The evening was draped in a thick, oppressive gloom. Raymond stirred on his sofa, the familiar shadows of his apartment stretching toward him like reaching fingers. He lay still for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breath hitching as he tried to convince himself that the horrors he'd just witnessed were merely the remnants of a fever dream. Then, the silence was shattered.
WORDSMITH: (With a sinister grin) Raymond Kuti... the anomaly.
Raymond bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic rhythm. To his horror, he was not alone. Sitting in his favorite leather chair perched with the regal confidence of a man on a throne, was a figure wearing his own face. The intruder was clad in a black jacket over a turtleneck, crowned with a Mossley felt trilby hat. Half of his features were lost to the shadows, creating an eerie, bifurcated silhouette that turned the room cold.
RAYMOND: (Staring, wide-eyed) Who are you? What... What are you?
WORDSMITH: (Sinisterly) Where…. are your manners?
RAYMOND: (A breathy whisper) My God...
WORDSMITH: (With biting contempt) You're such an embarrassment. A disgrace! Heyes was supposed to be shining our shoes, but now we're his prey, all because you won't let me out. What a pathetic shame.
RAYMOND: (Eyes narrowing in suspicion) You... you're the one behind the phone calls.
The revelation hit the air like a physical weight. The Wordsmith's grin didn't just fade; it melted away, replaced by a look of predatory focus. He leaned forward, looking as though he might lung across the gap between them.
RAYMOND: (Voice trembling but accusatory) The strange stares from people...(hiss) you've done terrible things. Who are you? Why do you wear my face?
WORDSMITH: (A spark of fury in his eyes) Quiet! You think you're any better? You think you're special? (He flashes a jagged grin) Well, guess what? Breaking news: you killed them. You killed all of them!
Raymond's vision glossed as tears welled in his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For a long, suffocating second, they simply stared at one another. Then, the Wordsmith let out a thunderous, soul-shaking wail.
WORDSMITH: (Wailing) YOU KILLED THEM!
JUBRIL: RAYMOND!
The world shattered. Raymond lurched awake, the apartment and the man in the trilby vanishing into the ether, it was a dream. He was panting, his lungs burning as he scanned his surroundings. This wasn't his apartment. Reality set in with the bite of cold hemp. He was lashed to a wooden chair, his hands bound tightly behind his back. Beside him, Jubril was in the same state, a dark bruise blooming on his forehead as he struggled against his own restraints.
JUBRIL: (Strained and urgent) Thank God you're awake. Now, think. We need to get out of here. Starting with the chairs...
RAYMOND: (Disoriented) Where are we?
JUBRIL: Her house.
RAYMOND: (His voice rising in confusion) Who?
JUBRIL: (Giving him a hard look) Dinah. Dinah Harari. Your wife. She's no longer a Kuti. Now, stop panicking and help me figure out how to break these ties.
RAYMOND: (Sobering, his voice hollow) For God's sake, Jubril... I'm single.
JUBRIL: (Busy grunting against the ropes) Well... the truth is... you're not.
Raymond's eyes drifted to the side, catching on a framed photograph hanging on the wall. He froze. In the picture, a version of himself was smiling brightly, kissing the cheek of a Jewish woman. The image felt like a slap.
In a sudden, frantic surge of adrenaline, Raymond twisted. His center of gravity shifted, and the small chair groaned under the sudden movement. It tipped backward, crashing into the floor with a violent splintering of wood. The frame shattered, and the ropes slackened. Raymond scrambled to his feet, free. But instead of reaching for Jubril, a cold, selfish panic took hold. Without a backward glance, he bolted for the exit, abandoning him to the shadows.
JUBRIL: Don't go na! Hey! HEY!
An hour later, Raymond reached his own apartment building. He leaned against the hallway wall, gasping for air, his chest heaving with the exertion of his flight. Relief began to wash over him, only to be cut short by a chilling sight: his front door was ajar.
The lock had been forced.
Frowning, he stepped cautiously into the foyer. He moved through the rooms like a ghost, scanning every corner. Everything looked tidy, yet there was a lingering wrongness, a scent, a slight shift in the air, that proved an intruder had been there. Sudennly…
TTRLIIINNN!....
The cello strings snapped away from one another, jolting Raymond's heart with a sudden shock. Trembling, Raymond reaches for his phone and dialed the emergency line.
