UNIBEN CRIME OFFICE — 3 Weeks Later
The cell was cold.
Ruese lay on the bench where he had collapsed, his body motionless, his chest barely rising. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. He hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken. He hadn't opened his eyes.
But he was alive.
The officers gathered outside the cell, their voices low, their faces tight.
"Five doctors," one of them said. "Five. And none of them can explain it."
"Maybe he's just... waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
The first officer—an older man, grey at the temples, tired eyes—looked through the small window in the cell door.
"Something bad," he said. "That boy is an evil incarnate. We should pray that he dies in his sleep."
The second officer shifted uncomfortably. "You can't say things like that."
"I can say what I see. And I see evil."
A door opened down the hall. Footsteps. A fifth doctor, this one younger, thinner, with nervous hands and a bag that looked too heavy for him. Two officers flanked him, their guns drawn, their eyes alert.
"Doc A," the grey officer said. "You're late."
"Hold up sir."
"He's not going anywhere. Hasn't moved in three weeks."
"Then why the guns?"
The grey officer looked at him.
"Because when he wakes up, I don't want to be unprepared."
Doc A swallowed. Then he opened the cell door.
The smell was wrong.
Not decay. Not sweat. Something else—something hot, like metal left too long in the sun. Doc A stepped inside, his bag in one hand, his flashlight in the other.
The officers stayed by the door, guns raised.
Ruese lay on the bench. Still. Silent.
Doc A approached slowly, his flashlight beam sweeping across the body. He checked the pulse. Nothing. He checked again. There. Faint. Irregular. But there.
He checked the pupils. Dilated. Unresponsive.
He checked the chest. Rising. Falling.
He checked the temperature—
He pulled his hand back.
"His skin is cold," he said.
"That's impossible," one of the officers said. "It's roasting in here."
Doc A looked at his hand.
His palm was red. Blistered. Burning.
"Doc A—your hand—"
He turned.
Ruese was sitting up.
But it wasn't Ruese.
His eyes were wrong—darker, deeper, like looking into a furnace. His afro moved, not with air, with heat. The air around him shimmered. The bench beneath him blackened.
When he spoke, his voice wasn't his own.
It was older. Colder. The voice of something that had been burning for centuries.
"I give you one second move."
Doc A moved.
He stumbled backward, crashed into the officers, fell through the door. His hand was smoking now, the skin peeling, the flesh beneath glowing.
Ruese stood.
His shirt ripped as he rose—not from strain, from heat. The fabric charred, crumbled, fell away. He stood in black boxers, his lean athletic frame revealed, his dark skin marked with patterns that hadn't been there before—lines like cracks in cooling lava, pulsing faintly orange.
His afro flowed.
Not like hair. Like flame.
"Freeze!" The officers raised their guns. "Don't move!"
Ruese smiled.
"You hold your heads too high."
One officer dropped.
Not slowly. Not reluctantly. His knees hit the concrete floor with a crack instantly, his head bowed, his hands flat on the ground. He was weeping.
The others held their ground—barely. Their guns shook. Their faces were pale.
One of them—the youngest, the most afraid—looked at his gun. Looked at Ruese. Looked at his gun again.
He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The body fell.
Ruese didn't flinch.
"Very disrespectful," he said, "not to kneel in the presence of the Emperor of Furnace."
The remaining officers burst into flames.
Not slowly. Not painfully. Instantly. Their bodies roasted where they stood, their screams cut short, their guns clattering to the floor.
Only the kneeling officer remained.
Ruese walked toward him, his bare feet leaving scorch marks on the concrete.
"Stand."
The officer stood. His pants were wet. He had pissed himself. He was crying.
"I've been told to kill you," Ruese said. "For the disrespect you showed toward Ruese."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I have money—I can pay you—I can—"
Ruese's face darkened.
"Do you think we care about your measly bribed money?"
The officer opened his mouth—
He burned.
The flames didn't stop.
Ruese walked out of the cell, through the crime office, past the bodies, into the night.
Behind him, the building began to catch fire.
He didn't look back.
EKEHUAN ROAD, BENIN CITY— Some time after
The snake was massive.
Twenty feet of coiled muscle and gleaming scales, its eyes yellow, its fangs dripping with something that smoked when it hit the ground. An Ophidiophobia. The fear of snakes. Just hungry.
David stood fifty feet away, his sketchbook open, Pages 12 and 42 glowing green.
"Page 12," he said.
