Several hours earlier
The faux evening sky was a wash of warm orange and brilliant pink, with fluffy, perfect clouds billowing above New Lekki. Below the titanic cavern roof, the city hummed with the frantic energy of millions living out their lives in a world without a horizon.
A sleek transport truck hissed past a young woman with a crown of fluffy black hair and caramel skin. Amina nervously straightened her gray sweater—a nervous twitch—over her checked skirt and black leggings. She paced the parking lot of the Archives, a towering monolith of glass and steel that served as the city's central nervous system for research.
"Come on, Jinbei, I need those files by tomorrow. What is taking you so long?"
Amina's gaze was fixed on a holographic video call. The young man on the other end had a voice tight with suppressed stress.
"I am so sorry, Miss Osunsola. Please, the report on the Red Panda will be available soon."
Amina pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a sharp groan. "Why couldn't the Core let you people take care of your own fauna? I'm already trying to revive half a dozen extinct species here in the African sector. The strain is too much, and frankly, my pay is an insult."
Jinbei gave her a curt, deeply respectful bow and whispered with a heavily accented voice. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am."
Amina rolled her eyes, her irritation softening. It wasn't the man's fault; it was the suffocating bureaucracy of their higher-ups. 'What a bothersome bunch.' "It's okay, Jinbei. Just don't keep me waiting."
The man brightened. "Thank you, Black Sparrow. I won't let you down."
The call flickered and died. Amina sighed, the silence of the parking lot rushing back in. 'Black Sparrow.' It was the codename the Core had given her after she successfully spearheaded the revitalization of the common House Sparrow.
Amina worked for the Core, the globally unified firm that had governed humanity since the retreat underground. Her father had been a titan within the firm before he passed, amassing a fortune from the very invention that made subterranean life possible: the atmospheric stabilizers.
Amina was pulled from her thoughts by a shift in the air—a subtle change in pressure and sound that the average person wouldn't notice. But Amina wasn't average.
She stiffened as a group approached.
"M-Mrs. Belo. Good evening, ma," Amina said, quickly dropping to her knees in a gesture of respect ingrained in her since childhood.
The elderly woman was clad in a stiff, charcoal-gray Core uniform and an impeccably tied Gele headpiece that looked as sharp as a blade. She gave Amina a curt nod, raising a hand to signal Amina to rise. With a flick of her fingers, her bodyguards retreated to a calculated distance, their hands hovering near their sidearms.
Mrs. Belo gave Amina a stern, icy look. "Amina. The Core expects these reports by the end of the week."
Amina's eyes widened as she was handed a stack of dense folders. Her stomach dropped as she scanned the labels.
"Blue Heron. Bengal Tiger. Asian Elephant… Ma, these are… this is impossible. To get these metrics, I'd need clearance for the Asian Sector's deep archives. It can't be done in a week."
Mrs. Belo raised a thin, groomed eyebrow. "I am aware of your incompetence, Amina. You are not the only one surprised that the Core would entrust such a delicate task to a delinquent. Your father was a prodigy who advanced humanity further than any man in history. You will have to work significantly harder to even invite a comparison."
The woman took a breath, her voice dripping with patronizing disdain. "Still, I doubt you would get it done by the end of the month."
Amina looked at the pavement, her jaw tight as she fought back a surge of heat. "I won't disappoint you, ma."
"You better not." Mrs. Belo turned, her guards sweeping her toward a sleek vehicle that sped off, leaving nothing behind but the sharp, ionized smell of ozone.
Amina exhaled a shaky breath. 'I hate that woman.'
Why was it always a comparison? Her father had been a good man, but he was gone—killed in a "laboratory accident" when she was fifteen. Ten years later, the wound was still a jagged mess of resentment and grief. She wasn't angry at him; she was angry at the silence he left behind.
They had been on shaky terms when he died. A week before the accident, he had forced her into a surgery she never asked for. He had secretly planted the Psychic-Implant at the base of her neck, claiming it was for her "protection."
