The heat of Lagos pressed down on them, thick with smoke from burning market stalls. Mela and his family ducked behind a collapsed danfo, the metal frame groaning under its own weight.
"Ah ah! Who dey here?!" shouted a voice in pidgin, as a gang of survivors armed with sticks and machetes emerged from the alley. "Una dey hide too much. Wetin una wan? Food? Shards? Or na small children una dey carry?"
Mela's mother, Ngozi, hissed under her breath in Yoruba: "Ẹ jẹ́ kí a fi ìmúlò ọgbọ́n ṣíṣé yìí." (Let's use our wisdom to survive this.)
They crouched lower. Amara whimpered, clutching a small satchel of leftover garri and pepper soup sachets.
Suddenly, the street cracked open like a wound. From the fissure, a shadowy monster with four arms and glowing red eyes emerged, its movements smooth and fluid like oil. It sniffed the air, locking on them immediately.
"Run!" Mela's mother shouted, pushing them toward a side alley. But Mela's foot caught a broken signpost. He stumbled, falling hard onto the cracked concrete.
The monster's claw reached out — Mela felt the cold scrape against his arm, sharp like iron. A scream caught in his throat.
Then… a faint glow pulsed beneath his skin. The runes, barely noticeable until now, flickered like tiny sparks. The glow wrapped around his arm, and the monster recoiled slightly, almost as if sensing something.
Mela scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. He had no control — nothing he could consciously do — but the runes had responded on instinct.
His mother grabbed Amara and him, shouting in Yoruba: "Ẹ gbàdúrà! Ẹ gbàdúrà! Ọlọ́run ni Olùdá wa!" (Pray! Pray! God is our Creator!)
They dashed past looters and overturned danfo buses, past abandoned suya stands and burnt akara stalls. Lagos smelled of smoke, grilled meat, and fear. Every corner seemed alive with danger — human and monster alike.
In the distance, the Children of the New Dawn raised a shard, chanting in Yoruba and pidgin: "Ẹ jẹ́ kí ìṣẹ̀lẹ̀ tuntun bẹ̀rẹ̀!" (Let the new age begin!) Their shadows stretched across the crumbling streets like jagged fingers.
Mela stumbled again, nearly falling into a glowing fissure. He felt heat, pain, and then… the runes pulsed again, brighter this time, just enough to nudge him back. He gasped, clutching his arm.
"Chai! That one nearly carry you go, Mela," Amara muttered, eyes wide.
Ngozi's barrier flared faintly, shielding them from debris as another monster's hand smashed against the side of a building.
Mela realized something: he was still powerless in the grand scheme. But his body… his very life force… was reacting. Something was stirring, testing him, warning him.
The streets of Lagos weren't just falling apart. They were alive, dangerous, and full of hidden lessons.
And somewhere deep in the shadows, his runes whispered: "Soon…"