Detective Kareem didn't sleep.
Couldn't.
The image was burned into his mind—the masked figure standing knee-deep in the river, staring at him with full awareness.
Behind the carved mask was a face he recognized.
A man named Chief Adewale.
Respected elder. Wealthy landowner. Head of the town's traditional council. A man who wore pristine white agbada in public and hosted cultural festivals by the water. He had once even offered Kareem palm wine and called him son.
Kareem reviewed the photo again.
The details were grainy, but the angle, the build, the posture—it all pointed to him.
But why would a man like Chief Adewale be dragging bodies into the river under a mask, in the middle of the night?
And what was the chant about?
The next morning, Kareem paid Chief Adewale a visit.
The compound was quiet, too quiet for someone of his status. No children playing, no servants chatting in the yard. Just a soft, steady hum of an unknown song drifting from inside the house.
The same melody Ola had described.
Kareem knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder this time. Then the door opened on its own—with a low creak, like it had been waiting for him.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense. Smoke curled upward from a clay pot in the corner of the room. Beaded curtains separated one chamber from another.
Then came the voice.
"I was wondering when you'd come."
Chief Adewale stepped into view, dressed in simple white, barefoot, his eyes tired—but knowing.
"You saw me, didn't you?" Kareem asked.
"I saw what you needed to see," the chief replied.
Kareem's hand hovered near his belt. "You've been dumping bodies into the river. The fisherman. The girl. Who else, Chief?"
Chief Adewale walked past him and sat slowly on a stool, the beads around his wrist clinking as he moved.
"Do you believe in Ọrun—the spirit realm?" he asked calmly.
"This isn't about religion. It's about murder."
"Sometimes, they are the same," the chief said, looking straight into Kareem's eyes. "The river is more than water. It's a boundary. A gate. And gates… must be fed."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the fisherman talked too much. And the girl... sang what she heard."
Kareem stepped forward, rage rising. "You killed them?"
"I did what had to be done," the chief whispered. "To keep them asleep."
"Who?"
The chief stood.
"The ones beneath the river."
Kareem's blood turned to ice.
Back at the station, Kareem typed everything into his report. But the more he wrote, the more it sounded insane.
Secret rituals. Ancient chants. Sacrifices to the river.
He knew no one in the city department would believe him—unless he had solid proof. And right now, all he had were photos, whispers, and a traumatized boy.
He called Amaka again. "Did you get the results?"
There was silence on the line for a moment too long.
Then: "Detective... you need to come see this. In person."
At the lab...
Amaka pointed to the fisherman's toxicology report. "There's a substance in his system we can't fully identify. Organic. Old. Like it came from a plant that doesn't grow anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I ran it through everything. Nothing matches. But it's similar to what we found in the girl's lungs. It's not just water. It's... infused."
"Infused with what?"
She hesitated. "Something ritualistic. Like the river isn't just a dumping ground, Kareem. It's part of the killing."
Kareem leaned back in his chair, the weight of it all crashing down.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message. From an unknown number.
"You're asking too many questions. Step away, or the river will remember your name next."
Kareem stared at it.
Then looked out the lab window, where the water flowed in the distance under the early evening sun.