice quivered. "Our father wanted us to find you. It was his last wish."
Guru's gaze flicked to the photo in Ife's hand. For a moment, the mask slipped—just a fraction. Something raw passed through his eyes, a memory clawing its way out. But then it was gone, buried beneath indifference.
"Of course it was," he said flatly. "He failed me first. Why not pass the burden to you?"
The words sank into the siblings like poison. Chima's anger boiled over. "You think you're the only one who suffered? We grew up with nothing but silence about you. Do you know what that feels like?"
Guru took a step closer, and the air seemed to tighten. "Do you know what it feels like," he hissed, "to be thrown away like garbage? To watch your mother—our mother—look at you and decide you weren't worth keeping?"
The siblings froze.
Amara's eyes widened. "Our mother…?"
Guru's lips curved in something between a smirk and a snarl. "Ah. So he didn't tell you. Typical Obi—dying with half the truth still rotting in his chest."
"Tell us what?" Ife's voice cracked, desperation breaking through.
Guru leaned in, his words low and heavy. "Your mother isn't dead."
The street seemed to gasp. Even the neon flickered as though protesting the revelation.
Amara staggered back, her heart hammering. "That's not possible… she—she left—"
"She left me," Guru snapped. "But she didn't die. She's alive. And trust me, she's closer than you think."
Silence stretched. The siblings exchanged horrified glances, each memory of their cold, distant mother twisting with new meaning.
Chima stepped forward, trembling with rage. "If you know where she is, tell us!"
Guru's laugh returned, colder this time. "And why would I? So you can run to her like loyal little pets? No. She made her choice. And I made mine."
He turned away, walking again. The crowd stirred cautiously, like moths drawn back to a dangerous flame. Children peeked out from behind a rusted fence, their eyes fixed on Guru with reverence. He raised a hand slightly, and they stilled—obedient, waiting.
Amara called after him, her voice breaking. "Why are you here? Why these children?"
He didn't stop. "Because no one else would take them. Because they were thrown away… just like me."
For a moment, his words lingered like smoke. The siblings watched as the children swarmed to him, clinging to his arms, tugging at his coat, looking up at him as though he were more than a man—perhaps salvation, perhaps doom.
Guru glanced back once, eyes locking on Ife's. "The old man was wrong to send you here. You'll learn that soon enough."
Then he disappeared into the crowd of children, swallowed by the noise of the crime district, leaving his siblings trembling in the dark street, the photo still shaking in Ife's hand.]