Dami didn't look back.
Badland punished hesitation, and tonight hesitation meant death.
His shoes slapped against flooded pavement as he tore through the alley, the backpack bouncing hard against his spine. The sound of gunfire echoed behind him—sharp, controlled bursts. Not random shooting. These men knew how to kill without wasting bullets.
He vaulted over a pile of broken crates and landed hard, pain flaring up his ankle. He ignored it. Pain was temporary. Dying was permanent.
Ahead, the alley split into two. Left led toward the main road—lights, traffic, witnesses. Right led deeper into the maze of abandoned buildings locals avoided after dark.
Dami chose right.
He cut sharply, shoulder-checking a rusted door as he passed. The door burst inward, and he stumbled into darkness, rolling across a concrete floor just as bullets tore through the doorway behind him.
He scrambled up, heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.
The place smelled of dust, oil, and old blood.
A warehouse. Empty. Or so it seemed.
Footsteps approached—slow, deliberate.
"Dami Cole," a calm voice called out. "You're fast. I'll give you that."
Dami clenched his fists. They knew his name.
He moved deeper into the shadows, pulling the backpack off his shoulders and opening it with shaking hands. Inside was a metal case, smaller than he expected. No markings. Heavy.
Whatever was in it wasn't drugs.
He snapped the bag shut and edged toward a side exit.
"Drop the bag," the voice said again, closer now. "This doesn't have to end ugly."
Dami laughed quietly, a bitter sound. "You already brought guns. It's ugly."
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping the floor.
Dami grabbed a loose metal pipe from the ground, gripping it tight.
The light found him.
The man stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black tactical gear. No mask. Calm eyes. The kind of eyes that had seen death too many times to fear it.
Behind him, two more men fanned out.
"You picked up something that doesn't belong to you," the man said. "Hand it over, and you walk away."
Dami tightened his grip on the pipe. "Funny. The guy who gave it to me said the same thing."
The man smiled slightly. "Then he lied."
The gun came up.
Dami moved.
He hurled the pipe with everything he had. It smashed into the flashlight, shattering it. Darkness swallowed the room.
Gunshots exploded.
Concrete chips tore into Dami's arm as he dove behind a pillar. He rolled, sprinted, slid across the floor, and burst through a side door into the open air.
Fresh rain hit his face.
He ran again.
Sirens wailed somewhere far away, but Dami knew better than to hope. In Badland, sirens didn't mean help. They meant more danger.
He cut through backstreets, hopping fences, dodging sleeping generators and trash fires. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. Still, he ran.
Finally, he ducked into a crowded roadside bar, music blasting loud enough to shake the walls. Drunk laughter, shouting, the smell of sweat and alcohol.
Perfect cover.
Dami pushed through the crowd and collapsed into a chair, forcing himself to breathe normally. He slid the backpack beneath the table with his foot.
A TV above the bar flickered with news.
"…sources say a violent exchange occurred near Surulere Industrial Area. Authorities deny involvement…"
Dami stared at the screen.
They were already cleaning it up.
A waitress stopped beside him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Something like that," he muttered.
She leaned closer. "You should leave. Men with guns just passed outside."
Dami's blood ran cold.
"How many?" he asked.
"Too many."
He stood slowly, heart sinking. Badland didn't let you hide for long.
He slipped out the back door and froze.
A black SUV idled in the alley.
The window rolled down.
A woman sat inside, calm, composed, eyes sharp.
"Get in," she said.
Dami backed away. "I don't know you."
She smirked. "You don't know anyone tonight. But if you stay here, you die."
The SUV's headlights flared as another vehicle turned into the alley behind him.
Dami made his choice.
He yanked open the door and jumped in.
The SUV sped off, tires screeching.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the woman glanced at the backpack. "You shouldn't have picked that up."
Dami laughed weakly. "That makes two of us."
She took a sharp turn, losing the tailing car. "My name is Zara."
"Dami."
"I know."
Of course she did.
"Who are they?" he asked.
Zara's jaw tightened. "Men who erase problems."
"And what am I?"
She met his eyes. "A very expensive mistake."
The city lights blurred past them as Badland stretched endlessly ahead—dark, merciless, alive.
Dami leaned back, exhausted.
Whatever was in that bag had turned his life into a war zone.
And something told him this was only the beginning.