Timi stood up first, dusting the back of his trousers with a resigned sigh. Nila stayed seated a moment longer, legs stretched out and face turned up to the sky like she could inhale peace.
"So," she said. "What now? We camp here till tomorrow?"
Timi jerked his head toward the school gate. "We take danfo."
Nila blinked. "You're joking."
"Nope. Main bus stop's like ten minutes on foot. From there, we can find one going your way. Probably."
"Probably?" she narrowed her eyes.
"Unless the driver decides to branch into a spiritual crusade mid-route."
She groaned again, but stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "If I catch malaria, I'm blaming you."
"Ah ah. You'll survive. You've got upper-class immunity."
They slipped through the half-closed gate, past the bored security man already sipping a sachet of gin, and began walking down the road that ran parallel to the school's long fence. The sky was now a soft purple haze, dotted with streaks of burnt orange and early stars. The streets buzzed with life—hawkers selling boiled corn and suya, kids kicking empty bottles like footballs, an old woman roasting plantains under a flickering bulb.
The main bus stop wasn't a proper terminal, just a wide junction where the road from the estate met the expressway. The tar was cracked and dusty, laced with old sachet water wrappers, forgotten receipts, and the faint aroma of engine oil.
Parked at the edge of the road like a half-dead animal was the danfo.
A once-yellow Volkswagen T2, now a battered Frankenstein of metal and hope. The sliding door was permanently jammed halfway open, revealing torn brown leather seats, some of which were missing their backs entirely. The floor was bare metal, with patches of rust like open wounds. A small speaker dangled from the dashboard, vibrating with tinny Fuji music that drowned out the engine's cough.
The body of the bus was littered with stickers—"NO FOOD FOR LAZY MAN," "SIXNINE RULES," "OBEY BEFORE COMPLAIN," and the ever-present decal of a faded lion with sunglasses and a raised paw. One of the rear-view mirrors was held up with rubber bands. The front windshield had a thick crack, right across the face of a Jesus decal.
Nila stopped in front of it and blinked like someone confronting a wild animal. "That thing is moving?"
"Technically," Timi said, "so is a snail."
They had barely stepped forward when the conductor spotted them—shirtless, sweaty, with a cap turned backwards and slippers slapping the tar like threats.
"Fine geh! Ah!" he yelled, grinning broadly. "See as you fine like pepper soup with correct fish inside. Na angel be dis o! Come na, come enter make breeze touch that ya fine skin. No fear, we gentle!"
Timi tried not to laugh. He watched her reaction closely.
Nila froze at first, visibly startled. Then something changed in her face. She tucked her hair behind one ear and gave the conductor a sweet, patient smile—like a queen addressing a court jester.
"Na your bus be this?" she asked, her pidgin rusty but charming.
The conductor's eyes lit up like Christmas. "Na we dey run am, baby! I go put you for VIP seat! Front sit dey o, cool breeze, no shaking!"
She leaned a little toward the door. "Hope say the seat no go fall comot if breeze blow small?"
"Ah! No dey whine me, oyibo! Na only small lean e dey lean. No be fall. You dey safe with me, aje!"
Timi just stood there, mouth slightly ajar. Her skin glowed under the amber of a nearby streetlight—soft, golden, like something out of a high-end commercial. Her hair, long and dark, moved gently with the breeze like silk threads. There was a dimple in her cheek when she smiled like that. She didn't even realize how beautiful she looked when she was winging it. Or maybe she did, and that made it worse.
The conductor opened the door fully now, slapping the side of the bus like a loyal steed. "Enter sharp-sharp before another person carry ya seat!"
She turned to Timi with a raised brow. "Well? You coming or not?"
He blinked, then climbed in after her.
As the door clanged shut behind them with a noise that might've been a death rattle, the bus lurched forward into the evening—its passengers packed like sardines, the air warm and thick with body heat, engine smoke, and old perfume.
