The sun was ruthless the next day. Heat shimmered off tin rooftops, and the streets buzzed with horns, vendors, and restless tension. Dre walked through the market without disguise. No hoodie. Just a plain white polo, jeans, and a worn-out wristwatch he hadn't taken off since his brother died.
He wasn't hiding anymore.
In the open, he looked like any other Lagos boy — sharp eyes, steady steps, and a mind working three moves ahead. Every face he passed was a piece of information. Every voice was noise to be filtered or stored. He didn't speak unless it was necessary. And right now, it was.
He stopped at Mama Ifeoma's food stall. She served beans and plantain to both gangsters and school kids. If anyone saw everything in the neighborhood, it was her.
"Mama, good afternoon," he said calmly.
"Dre. Your mother sent you?"
"No ma. I came for something else."
She raised a brow. "Information, I suppose?"
He nodded slightly.
"You always come when trouble is close."
"Only because others bring it with them."
Mama Ifeoma leaned closer. "Someone's been asking around about you. Not police. Someone young. Smooth mouth."
"Zion's people?"
"Maybe. Or someone trying to look like his people."
Dre tapped his fingers on the stall's edge. "Thanks, Mama."
"You still owe me for that last bowl of beans."
"I'll pay in full. When this ends."
She laughed and waved him off. "Just stay alive. That's all the payment I need."
---
Back home, Dre laid the pieces of his plan across his table. Literally.
He had photos — grainy but clear — of Zion's runners, stolen from a burner phone he'd borrowed. Printed maps of key routes. Timetables. A list of people on Zion's payroll who had grudges or debts. He wasn't going to war with guns. He was going with pressure. With psychology. With silence.
A sudden knock at the door snapped him out of focus.
It was Okiki.
"Bro, I don't like the way things are moving," he said, stepping inside. "There's a rumor you've got something on Zion."
"Rumors aren't accidents. They're tools."
Okiki dropped his voice. "They said you bribed Zion's main runner."
Dre looked at him straight. "I didn't. But I wanted them to think I did."
Okiki stared at him. "Why?"
"Because now Zion will start looking inside his circle. Distrust will spread. That's the beginning."
"Of what?"
"Collapse."
---
Meanwhile, in another part of town, Zion paced in his luxury-styled room, sweat forming at his temples. Someone had leaked his delivery route. Someone close.
"Who was it?" he barked.
Wale, his second-in-command, shrugged. "Nobody's flipped. We keep it tight."
Zion slammed the table. "Someone knows something. And I want names before sunset."
Back in Dre's flat, a small smile touched his lips as he heard through a friend that Zion's own people were now being questioned and followed. The seeds were sprouting.
---
Later that evening, Dre visited a local youth center — an old, worn place where kids played football and volunteers gave free lessons. He walked in and was greeted by a teenage girl with a crutch.
"You're Dre," she said. "You used to teach computers here before everything changed."
"I still come around," he said softly. "Sometimes."
"You gonna fix the center's WiFi again?"
Dre knelt beside the router. "I'll try."
As he worked, his mind stayed focused. This was why he couldn't let the system eat him like it had eaten others. There were still people worth protecting. Still fires worth lighting. But to protect them, he had to play a little dirty. Think like his enemies.
No hiding.
Just moves.