The device had caused nothing but strife. Her uncle had warned her father that the tech was too dangerous for a young girl, and when her father refused to listen, her uncle simply walked away.
Amina kicked a pebble, watching it skitter across the composite lot. She was grudgingly grateful for the gift now—it felt like a piece of him lived inside her nerves—but the memory of his final days haunted her. He had been restless, pacing their living room and muttering to himself: "This is bad. There's not much time."
And then, the accident.
"Accident, my foot," Amina whispered. She knew he was murdered. She just didn't know the who or the why.
Wincing, she touched the back of her neck. Whenever she thought too deeply, the device passively hummed, overclocking her cognition. Whenever she traced the logic of her father's death, her intuition—amplified by the hardware—screamed the same thing: 'Assassination.'
"How tedious," she sighed. She had a lead on the killer, but first, she had to survive the current workload. "Ughh."
She sensed a much softer presence approaching—a familiar, rhythmic footfall. A woman with vibrant red braids and eyebrows and chocolate skin that glowed like gold in the artificial sunset stepped into view.
"Amina. Hafa?" Bola asked, brushing a stray braid from her face. She was a medic at the Archives, her emerald eyes filled with a calm that Amina envied.
"Bola, I'm tired," Amina confessed. "They're choking me up. The timeframe is a joke."
Bola patted her shoulder. "It must be hard, being the daughter of a legend."
Amina pursed her lips. They stared at each other for a long, exaggerated beat, the tension thick enough to cut, before both women burst into laughter.
"Don't worry, Bola. They think I can't do it? I'll have it done in a week. Watch me."
"That's the spirit," Bola chuckled. "Being an overachiever, you could probably do it in three days."
Amina gave her a side-eye. "Let's not get crazy. But a week? Consider it done."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the autonomous traffic zip by.
"Hey," Bola said, flipping her hair smugly. "Let's go for dinner. My treat."
Amina beamed. "I'm in. I'll call Timi."
Later that evening, the three of them were tucked into a corner booth of a bustling restaurant. Timi, a woman with a generous figure and neat cornrows, stared at Amina with pure judgment.
"I don't get why you're using a fork to eat rice, Amina. What a waste of time. Might as well use a chewing stick."
Amina stuffed another spoonful - or forkful - into her mouth. "Ugh, leave me alone, Timi. People use sticks to eat rice all the time. They're called chopsticks."
Timi shook her head, a pretty smile lighting up her face. "You're so weird."
Bola scooped up a mouthful of her own meal. "Let her be. She be agebo(spoiled) girl. "
Amina groaned. "You chattering monkeys. Can't a girl eat in peace?"
Timi's laughter was cut short by her phone buzzing. She beamed at the screen. "Babe."
On the screen, a handsome, bald man returned the smile. His deep voice was so resonant it seemed to vibrate Amina's glass cup. "How was your day, Timi?"
"It was okay, Ben. How was yours?"
Amina and Bola shared a look and went back to their food, letting the lovebirds have their moment. Amina noticed Bola was unusually focused on her plate—usually, she was the one scanning the room. Amina made a mental note to tease her about it later.
Hours later, the Illuminator had shifted to a cool, bluish twilight. In the quiet of her office, the only sound was the furious clicking of keys. Amina's face was slick with sweat from the mental exertion, the Implant at her neck humming with a low-frequency heat.
"Just a few more…. and… DONE!"
She leaned back, her spine popping. She had finished the Core report. She had beaten their "impossible" deadline.
But she didn't rest. She had a far more dangerous task to perform, one she had been planning for months. She wasn't just a researcher tonight. She was a ghost.
Amina began to type again, her fingers dancing over a different set of protocols. Tonight, she was hacking the Core's deepest database. Tonight, she was going to find out who killed her father.
And if she got caught, she'd be joining him before sunrise.