"I don't get it," Adunni snapped, her voice shaking. "How the hell are you engaged to the vessel of the Darkness?"
Christopher exhaled, a tired, bitter sound. "You think it's easy?" he said, eyes narrowing.
"You think I want this? Every day, I wake up hoping he doesn't snap and take the entire world down with him. I'm constantly siphoning off pieces of the Darkness from him in secret—draining what I can without him noticing, just to keep him stable."
As he spoke, his eyes flickered with an unnatural black sheen. In an instant, dark veins began to crawl up his neck like living vines, pulsing beneath his skin.
Adunni instinctively stepped back, her breath catching in her throat.
But Kevwe stepped forward instead, calm and unreadable. Her tattoos began to glow faintly—symbols etched in light across her arms.
Christopher shuddered. His veins faded, and his eyes cleared.
"He's awake," he muttered, jaw tight. "I can feel it."
He glanced at Adunni, urgency rising in his voice.
"I don't have much time. If he notices I'm gone, it's over."
-
Christopher sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of too many secrets.
"Sorry I snapped at you," he said, voice softer now. "I didn't mean to. It's just… all of this is bigger than me. Bigger than any of us. And I didn't want to put you in more danger than you're already in."
Adunni watched him closely. The dark veins on his neck had faded, but their memory still made her skin crawl. She didn't speak. She let him talk.
Christopher ran a hand through his curls. "Before the darkness took Moses—before it drained him—he found something. A map."
Adunni's eyes narrowed. "A map?"
Christopher nodded. "A map showing the locations of seven ancient artifacts. Objects powerful enough to split the darkness. It's how my ancestors managed to divide it in the first place. Two vessels, remember? That's why the darkness needs both to become whole again."
"But if you knew about them—" Adunni started.
"We didn't have time," Christopher interrupted, his voice tight. "Before we could study the map properly, the darkness got to Moses. Killed him. Or… almost killed him. And then it destroyed the map."
Adunni's chest tightened. She thought of the lifeless figure in the coffin—the shell of Moses. "So the map is lost?"
"Not exactly," Christopher said. "We think it still exists. In your present. Which means Moses—your Moses—might still be able to find it. You need to tell him. All of them."
Adunni blinked. "All of who?"
"The Super Squad," Christopher said, almost smiling. "Moses, Tolu, Mirabel, Sunmi. They're more than just your friends, Adunni. They're not even just human, not entirely. Each of them holds a fragment of something ancient. Something magical. That's why the darkness fears them. That's why it's trying to break them apart. Because if not careful they might stop it."
"They're the only ones who can help," Christopher said, taking a step closer. "If the darkness gets to the artifacts first, it'll be unstoppable. But if Moses and the others find them—before it's too late—they might be able to do what even the Time Avatars couldn't."
Adunni nodded slowly, the weight of it all sinking in. "And what about your fiancé?"
Christopher's expression hardened again. "You already know. He's one of the vessels. That's why I'm still with him. Trying to keep him from snapping. From becoming... something else."
She hesitated. "Is that why he hates me?"
Christopher's gaze dropped to the floor. "You're the last free Time Avatar, Adunni. If anything happens to you… we lose our only hope of rewriting this nightmare. Of fixing time itself."
He looked up at her again, eyes glassy with truth.
"Protect the Squad. Find the artifacts. Stay alive."
Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, shadows crawling at his feet.
"He's waking up. I need to go."
And in a flutter of feathers, he vanished.
Omooba lay still, his body limp on the bed, but his eyes—milky white—were far from peaceful. Sweat traced lines down his temple as his chest rose and fell rapidly. He was deep in something beyond sleep.
A dream.
No—a memory twisted by darkness.
It began in a dimly lit room. The air felt heavy, full of unsaid words and suppressed cries. A younger version of Omooba crouched behind a cracked door, eyes wide as he watched his mother—tired, trembling—argue with a towering figure whose rage filled the space like smoke.
Then came the sound. Not a slap, not a punch, but the cold, dull echo of control. The kind that breaks the spirit more than the skin.
His mother left that night. She didn't look back.
The vision shifted.
Now, Omooba stood in a hallway he couldn't place. It felt like a dream, and yet—too real. At the end of the hall, a light flickered. A door opened, and there, he saw Christopher, blood staining the front of his shirt, eyes wide with betrayal. Someone stood over him.
His father.
Omooba tried to scream, to move, to stop it—but he was frozen. Powerless. The image burned into him.
Then… another shift.
The dream warped again, darker, deeper. He now stood face to face with the same man—the father who had haunted his memories. But this time, it was different. In his hand was a dagger, curved and ancient, humming with power. The one Christopher had given him.
The man laughed, a sound full of cruelty and disbelief.
But Omooba didn't flinch.
He stepped forward—slowly—and drove the dagger into the man's chest. Not out of rage.
Out of finality.
The darkness around him collapsed, and a ringing filled his ears.
Then—
He gasped awake.
As Omoba stepped into the parlor, the thick scent of incense clung to the air. Makinde sat on his throne-like chair — half plastic, half velvet — with his walking stick resting beside him like a sceptre. His eyes lit up when he saw his son.
"Omoba," he called, his voice rich and rough. "Omo Oba to'n gba aye l'ọwọ̀! Ọmọ mi to gbo̩n ju gbogbo wọn lo̩. The prince of the ghetto!"
Omoba gave a slight nod, but his face remained unreadable.
Makinde leaned forward, the gold rings on his fingers glinting. "Something dey smell for this area. I can feel it. Betrayal. Disrespect. After wetin that boy — Christopher — do, people dey get confident. Dey talk too much. Dey look me eye to eye."
He hissed, drawing a slow breath through his teeth.