OPERATOR: (Through the receiver) Hello, this is the Emergency Communications Centre. What is your emergency?
RAYMOND: (Anxious, hushed) I'd like to report an aggravated burglary. Someone broke into my home. I... I have a suspect.
OPERATOR:Okay? Can you describe the suspect?
RAYMOND: His name is Jubril. He's dark-skinned, average height, muscular…
A sharp, rhythmic sound cut him off.
KNOCK! KNOCK!!
Raymond ended the call abruptly. He approached the door, his skin crawling with an intense, icy fear.
RAYMOND: (Tentatively) Who's there?
Silence followed. Then, slowly, he turned the handle and pulled the door open.
ṢEUN: (Intense) Looks like we're a bit earlier than the emergency.
Before Raymond could speak, the cold muzzle of a handgun was pressed firmly against his chest. Two men stood in the hallway, Detectives Ṣeun Aristotle and Gerald Tumbuktu. Both wore expressions of deep, professional suspicion. Tumbuktu kept the weapon leveled at Raymond's heart, while Ṣeun stepped past him, his eyes already dissecting the apartment.
RAYMOND: (Gasping, chest heaving) Officer... I don't know if you even have a warrant, but you've got the wrong person. You're making a mistake.
While Tumbuktu kept the muzzle of the weapon pinned to Raymond's sternum, Ṣeun moved through the bedroom with the methodical grace of a predator. He bypassed the obvious clutter, his hand clad in sterile latex rifling through the deeper recesses of the wardrobe.
From the shadows of the closet, he pulled something out. It was a red theatrical mask. It bore an unsettling, fixed grin that seemed to mock the very air in the room. Ṣeun held it up with a look of professional triumph. Tumbuktu leaned in, his grip on the gun tightening as the gravity of the find settled between them.
ṢEUN: (In a calm, chillingly level tone) It's Detective. I do have a warrant and I have exactly the right person.
He turned the mask toward Raymond. The sight of it sent a violent shiver down Raymond's spine; the crimson paint looked like dried blood under the flickering hallway light. As Tumbuktu reached for the heavy steel handcuffs at his belt, Raymond began to shake his head frantically.
RAYMOND: (Voice cracking) Trust…trust me, that was planted, someone broke in. I've never seen that thing in my life!
The metallic clack-clack of the handcuffs locking into place echoed through the apartment like a closing tomb.
ṢEUN: (With a sharp, sarcastic chuckle) Of course. I believe you, sir. Mr. Raymond Raven Kuti, you are under arrest for multiple murders—at least the ones we know of. You are advised to remain silent, because anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one... (He gestures vaguely toward the window) ...look up to the sky and see if one is flying by.
RAYMOND: (A sob breaking through his confusion) For God's sake, I'm the victim here! Can't you see that?
The air was suddenly sucked out of the room by a sharp, violent motion.
VUUG!
Without a word of warning, Tumbuktu lunged forward, delivering a brutal headbutt directly to the bridge of Raymond's nose. His nose bleeds as he's slightly unconscious. They all hopped into the convoy and drove to the police station.
The passage of time became a blur of sirens and throbbing pain.
FLING-THUD!
The heavy door to the interrogation room swung shut with a metallic finality. Raymond was slammed into a cold metal chair by a tall, ebony-skinned officer whose deep-set frown seemed to broadcast a personal brand of injustice. Without a word, the man shackled Raymond's wrists to the iron loop on the table and vanished.
Left alone, Raymond leaned his head back, the agony of his broken nose radiating through his skull in sharp, rhythmic pulses. He found himself staring at the one-way mirror window opposite him. As he watched, the glass seemed to distort his own reflection began to distort, the image swirled and pulled towards the left, the tinted layer glass was pourly made. He squinted, his mind racing to decide if it was the concussion or something far more sinister.
Meanwhile, Ṣeun was riding a wave of professional adrenaline. Convinced he had finally cornered his white whale, he marched through the precinct toward the General Officer of the Detective Department. The station was a cacophony of ringing phones, shouting officers, and the frantic rustle of paperwork. He found her, Veronica, submerged in a sea of case files, her eyes darting across pages with practiced intensity.
Ṣeun cut through the chaos, pulling up in front of her desk with the suddenness of a car slamming on its brakes. A victorious smile played on his lips. She didn't even look up.
VERONICA: (Carelessly) One of the boring cases again, right?
ṢEUN: (Smiling) Unless it proves you wrong.