And yet, somehow, in the chaos of the rickety danfo, Timi found himself smiling.
This girl—this rich, foreign-schooled, scarf-wearing ambassador's daughter—was vibing with a half-naked conductor in pidgin, sitting on cracked leather like she'd done it her whole life.
He shook his head.
She was full of surprises.
He couldn't stop looking at her.
The soft glow of the streetlight flickered over her features like it, too, was pausing to admire her. Her skin— light, radiant— seemed to shimmer in the rusted danfo's dimness. That long, dark hair danced slightly in the breeze seeping through the window crack, catching hints of orange from the dying sun. Her lashes curled gently over eyes he knew could switch from fire to laughter in a second. She leaned her chin against the window frame, completely unaware of the way time bent around her in that moment.
Silence. Loud silence.
The air was cold, crisp. I was clad in black—heavy tactical gear strapped tight around me, a holster secured to my thigh, a matte-black earpiece crackling softly in my ear. My gloves creaked as I gripped the steering wheel of a roaring Lamborghini Aventador. The dashboard lit up in red and cobalt blue. And beside me—still so close I could feel her—was Nila.
But not just Nila.
Nila in a wedding dress.
The dress shimmered, silky white, hugging her figure like starlight clinging to a dream. Her bare shoulders glowed under the moonlight, and her veil fluttered like gossamer wings in the night air that poured in through the open windows.
My chest tightened.
The primary comm unit buzzed in my ear. Static, at first—then a voice. Familiar. Male. Muffled, distorted. But I knew that voice. Somewhere in my bones, I knew it.
"Tango… proceed to junction. Engage only if necessary."
I couldn't name the speaker, but I obeyed. Always did. My fingers gripped tighter on the wheel as I downshifted, engine snarling like a beast unchained.
The canyon roads bent and twisted before us like serpents, the wind screaming past. The dress whipped behind her, catching the moonlight as if she were made of it. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, unreadable. Beautiful. Unreachable.
And me? I couldn't look away.
The tires screeched against the asphalt as I descended from the canyon roads toward the main highway. The mountains faded behind us, swallowed by the void. Then—
BAM.
A blast of light. Blinding.
A semi-truck appeared at the intersection. Its headlights carved through the illusion, through the painted sky of this twisted, dreamy escape. It cut against everything—the mood, the silence, the sense of unreality.
"Nila…"
"Timi!"
He jerked upright.
We were back in the danfo. My mouth was dry. My pulse raced.
***
She was shaking my shoulder, eyes wide with concern. "You blanked out. We're here. It's time to get down."
He looked out the window. The bus had come to a shaky halt at a clean stop, mostly filled with the noise of other bus conductors shouting and passengers clambering out like they'd survived a small war.
He turned back to her—still beautiful. Still very much real.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Must've zoned out."
She gave him a half-smile and nudged her bag up her shoulder. "Come on, dreamy boy. Before this bus takes off again and we end up in Cotonou."
He nodded and followed her down, his sandals landing hard on the concrete. The road behind them shimmered wet with the memory of sunlight, now a distant illusion. Nila and Timi walked side by side, the chaos of the danfo ride still lingering on their skin like a layer of sweat and noise. The air, once thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and fried plantain from roadside stalls, had begun to shift—cooler, hungrier.
"So," Nila asked, brushing damp hair from her face, "where do you live?"
Timi looked ahead, toward the curve in the road where the buildings pressed closer together. "Not far. Maybe fifteen minutes if you walk slow. But," he added with a dry chuckle, "getting there with public transport is kind of a tax on the soul. And wallet."
She smiled faintly, though her steps had grown sluggish.
Above them, the sky was dying in color. The sunset, once a painter's dream of peach and gold, was now swallowed by an encroaching curtain of grey. Clouds gathered like witnesses. The air took on a hush—the quiet right before a scream.
The wind came.
