I keep staring at the air conditioner.
Not the whole thing; just the dark spaces between the slits. The places where the plastic ends and something else begins. Shadow pockets. Little gaps that don't belong to the room.
The vent flaps open.
Close.
Open again.
There's a rhythm to it. Mechanical. Patient.
If I focus hard enough, the noise of the hall starts to thin. Voices blur into a single dull smear, like sound underwater. I can still tell people are talking, but I can't tell what they're saying anymore. It doesn't matter.
The dark spots don't move.
That's the thing.
Everything else is shifting...bags scraping, bodies swaying, someone laughing too loud—but those shadows stay exactly where they are. Anchored. Certain.
I imagine what's behind them.
Dust, maybe. Or nothing. Or a long tunnel that just keeps going, narrowing, cooling, pulling the heat out of the air the further it goes. I picture myself shrinking small enough to fit between the slits, slipping inside, letting the noise seal itself shut behind me.
Dr. Maren's voice reaches me, but it sounds far away now. Filtered. Like it's passing through walls before it gets to my ears.
A name is called.
Not mine.
Or maybe it is.
The vent opens again and I swear the darkness inside it deepens, like it's responding. Like it knows I'm looking.
I don't feel my feet anymore.
My shoulders are still here, I think..but the rest of me feels suspended, caught somewhere behind my eyes. There's a faint hum in my chest, syncing up with the AC's low drone.
Open.
Close.
I forget what I was doing before this. Forget who I was standing near. Forget why the room feels tight and heavy and wrong.
For a second—just one—I'm not in the reception hall at all.
I'm nowhere.
Then a voice breaks too close to my ear.
"…listen carefully."
Her voice settles in my ears like it owns the space there.
"This is a kill mission."
No hesitation. No drama. Just fact.
"Your objective is ______ in the _______ of _______."
There's a brief burst of static, like something deliberately erased.
"As we practiced. Don't question it."
I don't.
She's right—I do know. The knowledge sits fully formed in my head, unquestioned, like it's always been there.
"Targets are confirmed hostile. Eliminate all targets at the point. No survivors. No witnesses."
The helicopter vibrates around us, rotors chopping the night into pieces. Red light washes over black gear, black gloves, black faces set in stone. No one speaks. No one reacts.
"Time on task is fifteen minutes," she continues. "From touchdown to exfil. No extensions."
My chest tightens, not with fear.
Focus.
Compression.
She addresses the others now, voice widening to include the whole channel.
"Tango. Zero. November. You copy?"
Three acknowledgements come back immediately. Low. Male. Older.
"Tango copies."
"Zero up."
"November ready."
Their codenames float in my head like fixed points. Solid. Reliable. Men who've done this before. Men who will do it again.
"You move as a unit," she says. "Sweep, clear, confirm. Eliminate all stragglers. If they run, you pursue. If they hide, you flush them out."
The jungle below is a dark mass, broken only by faint moonlight and the occasional glint of water. It feels endless. Indifferent.
"Rules of engagement are simple," she adds. "There are none."
The words don't shock me. They lock something in place.
"Eyes open. No mistakes. No hesitation," she says. Then, quieter, closer, like she's speaking just to me:
"You're on point."
My hands tighten on my weapon before I realize I'm holding one.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice tries to ask why.
It doesn't get far.
"Green light in five," she says.
The helicopter dips. Wind roars. The jungle rises to meet us.
"Four."
"Three."
"Two..."
For a split second, something fractures.
Then—
"—execute."
The light turns green.
The rotors fade before the jungle even realizes we were there.
The rope burns my gloves as I slide, boots kissing wet earth without a sound. I crouch instantly, rifle up, breath already measured. The jungle is alive—cicadas, distant birds, leaves whispering secrets—but beneath it all is something else. Human presence. Careless. Loud in ways they don't know yet.
"Targets confirmed."
That's the last thing I say before comms went dark.
I move.
Every step is deliberate. Heel to toe. I test the ground before trusting it—mud, roots, decaying leaves slick with rot. The air is thick, clinging to my skin like a second uniform. Sweat forms but I don't wipe it away. Movement is noise. Noise is death.
The camp is ahead. I can smell it before I see it—smoke, oil, unwashed bodies, cheap food. A perimeter that exists only because they believe no one would come for them here.
They were wrong.
I drop low, crawl beneath a curtain of vines, and pause. Count breaths. Count heartbeats. One guard stands twenty meters ahead, rifle slung carelessly, attention drifting. He's bored. That boredom will be the last thing he ever feels.