VERONICA: (Nonchalant) I couldn't care less, Ṣeun.
ṢEUN: (With a hint of expected disappointment) Just listen for a second.
Veronica stood, gathering her files and moving away from him with a weary sigh.
VERONICA: (Fed up) Oh my God, Ṣeun, get a life. Chase elite cases, not fairytales.
ṢEUN: I found him. The Wordsmith... I found him.
Veronica stopped in her tracks, letting out a sharp, mocking bark of a laugh.
VERONICA: (With mockery) Oh? Really?
ṢEUN: Yeah. I'm close. I'm this close. I've got a prime suspect in custody.
VERONICA: (Smirking) Oh, baby, you're going to have to do a lot better than that to get my attention.
ṢEUN: Come on, Vero...
VERONICA: Look, if you've got him, put him behind bars until his final sentence for all I care. Why are you even telling me this?
ṢEUN: Well, he's just a suspect for now. I need to interrogate him... Please?
They locked eyes for a long, silent moment. Veronica searched his face for the usual signs of his obsession, but eventually, she gave a sharp, dismissive wave of her hand.
VERONICA: Fine. It's your case, you can do your interrogation, as long as it keeps you away from me for the rest of the day.
ṢEUN: (With a sigh of relief) Thanks.
VERONICA:Anyway, a word of advice: stop arresting respected civilians for no reason. It's disturbing.
He began to walk away, his confidence restored, looking back over his shoulder with a grin.
ṢEUN: (Smiling) You know, that's why I love you, Vero. You're the most sweetly annoying person I've ever known.
VERONICA: (With a look of irritation) That's disgusting.
Ṣeun's footsteps echoed down the sterile hallway until he reached the observation room. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and unspoken tension. Tumbuktu stood at the one-way glass, his silhouette motionless, eyes locked onto Raymond like a hawk watching its prey. Nearby, another detective—Doyle Edevbie, recently transferred from Delta State—sat hunched over a steaming mug. He took a slow, methodical sip before glancing up at Ṣeun.
DOYLE: (In a low, gravelly voice) Does he get a lawyer?
ṢEUN: We don't know that yet.
Ṣeun turned his attention to Tumbuktu, his eyes bright with a spark of nervous excitement.
ṢEUN: (Slightly breathless) I just saw Vero. She's granted me the interrogation. As for you... just try to be nice.
Tumbuktu finally shifted his head, his gaze momentarily breaking from the glass to meet Ṣeun's. He gave a single, slow nod of grim assurance.
As the Night fell, the heavy door groaned on its hinges. Ṣeun was now inside the interrogation room, pacing the length of the floor with a pensive energy. He was psyching himself up, his mind cataloging questions and bait. In the corner, draped in a pocket of deep shadow, Tumbuktu stood like a statue, his presence a silent threat.
Raymond, surprisingly, medical services attended to him, his nose has been patched, and didn't look like a man broken by a headbutt. He sat slumped in his chair, his eyes fixed on Tumbuktu's darkened corner, and began to whistle a soft, airy tune. The melody was "Daydream in Blue" by I Monster. The whimsical sound felt jagged and wrong against the backdrop of the bleak, gray walls.
ṢEUN: (Stopping his pace, an assured look on his face) Daydream in Blue...
RAYMOND: (Giving a slight, almost shy shrug) It's my favorite song, actually.
ṢEUN: (Dripping with sarcasm) Yeah, mine too. Like that matters right now.
Tumbuktu let out a heavy, audible breath, his expression twisting into one of pure, exhausted frustration. The levity of the moment was clearly grating on his nerves. Raymond's face suddenly hardened, the shyness vanishing as he leaned toward the light.
RAYMOND: (Serious) Anyway... why am I here?
ṢEUN: You know, your reaction to the arrest earlier... if it was an act, you'd be an Oscar winner.
RAYMOND: It wasn't an act. I haven't done anything wrong. I'm not a murderer—I barely have the heart to kill the roaches in my kitchen.
ṢEUN: (Nodding with heavy sarcasm) Right. Convincing. Everyone "barely kills roaches" until the bodies start piling up.
The room fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Tumbuktu stepped forward, his shadow looming over the table. His eyes were hardened into flint, and when he spoke, his voice was a tectonic baritone that vibrated through the metal floor.
TUMBUKTU: (With cold intensity) If you aren't a murderer... then I'm the bloody Queen of England.
