PORT HARCOURT — COVENANT BASE —
The building was nondescript. A warehouse converted into something else—offices upstairs, storage below, and in the back, a living space that smelled of old wood and new paint. The Covenant didn't do luxury. They did functional.
David sat on a couch, phone pressed to his ear.
"No, I'm not in Benin. I'm in Port Harcourt."
Israel's voice crackled through the speaker. "Port Harcourt? Since when?"
"Since a few hours ago. I think."
"You said you were taking a break."
"I lied."
Israel sighed. "Of course you did."
Across the room, Marcel sat in a armchair, reading his Bible. His lips moved silently. The pages were worn, soft from years of use. Ivie was at a small table, fork in hand, working through a bowl of noodles. Her sleeves were rolled up. The Monarch's Gauntlet was visible—gunmetal black, pale blue veins crawling up her forearm. She caught David looking.
"Do you need some knee pads," she said.
"What?."
"You look like you want to wash my feets."
"How does that even.. what the."
Ezra stood by the window, his phone to his ear. His voice was low, gentle—a tone David had never heard from him.
"Yes, I'll be there. I promised. Next weekend. Tell your mother."
A pause. A small laugh, barely audible.
"I love you too."
He hung up.
David stared. "Was that... your nephew?"
Ezra didn't answer at first. He slipped his phone into his pocket and turned to face them.
"Years ago," he said, "I put a seal on Ruth. To make her forget Joseph. To hide her from everyone. I faked her death."
The room went quiet. Ivie's fork stopped. Marcel looked up from his Bible.
"She wanted to forget," Ezra continued. "It was better that way. But recently, I've been feeling the seal weaken. I need to find her. Renew it. Make them invisible again. Let them live their normal lives."
"Them?" David asked.
"She has a daughter. Rachel."
David processed this. "And Joseph? Where is he?"
"In the base."
David blinked. "What?"
"He's been in the base for years. You've never seen him because he never leaves his room."
David opened his mouth. Ivie cut him off.
"Try to reduce the questions."
David closed his mouth.
Marcel closed his Bible and stood. "We have clothes," he said. "For the art gallery."
He pulled out garment bags—sleek, black, professional.
THE GALLERY OUTFITS
MARCEL
He dressed simply. A black turtleneck, tailored grey trousers, leather loafers. His hair was freshly picked. He looked like a curator. Like he belonged in the space.
Ivie
She emerged from the back room in a forest-green dress that fell just below her knees. The sleeves were long, flowing, deliberately loose—enough to hide the Monarch's Gauntlet. Her Ginger Pixie cut stunning as always. Small gold hoops in her ears. She looked like someone who had been beautiful for years and never bothered to notice.
David didn't stare.
He noticed.
David
Marcel had given him a navy blue blazer, a white shirt, dark jeans, and brown leather boots. Simple. Clean. The green headband stayed—he tucked it under his collar, hidden, just in case. He felt like himself. Just... a more polished version.
Ezra
Ezra wore a black suit. No tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone. His massive frame filled the jacket. He looked like a bodyguard. Or an assassin. Or both.
THE ART GALLERY — DELAROKE,PORT HARCOURT.
The building was beautiful.
White walls. Track lighting. A painting of a woman in a gele took up the far wall, her eyes following whoever walked past. Sculptures stood on pedestals—bronze, wood, stone—each one a conversation piece. The crowd was small but wealthy. Men in tailored suits. Women in gowns. Wine glasses in hand, voices low, laughter restrained.
Ruth stood near a sculpture of a mother and child.
She was older than Ezra's memory of her. Her hair was streaked with grey, pulled back in a low bun. She wore a simple black dress, no jewelry. Her eyes moved across the room, never settling.
Beside her, Rachel.
She was tall. 5'9". Slim build. Six cornrows laid back from her face. Dark skin. She wore a cream-colored dress, modest, elegant. She wasn't looking at the art. She was looking at the people. Searching.
Waiting.
SOMEWHERE ELSE
The convoy moved through Port Harcourt's evening traffic.
Three black SUVs. Tinted windows. Government plates. Inside the lead vehicle, Destiny sat in the passenger seat, his red glasses catching the streetlights. His white suit was immaculate. No wrinkles. No stains.
Behind him, three men and two women in identical white suits. Silent. Still.
"The gallery," Destiny said. "Drive."
The convoy accelerated.
THE GALLERY — MEANWHILE
Rachel felt something.
A pull. A whisper. Not in her ears—in her bones.
She turned away from the sculpture. Her mother was watching her.
"Are you alright?" Ruth asked.
"Fine." Rachel forced a smile. **"Just tired."
Behind them, a painting of a woman in a green dress stared down at no one.
The front door opened.