I rise behind him like a shadow gaining weight.
One hand clamps his mouth. The other guides the blade—not fast, not slow. Precise. He stiffens, then empties. I lower him gently to the ground, like laying a child to sleep. No sound. No struggle anyone hears.
I take his radio. Kill the mic. Move on.
Two more guards sit near a fire, laughing quietly, passing something between them. Their rifles lean against a crate. I circle wide, letting the jungle swallow me again, then come in from their blind side.
One shot. Suppressed. The first drops before his brain understands the noise.
The second turns—too late. Another breath, another trigger pull.
Silence snaps back into place like nothing happened.
I don't stop.
The camp opens up now—tents, stacked crates, makeshift watch posts. I move through it like a bad memory. Every engagement is close. Intimate. Final.
A man steps out of a tent mid-yawn. I'm already there.
Another reaches for his weapon; he never finishes the thought.
A lookout scans the treeline in the wrong direction. I make sure he never looks again.
Time stretches. Compresses. There's no emotion in it—just execution. Movement. Angles. Cover. Fire discipline. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Bodies accumulate quietly, like punctuation marks in a sentence no one will finish reading.
By the time the alarm should have gone up, it's already too late.
Six left.
They're clustered now, tense, weapons raised. The bodyguards. Trained. Alert. Finally afraid. In the center stands her—the militant head. Smaller than the stories. Harder in the eyes.
She looks around at the darkness like it might answer her.
"I will kill them," she mutters. "In death or alive."
She's probably not wrong.
Just late.
The first muzzle flash blooms like a dying star, brief and useless. I'm already moving when it happens—body reacting before thought, muscle memory older than fear. Dirt kicks up where I was, bullets chewing at shadows instead of flesh.
They panic.
That's the difference.
Their shots come fast and loud, a desperate staccato ripping through the trees. Mine are measured. Controlled. Each squeeze of the trigger is a decision already made minutes ago.
I drop behind a fallen log, wood splintering as rounds punch through it. I count the rhythm of their firing, hear the cracks where discipline breaks. One of them breathes too hard. Another shouts a name that won't answer.
I rise on the inhale.
One bodyguard collapses mid-step, legs folding like he forgot how they work. Another fires blindly into the green, rounds disappearing into leaves that don't care. I shift left, then right, never staying long enough to be remembered.
The jungle helps me. It always does.
Smoke hangs low now, thin and acrid, stinging my eyes. Through it I see them—shapes tightening inward, fear pulling them close like gravity. They're trying to protect her, but protection requires understanding the threat.
They still don't know where I am.
I roll, come up behind a tree, fire twice. A third body hits the ground, weapon clattering uselessly beside him. The sound echoes louder than the shot ever did.
Someone screams. It cuts off abruptly.
I advance.
Boots silent. Breathing slow. Heart steady.
One of them finally sees me—eyes wide, finger jerking the trigger too late. His round snaps past my shoulder. Mine meets him center mass. He falls backward, staring at the canopy like it might forgive him.
Two left now. They retreat instinctively, backs to her, guns shaking. I don't rush them. There's no need.
I step into the open.
They fire together. Miss together. Die separately.
When it's over, the silence feels heavier than the gunfire ever was. Smoke drifts upward in thin, lazy threads. The jungle closes in again, reclaiming the noise, the bodies, the moment.
She stands alone now.
Alive. For now.
Then she's dead.
As it is all over, the camp feels hollow. Like something important was removed.
Smoke drifts. Fire crackles softly. The jungle exhales.
I stand there for a moment, rifle still up, scanning for ghosts that won't come. My breathing is steady. My hands don't shake.
Mission parameters fulfilled.
The rotor blade sounds made by the helicopter come back. They become louder. Then faster. Then smoother.
"TIMI!!!!!!"
Mendel doesn't bother pretending this time.
He steps in close, close enough that his shoulder brushes Timi's chest, like it's an accident he wants repeated. His voice stays low, pitched for the dude alone.
"So this is how you dey do am now?" he says. "You no talk. You no answer. You just dey form… what? Superior?"
Timi doesn't react.
That's the mistake.
Mendel's mouth twitches. His eyes harden, scanning Timi's face for something—fear, irritation, anything he can grab and twist. He leans in a fraction more, breath warm, invasive.
"You think say because people dey look you now, you don level up?" he murmurs. "Make I remind you where you really—"
"Ah—sorry!"