He bored his gaze into Raymond's soul. Raymond shrunk back, his breath hitching in his throat as the air in the room seemed to thin under Tumbuktu's stare. Ṣeun finally broke the tension, leaning back with an affected air of casualness.
ṢEUN: Anyway, Mr. Raymond Raven Kuti... or should I call you Raven?
RAYMOND: Ray. Ray would be better.
ṢEUN: Okay, Ray. You know what's funny? I did a little background check on you. Your history is a bit of a blank slate, isn't it? It all seems to start with a coma.
RAYMOND: (Exasperated) How does having medical emergencies prove I'm a killer?
ṢEUN: (Leaning in) You woke up with a convenient case of amnesia.
RAYMOND: (Fed-up) My God...
ṢEUN: (Suspiciously) Haven't you ever been bothered by the void? Doesn't your past life haunt you? Don't you want to know who you were before the lights went out?
RAYMOND: (Voice trembling) Why should it? Why can't I just move on and let the past stay buried? I don't understand why we're talking about my medical history. Why aren't we talking about the fact that someone broke into my home?
ṢEUN: Oh, we did. We did that.
RAYMOND: (Stunned) What?
ṢEUN: We were there. Earlier. Before you ran inside. We saw your place.
RAYMOND: (Stammering, his annoyance rising) I... I have rights! You can't just…
Ṣeun silenced him with a look. He sat directly across from Raymond and pulled a thick manila folder from his bag. Stamped across the front in bold, red ink were the words: WORDSMITH: HIGHLY CLASSIFIED. He began to lay out a series of photographs and grainy CCTV stills. They all depicted the same haunting figure: a tall, slim man dressed in a sharp corporate suit beneath a long black leather jacket. He wore a Mossley felt trilby hat, but it was the face that made Raymond's blood turn to ice—a red theatrical mask with a wide, eerie grin.
ṢEUN: (In a low, steady voice) We found a mask in your apartment, Ray. It's an exact match for the one worn by this entity. He's a ghost, responsible for a string of bizarre, high-profile suicides across Nigeria—maybe the world. Our investigation shows he's provoked notorious ganglords in the Semitic lands and intercepted classified military munitions. He's funding something he calls 'The New World Order.' He's trying to spark a global war, Ray.
Ṣeun slid the final photo across the table. It was a terrifying shot of the masked figure crawling up a wall, emerging from a pitch-black corner like a human spider.
RAYMOND: (His eyes glistening with pure terror) My God...
ṢEUN: (Watching him closely) Ray, in all the time since you left the hospital... did you never bother to do a deep clean of your apartment?
RAYMOND: (Voice small) It's a big place. I... I get lazy all the time.
ṢEUN: (Disappointed) Boring.
RAYMOND: (Frustrated) It's the truth! What do you want me to say?
ṢEUN: We searched your place top to bottom. We didn't find the suit or the jacket... but we found that mask. Isn't that disturbing?
RAYMOND: (Fed up) Yes! It's all disturbing! The pictures, the mask, all of it! But I don't know what you're trying to say. I'm not a murderer. Everything you just described... (He lets out a dry, nervous chuckle) ...it's like a movie. Me? I'm boring. I'm weird. I don't have friends, let alone a "movement." This isn't me.
ṢEUN: (With a slow, predatory smile) I never said it was you.
He leaned back, his eyes never leaving Raymond's.
ṢEUN: Let's just calm down for a second, shall we?
RAYMOND: I'd like that.
ṢEUN: (After a long silence) Ray... do you ever have dreams?
RAYMOND: What?
ṢEUN: Bizarre dreams. Things you can't explain.
RAYMOND: I have a lot of bizarre dreams. Too many to count. You wouldn't understand.
Tumbuktu stepped out of the shadows, his interest visibly piqued.
ṢEUN: (Inquisitively) Humour me.
RAYMOND: (Thoughtfully, his gaze drifting) I had this one... I was standing on top of a dusty building, somewhere in the Urban Emirates. The Middle East, maybe. And there was this female mercenary, Indian, I think. She looked me right in the eye and shot me. Right in the head. (He shudders) You know, I don't want to talk about this. It's too eerie when I remember…
ṢEUN: (Accepting) Fair enough. Enough about the dreams.