Not playful, not passing. It came howling—shoving plastic bags down the road, bending trees like they were pleading. It raced past them, lifting the edges of Nila's scarf and whipping her long hair like a flag in surrender. Loose sand bit at their legs. The street, once alive with the murmurs of hawkers and commuters, began to clear, as if everyone else sensed what was coming.
Then the sky opened.
The rain fell not in drops but in sheets. Unrelenting, punishing. Each splash on the pavement sounded like a warning shot. The kind of rain that soaked you through before you had time to react.
"Run!" Timi shouted, grabbing Nila's hand instinctively.
They dashed across the street, their feet splashing through water that quickly turned into puddles, then into little streams. Her scarf flew off. She didn't stop. They turned into a side path, the gutters already beginning to choke on the sudden flood. Timi scanned the street wildly and spotted the dim outline of a security post across the road—a small cement box with a rusty zinc roof and two tired plastic chairs beside it.
"There!" he yelled, steering her toward it.
They dove under the overhanging eaves, panting, the cold biting through their wet uniforms. The metallic roof above clanged violently with every drop of rain, a frantic percussion that drowned out the rest of the world. The shelter smelled of old sweat, engine oil, and damp concrete. It wasn't much—but it was dry.
Nila leaned against the wall, her breath shallow. Her skin, light and flushed minutes ago, had gone pale. Her hands were trembling as she pressed them to her sides. Timi watched her carefully—there was a tiredness in her movements, a faltering rhythm he hadn't noticed before.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low.
"I'm fine," she whispered. "Just a little dizzy. It's nothing."
But the way her knees wobbled said otherwise. She was trying to hold it in, but her strength was slipping.
He stepped closer and slipped off his jacket—his soaked but slightly warmer school jacket—and wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn't protest. Her fingers clutched the fabric like it was the last warm thing in the world.
They stood like that for a moment, the sound of rain filling the silence between them. Nila looked up at him, eyes shining not from tears but from fever. For a second, there was something in her gaze—soft, vulnerable, trusting.
And then came the voice.
"Wetin una dey do for here?"
It cut through the storm like a blade.
Timi turned sharply.
From the shadows behind the post, shapes emerged. Five of them. Men, tall and broad-shouldered, their steps heavy with intent. Their faces were carved by streetlight and suspicion—lined with sweat and something darker. One wore a torn denim jacket over a bare chest. Another dragged a crowbar lazily against the wall. The leader wore a sleeveless shirt soaked through, revealing twisted tattoos crawling down his arms.
They looked like they belonged to the underbelly of Lagos, the part of the city that didn't sleep and never played fair.
One of them laughed under his breath. Another whistled low. Nila pressed closer to Timi, her body still weak, her breathing uneven.
"Na security post una think say be love garden?" the leader asked, stepping forward with a slow swagger. His eyes roamed lazily over Nila before settling on Timi.
Timi clenched his jaw.
This was getting uncomfortable. He knew.
He knew this kind of night. The kind that tests you. The kind that doesn't care about how tired you are or how pretty the girl beside you looks when she's sick. The kind where you either stand tall or disappear.
----
The rain fell like vengeance.
Timi stepped forward, arms slightly raised in a non-threatening gesture, his voice even despite the tension building in his chest.
"We're students. Greenfield International. Just trying to get out of the rain. She's not feeling too good—please, we're not looking for trouble."
The leader scoffed, shaking rain from his dreadlocks. "Greenfield? You dey use one yeye rich school dey buga for us abi?" His voice was smooth, laced with menace and mockery. He turned to his boys. "Una hear am? Dem think say dem dey inside one foreign film."
One of them, the shortest and stockiest, laughed. "Na so dem dey start. One small jacket, one oyibo girl… next thing na camera and lawy–"
"But sir—"
Before he could finish, a heavy fist struck Timi in the gut.
The air fled his lungs.
His knees buckled.
The punch hadn't come from the speaker, but from the silent one at the back—thick-necked, with hands like bricks. And he wasn't done.