Claire's voice slices through the space, bright and sudden.
She stumbles forward half a step, hand flying to her throat as she coughs—loud, dramatic, ugly. Not a polite cough. The kind that demands attention. Heads turn instantly. A few students laugh. Someone asks if she's okay.
She waves them off, eyes watering just enough to sell it. "Dust," she says, breathless. "This place is choking me."
The moment fractures.
In that split second, Nila moves.
She slides in beside Timi, fingers closing firmly around his wrist—not rough, just decisive. A silent instruction. Her body angles between him and Mendel, her back straight, chin lifted.
"We're needed," she says to Timi, not looking at Mendel at all.
Then, to Mendel—flat, sharp: "Back off."
Mendel straightens slowly. His jaw works. For a heartbeat, it looks like he might push it anyway. His eyes flick to the watching faces, to the platform, to Dr. Maren's line of sight.
He exhales through his nose and steps back.
"Carry am go," he says lightly, like it's nothing. Like he isn't already memorizing this. "E no concern me."
But his eyes stay on Timi a second too long. Not angry.
Promissory.
Nila doesn't wait. She turns and pulls Timi with her, guiding him cleanly out of Mendel's reach. Timi goes without resistance, feet moving automatically, gaze still distant, unreadable.
Behind them, Claire lets the coughing fit taper off, apologizes once more to no one in particular, then melts back into the crowd like she was never part of it.
Dr. Maren calls the next name.
The hall resets.
But Mendel watches their backs, lips pressed thin, already recalibrating.
And Timi—walking beside Nila, wrist still warm where her hand was—doesn't look back at all.
---
Samuel and his crew moved like a deliberate interruption.
He threaded through bodies with that slow, confident gait that said he was enjoying the small action of being noticed. Taro, Desmond and Sean slipped in around him, a practiced shadow. Samuel's hand landed on Mendel's shoulder—light, casual—an intimate touch that made the space around Mendel contract.
"Mendel-boy," Samuel said, quiet enough that only those close could catch it. "How market dey? That your babe still dey sweet?"
Mendel smiled too fast. It was a rehearsed thing, the same smile he put on for pictures and for boys who liked to be seen with him. "You know me. I dey move."
Taro snorted softly. "Move everywhere. Na premium lifestyle." He let the phrase hang like a coin.
Desmond's eyes flicked over Mendel's jacket, the cheap shine of labels that tried too hard to speak for him. "Bottles, rides, plenty front. Who dey pay?"
Mendel's laugh flickered. "No be like that."
Samuel's tone flattened, precise. "You used all your allowance, Mendel-boy. Five thousand every month—gone. You dey flex, but the pocket sabi. That one wey you take my money still fresh for head."
The small circle of listeners inhaled. The accusation wasn't shouted; it was a ledger slid across a table in public.
Mendel's face tightened. "That thing na old matter."
"Old?" Samuel repeated, measured. "Two months. You lift my cash—me I sabi the account. You go buy gift. You lost envelope for way. You dey parade like say everything still balance."
Sean smiled, thin and knowing. "Fake friends, fake rides, fake receipts. Steal to keep the act. Na style for camera."
Mendel's fingers curled around his bag strap. He tried to smooth his voice. "I go pay you back. I dey arrange—"
"Arrange how?" Taro asked, not unkind, but without charity. "You dey flash for gram. Which corner you wan collect money come?"
The question landed like currency counted out loud.
There was a moment Mendel looked like a man trying to remember which mask to wear. His flamboyance—his loud shirts, the rented car photos, the evenings with boys who clapped when his name dropped—suddenly read as a paper shield fluttering in wind. Samuel watched that flutter.
"We no dey joke with our own," Samuel said softly. "Return the money. Make you no think this one don hide."
Mendel's reply was breath, thin and trailed. "I go settle you."
Samuel patted his shoulder once—public, not friendly—and stepped back. The crew folded around him and drifted away, their presence receding like a tide having left a clean seam of sand. Mendel stood a moment longer, chest tight, palms damp from a tension that wasn't just the hall heat.
Then Dr. Maren closed the register.
"That is the end of the list," she announced. "If anyone has an issue, bring it to me before tonight."
Nila glanced over at him, comprehension quick at the edges of her face. Claire adjusted her bag strap, eyes elsewhere, and the hall breathed on.
Mendel folded himself back into the room, looking smaller in the exact place he'd always tried to make loud.