RAYMOND: Yeah. It's not relevant. But... there was this one dream…
Suddenly, Raymond's face went slack. A look of sudden, horrific realization washed over him, turning his skin ashen. Ṣeun and Tumbuktu leaned in simultaneously, sensing the shift. Raymond's hand shook as he pointed a trembling finger at the masked figure in the file.
RAYMOND: (Voice thick with dread) Oh my God... the man from the phone…
Ṣeun leaned in, the shadows of the room deepening as he closed the distance between them. His eyes were sharp, probing for the truth behind Raymond's sudden terror.
ṢEUN: (Suspiciously) What man? What phone are you talking about, Ray?
Before Raymond could answer, the atmosphere in the station curdled. The muffled sounds of bureaucracy were replaced by the sharp, rhythmic crack of gunfire. Maniacal wails from the holding cells tore through the air, mixing with the sudden, frantic shouting of officers. Ṣeun and Tumbuktu exchanged a look of grim realization.
ṢEUN: (Intense) What the hell is happening out there?
Tumbuktu didn't wait for an answer. He drew his sidearm with practiced ease and moved toward the door. Ṣeun glanced back at Raymond, his expression a mix of duty and lingering curiosity.
ṢEUN: Don't move. I'll be right back.
RAYMOND: (Voice rising in panic) Stop! Wait! You can't just leave me here! (He began jerking his wrists against the metal table, the handcuffs clattering violently) WAIT!
FLING-THUD!
The heavy door slammed shut, locking Raymond in a tomb of gray concrete. He was blind to the world outside, left only with the terrifying soundtrack of a massacre.
In the hallways, Ṣeun and Tumbuktu moved with cautious, tactical precision. The scene was a nightmare; the floor was slick with the blood of fallen officers caught in the initial crossfire. Flickering fluorescent lights cast long, twitching shadows as an armed police squad moved forward behind ballistic shields, their boots crunching on broken glass. They aimed their weapons toward the black void at the end of the corridor.
Suddenly, a huge figure emerged from the darkness. It was Heyes Tochukwu—the man from the cemetery. He stood hooded and silent, a loaded AK-74u gripped in each hand. The lights killed over.
GIGIGIGIGIGIGGG!!!
Muzzle flashes strobed through the hallway, a chaotic lightning storm in the dark. The sound was deafening, a wall of lead tearing through the air. Ṣeun and Tumbuktu dived to go look for their fellow co-detectives for cover. Wails of agony echoed from the squad as they were cut down. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the firing ceased.
When the lights flickered back to life, Heyes was standing atop a pile of groaning, broken men. He stepped over them, his gaze fixed on the interrogation room.
VUUGD!
In a blur of motion, a female fighter in tactical gear burst into the hallway. She moved with the lethal grace of an acrobat, her body hurtling through the air in slow-motion before her knee connected squarely with Heyes' cheek. She landed in a low, predatory crouch.
Heyes didn't fall. He simply cranked his neck, a sickening series of pops echoing through the corridor, and turned his brutal gaze toward her. The fight that followed was feral. The woman moved like a ballerina, delivering professional kicks and blows, but Heyes fought like a beast. They crashed against the walls, biting, clawing, and drawing blood. Bone-deep scratches marked their skin; bloody saliva sprayed the floor. Finally, the woman grabbed a stray wire, looping it around Heyes' throat and pulling with every ounce of her strength until his struggling stopped and he slumped into unconsciousness.
She collapsed on top of him, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. Inside the interrogation room, Raymond sat in the dark, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He heard footsteps heavy, staggering footsteps approaching his door. His eyes widened, fixed on the handle.
The door creaked open. Standing there was the female fighter, bruised and bloodied. She pulled back her hood, revealing the striking features of Dinah Harari. Despite the grime and the scowl, her Jewish beauty remained radiant.
RAYMOND: (Staring, mesmerized and terrified) Hello…
He felt a strange, conflicting sense of safety in her presence, even as the coldness in her eyes chilled him.
DINAH: (Coldly) Don't you ever stay away from me again.
Raymond opened his mouth to protest, but Dinah was already moving. She crossed the room in two swift strides and leveled her gun at his hands.
RAYMOND: (Screaming) No! No, please!
TUUDH!
The gunshot was blinding. The bullet struck the center of the handcuffs, shattering the mechanism and sending sparks flying. Raymond's hands were free, but before he could even breathe, Dinah leveled the gun at his chest.
DINAH: (Hard) Follow me. Now.
TO BE CONTINUED…