Four of them surged forward, dragging Timi out into the open. Nila screamed and tried to follow, but the leader pushed her back under the zinc shade with a harsh glare.
Then the fists began to rain, in rhythm with the sky.
One struck his jaw. Another crushed into his ribs. A kick spun his head sideways, slamming him into the pavement. The water around him darkened as blood mixed with floodwater. His world spun. His ears rang. His skin screamed. He tried to breathe—failed.
Another kick. His head hit concrete.
Darkness.
From her place beneath the shelter, Nila screamed his name, but it was drowned beneath the thunder.
Then, in the silence between lightning and roar, Timi's body stirred.
One of the goons moved to kick him again—and that was the mistake.
Timi's hand snapped forward like a bear trap, locking around the man's leg.
"AHHH—!"
The man yelled, but it was too late. Timi twisted his leg, hard, until the pop of bone echoed through the rain.
Then, like something out of nightmare, he rose.
His face was drenched in blood—his own. One eye swollen, lip split, teeth gritted. But behind that battered mask, there was no pain. Only rage. Something had cracked. Something had let loose.
The first goon didn't even scream before Timi grabbed his neck and slammed him headfirst into the pavement. Once. Twice.
Crack.
The body went limp.
Another rushed in with a piece of rusted iron—but Timi caught it mid-air, tore it from his grip, and drove it through his gut.
Blood sprayed like paint. The man stumbled back, hands slick with his own insides, before falling in the water.
Nila gasped.
The others froze.
The boy they thought was prey had become something else entirely.
Another one lunged with a pipe, but Timi ducked low and swept his legs. Before the man hit the ground, Timi brought his elbow down on his throat. A sickening crunch. The gurgle that followed was inhuman.
Three bodies. All broken. All bleeding.
The fourth turned to run.
Timi chased him down in three steps, grabbed the back of his shirt, and smashed his face into the wall. Bone split. Teeth scattered like pebbles.
The boy who never spoke much… was now a storm.
He turned.
Only one was left—the leader. The loud one. The man who had laughed at them.
He stood there, frozen, a pistol trembling in his grip.
Timi took one step forward.
The man backed up.
Another step. The barrel shook wildly now.
Timi's silhouette was monstrous in the rain. Drenched in blood and water, his eyes glowed with the cold emptiness of a boy who had broken something inside to survive.
He didn't run.
Not yet.
He only stepped back, slowly, into the murky halo of a flickering streetlamp. The pistol in his hand trembled like a leaf in a storm. His lips parted, words caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.
"W...wetin you be…?"
Timi didn't answer.
He just stared. The rain soaked him to the bone, plastering his bloodstained uniform to his skin. His chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths. The storm inside him had settled into something colder—something far more dangerous than blind rage.
"You no normal…" the man stammered, eyes flicking to the broken bodies of his boys. "You no normal, I swear to God—"
Timi took a step forward.
The leader's hand jerked up instinctively. The gun snapped into alignment. Finger on the trigger.
Bang.
The shot rang out.
It missed.
Timi had already moved—had already lunged, low like a panther, fast like a shadow. The muzzle flash lit up the side of his face for a split second before his hand clamped down on the barrel, and the gun twisted sideways in the man's grip.
Before the leader could react—
Timi was on him.
One hand crushed his wrist, the other forced the gun upward, then downward, until the cold steel pressed right beneath the man's jaw—his own finger still on the trigger.
The leader's eyes went wide. His breath caught. His knees buckled.
"No do am—abeg—I no go—"
Click.
Boom.
The sound was deafening up close.
A sharp spatter painted the wall behind them.
The man dropped. Limp.
The gun stayed in Timi's hand, warm and slick. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, blinking against the rain. Then slowly, methodically, he let the weapon fall from his fingers into the pooling water.
Only the sound of thunder remained.
And Nila, still frozen beneath the shelter. Eyes wide.
She had never seen anything like it.
And neither had he.