"Some of my boys, dem dey slack. Dem forget say na we get this place. Dem forget say na me be the law. But it's fine."
His eyes narrowed, deadly.
"You, Omoba, will handle this one. That my client for Mushin — the one I give charm last month — e don mess up. Collect power, refuse to deliver. E dey like say he fit waka commot."
Makinde tapped his fingers on the armrest slowly. "I want you to deal with it. Personally."
No threats. No loud voice. Just that deadly calm that always preceded something brutal.
Omoba adjusted the strap of his jacket and gave one small nod. "Consider it done."
Makinde smiled. "That's my boy."
Without another word, Omoba turned and walked out, the air behind him thick with his father's expectations.
He'd been trailing his target for almost ten minutes — through alleys, across abandoned estates — but something in him wasn't focused. For the first time in a long time, the thrill of the hunt didn't excite him.
And then it happened.
He rounded a corner — and bumped into her.
A woman.
Tall, with black and white streaks in her hair that shimmered under the moonlight like fate itself was painted on her scalp. Her skin glowed with a subtle energy, eyes both kind and unreadable.
He stopped. Confused.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, stepping back. "Do I… do I know you?"
The woman tilted her head and smiled — not kindly, not mockingly. Just… knowingly.
"If I told you that you did," she said softly, "would you even believe me?"
Omoba blinked, unsure what to say. That feeling — like he had known her forever — was too strong to ignore. His heart beat faster. His breath caught for a moment.
Then she laughed — a light, haunting sound that echoed slightly.
"Don't you have someone to chase, Omoba?"
He froze.
"What?"
She turned, her hair swaying like time itself danced in the strands.
"He knows," she said, over her shoulder. "He knows, Omoba."
And then she disappeared into the darkness.
It wasn't until he was far down the next street that it hit him like a punch in the chest:
He had never told her his name.
---
Omoba moved like a shadow through the narrow backstreets of the ghetto. His eyes locked onto the target — a middle-aged man in tattered jeans and panic in his bones. The man must have known he was being hunted. Omoba didn't care who he was — only that Makinde had marked him.
But as Omoba gave chase, something strange happened.
The man darted into a tight alley and then, suddenly, split. Literally. In the blink of an eye, he became three — three identical bodies running in three different directions.
Omoba didn't hesitate.
He reached into his jacket and drew a sleek, black-bladed dagger. As he whispered something beneath his breath, the dagger pulsed faintly with a dark energy. Then he threw it — hard. Mid-air, it split into three.
Thud. Thud.
Two of the figures burst into smoke as the blades struck, vanishing like illusions.
But the third screamed.
The real one.
The last dagger had pierced his thigh, and the man collapsed, clutching the wound and dragging himself toward a nearby structure.
Omoba followed, calm, precise, like a predator. He walked until he saw the man crawling, blood trailing behind him in a smear of red.
Then—
"Daddy!"
A child's voice. A girl, maybe six or seven, ran from the shadows and threw herself over the man's bleeding body.
Omoba stopped cold.
His chest tightened.
He saw flashes—his dream. His mother crying. His father's fist. The fear. The helplessness. His small hands shaking under the bed. His mother's face, broken and brave.
He stood there, frozen.
The girl sobbed, hugging her father tightly. The man looked up at Omoba, expecting death.
But instead, Omoba exhaled sharply and said, voice low but clear, "Run."
The man blinked.
"If my father finds you again, you're gone. I shouldn't even be letting you go. But disappear. Take her. Don't talk to anyone. Don't show your face. Vanish."
The man nodded quickly, pain in his eyes, gratitude swelling.
Omoba turned sharply and walked away, the weight of a thousand questions pressing on his back. He didn't look back.
And for the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure if he had just disobeyed — or saved someone who reminded him too much of himself.
"Awwn," a voice drawled from behind, thick with a mock British accent. "A familia moment. How utterly touching. Like a PS3 cutscene."
Omoba didn't turn immediately — he didn't have to. He already knew that voice.
"Christopher," he said dryly, finally turning around.
Christopher stood with a crooked smile, arms folded across his chest. "Look at you," he teased, "disobeying orders, sparing targets, going soft. Being a real well-being. Your father would be so disappointed."
He laughed, head thrown back dramatically like it was all a joke — one only he was in on.
Omoba scowled. "What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Delta State , training with your cousin."
Christopher shrugged. "I was. I just came to pick up a few things for training."
"All the way from Delta, you came to Lagos to pick up 'a few things'?"
"Yeah," Christopher said, unbothered. "And maybe stopped by to see you."
Omoba's expression darkened. "You know how dangerous that is."
"I know," Christopher said, raising one hand. A silver ring glinted on his finger. "Got a protective charm. Only you can see me right now."
Omoba raised a brow but didn't question it.
They started walking side by side through the shadowed edge of the street, the ghetto heat still thick in the air. For a moment, silence settled between them — the kind that only existed between people who knew each other too well.
Christopher glanced at him. "You're... off today."
Omoba shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm fine."
But Christopher didn't believe him. "You sure? You've got that stormy, 'somethings wrong but don't wanna talk about it
look."
"I said I'm fine," Omoba repeated, firmer this time. He didn't want to talk about the dream — not with Christopher. Not now.
Christopher let it go, though his eyes lingered a second longer than usual.
Omoba cleared his throat. "You hungry?"
Christopher blinked. "What?"
"Ice cream," Omoba said flatly. "Let's go. My treat."
Christopher raised a brow. "You? Treating me?"
Omoba gave a tired smirk. "Don't get used to it."
"Too late," Christopher grinned, already walking ahead. "I want vanilla and chocolate. Heavy on the chocolate."
Omoba shook his head but followed, the weight of memory still pressing behind his ribs — but lighter, now, with Christopher beside him.
---