The sun is a dull orange coin pushing through the Lagos haze when I open my eyes. I don't need an alarm. The memory of the water always wakes me at the same time, cold and heavy in my chest. I lie there for a second, staring at the cracked ceiling of the safe house. I roll off the thin mattress, my joints popping in the quiet room.
I walk to the small bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I don't look in the mirror for long. I don't like seeing the boy from the bridge hiding in my own eyes. I shave quickly, the razor moving in steady, practiced lines. I need to look sharp. I need to look like I belong in the world, even though I feel like a ghost. I pull on a clean black t-shirt and dark jeans. I throw on my lightweight jacket, the one with the hidden pockets for my list and my blade. Every movement is a ritual. I am arming myself to be the shadow.
As I step into the main room, the blue light of a dozen computer monitors hits me. Leo is already awake. Or maybe he never slept. He is hunched over his desk, fingers flying across a keyboard.
Leo is the only person who knows my real name. He is the one who pulls data from the dark corners of the web, finding the addresses and bank records of the people who killed my life. He looks up, his glasses reflecting lines of green code.
"Going out already, Xander?" He asks, his voice raspy from too much caffeine.
"I have things to do". I say, checking my watch.
It is early, but the city is already starting to hum.
Leo stands up and stretches, pointing toward the small kitchen area where a pot of coffee is steaming.
"At least have some breakfast, man. I made extra yam and eggs. You can't hunt on an empty stomach. You look like you haven't eaten in three days". He says calmly.
I shake my head and head for the door. I can smell the food, and for a second, my stomach tightens, but I cannot eat. Not today.
"I'll come back to have it, Leo. Save me a plate". I say calmly.
"You always say that". Leo mutters, turning back to his screens.
"Just stay low. The police are still asking questions about that guy Victor in the alley. Don't do anything stupid". He says firmly.
I don't answer. I just close the door behind me and step into the humid morning air.
I don't head towards the city center. I head towards the outskirts, towards the place where the road meets the water.
It takes time to get there, weaving through the early morning traffic, but eventually, the air starts to smell like salt and old metal. I stop at a small roadside stand and buy a single bunch of white lilies.
The woman selling them doesn't ask questions. She just takes my money and hands them over with tired eyes.
I walk the rest of the way to the bridge.
The concrete looks different now. A few months after the accident fifteen years ago, a crew finally fixed the railing. They reinforced the edges with thick steel and poured new cement over the spots where my father's car snapped the old barriers like toothpicks.
To everyone else, it is just a bridge. It is a way to get from one side of the water to the other. They drive over it at sixty miles an hour, listening to the radio, thinking about their jobs.
But for me, this is a graveyard.
I stand at the exact spot where I stood when I was ten. I can still see the phantom image of the silver sedan hanging in the air. I can still hear the splash. I lean against the new, cold metal of the railing and look down. The water is dark and murky, moving in slow, heavy swirls. It looks peaceful today, which feels like a lie.
I kneel by the side of the road, right against the base of the concrete barrier. I place the white lilies there, tucking the stems into a small gap so the wind won't blow them away. I don't say a prayer. I don't know who to pray to anymore. I just put my hand on the cool stone and close my eyes.
"I got the first one". I whisper.
My voice is so quiet the wind almost steals the words.
I stay there for a long time, just listening to the cars rush past behind me. Every time a tire hits a bump in the road, it sounds like a gunshot. Every time a truck rumbles past, I feel the vibration in my bones.
I remember the heat of my mother's hand. I remember the way my father used to laugh when he thought he was winning a game. They were supposed to pick me up. We were supposed to go home.
I stand up and brush the dust off my jeans. The flowers look small and fragile against the massive gray bridge. They won't last long. By tomorrow, the sun will wilt them, or a passing car will blow them into the dirt. But that doesn't matter. I come here every year, and now, I come here after every kill.
It is the only way I know how to say I am sorry for not being strong enough to stop the bike that day.
I take one last look at the water. Somewhere down there, under the mud and the salt, is the ghost of the boy I used to be. I left him there a long time ago. The man standing on the bridge now doesn't have room for tears. He only has room for the list.
I turn around and start the walk back toward the safe house, ready to have my breakfast.