He reached in.
Himself.
Ten of him. Copies of David, rendered in perfect green ink—same height, same build, same tired eyes. They fanned out around the snake, surrounding it, confusing it.
The snake struck. The copy dissolved. Another took its place.
"Page 42."
He reached in again.
The elephant manifested first—massive, grey-green, its tusks gleaming. It opened its mouth and water poured out, a torrent, a flood, crashing into the snake, knocking it back, washing away its venom.
The eagle came second—wings spread, talons extended, diving from above. It caught the snake behind the head, lifted, slammed it into the ground.
David didn't wait.
He formed the technique—the one he had watched Tessy use. The spinning orb. Silver for her. Green for him.
It spun in his palm, dense and humming, pulling light from the air.
"Not bad," he said.
He moved.
The orb struck the snake's skull. The light detonated—not an explosion, a completion. The snake dissolved, its form unraveling, its yellow eyes fading.
Silence.
David released the elephant, the eagle, and the clones.
Page 12 and Page 42 went dark.
He exhaled.
"You're getting better."
Marcel leaned against the SUV, his arms crossed, a bottle of water in one hand and David's phone in the other.
"Yh it's almost like I've been training," David replied, taking the water.
"CJ has been calling you nonstop."
David checked his phone.
37 missed calls from CJ.
12 messages.
"CJ: Bro where are you"
"CJ: Call me now"
"CJ: It's urgent"
"CJ: DAVID"
"CJ: Old pharmacy faculty"
"CJ: Jane's here too"
"CJ: Now"
David sighed.
"It's CJ's birthday tomorrow. He's just trying to make me do an all-night countdown again."
"You sure?"
"Yes but i wonder why Jane's with him." He tossed the empty water bottle to Marcel. "Take me to the old pharmacy faculty."
"You said it wasn't urgent."
"It's not. But he won't stop calling until I show up."
Marcel shook his head and got in the driver's seat.
David climbed into the back.
The SUV pulled away.
Old Pharmacy Faculty — 45 Minutes Later
The building was dark.
Not night-dark. Wrong-dark. The kind of dark that pressed against your skin, that made you feel like you were being watched.
David stepped out of the SUV.
"Wait here," he said.
"David—"
"Wait here."
He walked toward the entrance.
The door was open.
The smell hit him first. Smoke. Burnt fabric. Burnt flesh.
He ran.
The hallway was destroyed. Walls blackened. Ceiling collapsed in places. The floor was wet—not with water, with something else. He didn't look down.
"CJ!"
No answer.
"JANE!"
No answer.
He found them in the main lecture hall.
The room was gutted. Fire had consumed everything—seats, desks, the podium, the projector. The windows were blown out. The walls were cracked.
And on the floor, in the center of it all—
CJ.
He was on his knees, his body burning, flames crawling up his arms, his chest, his face. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide. Alive. Still alive.
"CJ—"
David ran toward him.
Then he saw Jane.
She was on the floor, curled against the wall, her clothes singed, her skin burned, her face marked with soot and blood. Her eyes were closed. Her chest was moving—barely.
"JANE!"
He fell to his knees beside her. Checked her pulse. There. Faint. But there.
"David..."
CJ's voice. Barely a whisper.
David turned.
CJ's eyes met his.
" Happy early birthday to me..."
"Don't talk. I'm going to get you out—"
"I guess .." CJ coughed. Smoke poured from his mouth. "...this is the end."
The flames consumed him.
David watched.
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except watch his friend burn.
The fire didn't stop.
It spread.
David grabbed Jane—pulled her into his arms—and ran.
Behind him, the old pharmacy faculty collapsed.
Behind him, CJ's body turned to ash.
Behind him, Ruese's laugh echoed through the flames.
Outside
David laid Jane on the grass.
Her burns were severe. Her breathing was shallow. But she was alive.
Marcel ran toward them, his face pale.
"David—what happened—who did this—"
"Get her to the base, Eloghosa can help."
"He's out of the country for work"
"Who else can output healing then"
"Benjamin.. he's out of the country too"
"Please take her to the hospital"
David looked back at the burning building.
"I have to go back."
"David, you can't—"
"GO."
Marcel picked up Jane, carried her to the SUV, and drove away.
David stood alone, watching the flames.
His hands were shaking.
His green light was raging.
He didn't cry.
He couldn't.
The fire was still burning.
And somewhere in the flames, Ruese was waiting.