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Chapter 2: The Door That Closed
Segun Ogunniyi did not panic when the bag went over his head.
Panic wasted oxygen.
The fabric pressed lightly against his face. Cheap synthetic. Reused. The smell lingered like old storage and oil. He tested it by breathing slowly, judging airflow, light leakage. Almost none. Good stitching. Whoever prepared this had funding and experience.
His wrists were bound behind him with polymer cuffs. Tight but measured. No cutting circulation. No intention to cripple. He flexed once, barely, then stopped. No need to advertise strength.
His breathing slowed naturally. Long exhale. Deep inhale. Hold.
The familiar calm settled in his chest. Nine minutes of clarity waited there if he needed it. Not now. This was not combat yet.
The vehicle moved.
Smooth. Controlled. No sudden turns. No potholes. Either military grade suspension or a city that had been rebuilt too carefully.
Zone No 7 liked clean surfaces. It liked order. It liked pretending nothing ugly ever happened there.
Time passed quietly.
When the vehicle stopped, Segun felt it through vibration before sound. The engine cut. The door opened.
Hands guided him out. Firm. Professional. No insults. No excess pressure.
They were afraid of him.
That made sense.
The bag came off.
White walls. White ceiling. White floor. Clean enough to feel artificial. No windows. One table bolted to the ground. Two chairs. A single camera embedded in the wall, lens dark but alert.
Across from him sat Musa Adeyemi.
Same height. Same posture. Same habit of sitting straight with hands visible.
Different eyes.
Segun sat without being told. The chair did not move. Heavy. Purpose built.
His thumb brushed the black pendant resting against his chest. A cross intertwined with a dragon. The edges were smooth from years of unconscious tracing. His pulse eased further.
Ibadan boy.
Same streets. Same rain. Same blood once.
"You should have run," Musa said.
Segun studied him carefully. Not his face. His breathing. Slightly elevated. Not fear. Guilt.
Running is loud, Segun said. Talking is louder.
Musa looked away. His jaw tightened.
A thin tablet lit up on the table between them. Contracts. Numbers. Names stacked neatly, layered over one another like organized graves.
"I didn't sell you cheap," Musa said quietly. "That matters."
Segun nodded once. "I know."
That was the worst part.
Betrayal was rarely emotional. It was administrative.
"You became a liability," Musa continued. "Too clean. Too efficient. Governments don't like men they can't point at."
"So they built a box," Segun said.
"They built a stage," Musa corrected. "Apex Initiative."
The name hung in the air.
Segun leaned back slightly. The chair was bolted down. Solid. No give.
Live broadcast. Global reach. Criminals only. Last man standing.
"You were supposed to be executed," Musa said. "Shot during transfer. But Axis intervened."
That word mattered.
Axis was not a government. It was what came after governments stopped pretending they mattered.
"They reviewed your file," Musa continued. "Perfect memory. Pattern simulation. Close combat efficiency beyond baseline. Partial hearing loss but compensated. Psychological profile marked stable under extreme violence."
Segun smiled faintly.
"They need assets," Musa said. "And you are expensive."
The door opened silently.
Two figures entered. Black uniforms without insignia. Masks smooth and reflective, turning the room into broken fragments of itself.
One of them spoke.
"Segun Ogunniyi. Alias Reaper. By Axis classification, you are designated a criminal participant in Apex Initiative."
Criminal.
The word slid off him like water.
"You will be deployed to the island within forty eight hours," the voice continued. "You will receive one standard equipment bag. Sixteen modules of a single type. Homing."
Segun's eyes sharpened slightly.
"Kill conditions are unrestricted. Environmental hazards are active. Zone collapse will occur progressively from outer to inner sectors. Last participant alive exits."
"And if I refuse," Segun asked.
The masked figure paused.
"You already accepted," he said. "The moment you walked into this room alive."
The restraints were removed.
No ceremony. No threats.
Musa stood slowly.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Segun looked at him then. Really looked.
"You chose profit," Segun said calmly. "That's not betrayal. That's consistency."
Musa flinched anyway.
Darkness came without warning.
When Segun opened his eyes again, wind hit his face.
Salt. Jungle. Wet stone.
He rolled instinctively as he landed, coming up low, balanced, scanning.
A cliff to his right. Dense foliage to the left. The ocean roared below, waves smashing against stone like distant applause.
A small drone hovered nearby. Its lens adjusted. A red indicator blinked steadily.
Broadcast was live.
A voice echoed from everywhere at once.
"Welcome to Apex Initiative."
Light burned into the air.
Participants remaining: 40
Segun reached down and lifted the side bag resting against his hip.
Light. Balanced. Exactly as specified. He checked weight and distribution without opening it fully.
Sixteen fist sized homing modules.
Somewhere across the island, a scream rose and ended abruptly.
The counter flickered.
Participants remaining: 39
Text burned across the sky.
KILL CONFIRMED
CAUSE: ENVIRONMENTAL
ZONE OUTER RIDGE
Some people never adapted.
Segun adjusted his stance, weight distributing naturally. Old scars across his body pulled faintly as muscle memory settled in. His hearing caught fragments of sound. Insects. Wind through leaves. Distant water.
Enough.
His fingers traced the dragon on his pendant once.
Survival is winning.
He stepped forward into the trees.
The game had already started.
And this time, the door was closed behind him.
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