DYLAN
DYLAN
Location: Abuja, Nigeria
Abuja is nothing like the narrow lenses of foreign media.
It rises in gleaming layers — wide, tree-lined boulevards, palm-shadowed estates, polished glass buildings reflecting sun-drenched skies. The air is thick with jasmine and heat, alive with a rhythm you feel in your chest. This city is a blend of legacy and luxury — where old kings once ruled and billionaires now build.
We landed in the private section of Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport just past noon. Security had already secured a convoy. Black SUVs, bulletproof windows. No press. No eyes.
Hermione's hand stayed in mine the entire drive.
Our villa, nestled in Maitama — one of Abuja's wealthiest districts — overlooks hills draped in green and gold. It's the kind of place you could mistake for a resort: infinity pool, high marble walls, modern interiors, and a skyline view that swallows you whole at night.
I chose it not for comfort, but for security. Cameras on every corner. Armed guards at the gate. Silent sensors. Reinforced doors.
Still, I don't relax.
Not when I know who we're here to find.
That evening, after dinner, Hermione yawns against my shoulder as we lie on the patio couch. Her dress slips along her legs like liquid gold, her skin glowing beneath the warm lights.
"Sleep, little warrior," I whisper, kissing her temple. "I'll be here when you wake."
She mumbles something soft and trusting before heading to the bedroom.
I watch her go.
Then I move.
1:00 AM.
My convoy rolls through the quiet outskirts of Wuse Zone 4, where the address from the anonymous lead led us. An unfinished estate project, according to local records. Suspiciously purchased in cash years ago. Recently reactivated.
I ordered Adrian and two armed security agents to flank the perimeter.
"I'm going in alone," I say.
Adrian frowns. "Sir, she said come alone, but we can sweep—"
"I said alone."
I hand him my phone. "If I don't contact you in ten minutes, come in hot."
Adrian nods once.
The iron gate creaks as I push it open.
Inside, the building is silent. The air smells like old cedar and something sweet — like dried roses. A single lamp glows in the hallway, lighting the path to a grand sitting room with marble floors and crimson walls.
And in the center of the table…
A letter.
Bound in black silk, sealed with wax. A snake imprinted in red.
My pulse spikes. I unwrap it.
And read.
To Mr. Dylan Alexander Voss,
You came. I knew you would.
You always wanted control. But not even you could resist this. Her. Me.
You've been looking for Niah. How poetic. Because she's been right in front of you all along.
You've dined with her. Trusted her. Let her into your circle. You've even watched her hug Hermione and call her "best friend."
Her name is Isabelle. And she's been playing the long game.
While you watched Hermione like she was the sun, Isabelle watched you like you were oxygen. And she hated that every breath you gave — you gave to someone else.
I hated it.
And now, she's mine. Just like you were supposed to be.
The world blurs.
Isabelle?
The one Hermione trusted with her secrets? The one who stood beside her when her world fell apart?
The one I barely noticed — and that was the problem.
I grip the letter tighter. My voice is cold as ice when I speak into my mic.
"Adrian. Sound the alarm."
"Sir?"
"She's gone. Hermione's gone."