The darkness had weight that night. Not the kind you see — the kind you feel.
It clung to Dave like sweat as he walked down the abandoned road behind Ojota market. No music. No traffic. Just silence, and the soft crunch of gravel under his worn-out sneakers.
He wasn't walking blindly. He knew where he was going.
He just didn't know if he was coming back.
There was a place behind the old train yard, where whispers became currency. Where boys got jumped in, jumped out, or bled for both. They called it The Pit — not because it was underground, but because once you went in, something inside you stayed buried.
Dave had never gone that far before.
He'd always worked in the shadows — eyes up, hands clean. But with Red gone, Jamzy twitchy, and every hustle traced back to someone bigger than him, Dave realized something:
The streets didn't respect silence.
They respected blood.
Two men stood at the mouth of The Pit. One was chewing gum like it was the last piece on earth. The other held a pump-action shotgun lazily, like he was bored of killing.
Dave stopped a few feet from them.
"I dey come meet Razor," he said. Voice firm. No stutter.
The man with the shotgun eyed him, then stepped aside. "He dey wait for you."
Inside The Pit, there was no ceremony.
Just old tires, shattered bottles, and the smell of sweat, weed, and dried blood.
Razor sat on a plastic chair, legs crossed, shirt off, tattoos crawling up his chest like angry spirits. His eyes were small and sharp — the kind that saw through lies before they were spoken.
"So you be the one wey Red talk about," Razor said.
Dave nodded once.
"You quiet. I like quiet. But quiet dey die quick if e no get teeth."
"I'm not here to talk tough," Dave said. "I'm here to earn."
Razor smirked. "Everybody dey talk that one. Until blade touch skin."
He snapped his fingers. One of the boys handed him a small black pouch.
"Inside here na your test. One job. You do am clean, you enter. You fail? Nobody go see your body again."
Dave didn't flinch.
He took the pouch.
Razor leaned forward. "You ready to bleed, boy?"
Dave didn't blink. "I been bleeding since birth. I just learn to hide the stain."
The job was simple on the surface.
But the streets never played fair.
Inside the pouch was a cheap Android phone, a photo of a man, and a time: 2:15 a.m.
Target: Local club enforcer named Big Loma — a loudmouth who had recently been talking sideways about Razor's boys.
The instructions were written in slang, half-code, half-challenge:
"No kill am. Just shame am. Make e sabi say Razor dey watch. Snap proof."
It wasn't a test of violence.
It was a test of nerve.
And Dave had just stepped into the lion's den.
Two days later.
Dave sat on a bench outside the barber's, watching a generator cough smoke into the sky. The buzz of clippers, loud afrobeats, and street gossip filled the air.
Someone was telling a lie about a girl who ran mad after sleeping with a Yahoo boy.
Someone else was arguing about Messi and Ronaldo — again.
But Dave wasn't listening. He was waiting.
Jamzy pulled up on a beat-up Bajaj bike, one hand wrapped in a bandage, the other holding a Ziploc bag filled with puff-puff.
"Guy, you dey find death o," Jamzy said, sitting beside him.
Dave smirked. "You see the video?"
"Everybody see am. Big Loma dey hide face like goat. You really enter that place?"
Dave didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Jamzy shook his head. "You mad, Reign."
Dave's smile faded. "You good?"
Jamzy looked away. "Still dey bleed small. But na the girl matter pain me pass. I no even get time chop am."
Dave laughed. A real one. First in days. "You go chop better one later."
But Jamzy didn't laugh.
Instead, he looked at Dave with something else in his eyes. Respect? Maybe. But also fear. Because he knew now — Dave wasn't just hustling. Dave was building a legacy. And men like that? They either rise fast… or burn hard.
That evening, a call came in from a blocked number.
Dave picked without a word.
Razor's voice slid through the earpiece like oil on glass. Calm. Controlled.
"Nice work. You did what others feared to try. You're in now."
"Good," Dave replied. "What's next?"
"Next? You stay low. Lay flat. The street dey hot. Loma people dey vex. You made noise, boy. Smart noise. But noise na noise."
"I don't hide."
"You will. Or you'll die."
Click.
The line went dead.
Dave didn't move. Didn't blink.
That was the game now.
Make moves. Make noise. Then disappear before the echo kills you.
The next morning, he went back to the library.
Same corner. Same dusty fan.
Tessa looked up before he even sat down.
"You look different," she said.
"I am."
She studied him for a second, eyes scanning his face like a lie detector.
"You smell like adrenaline."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is… if it becomes your perfume."
Dave leaned back. "Why are you here?"
"Because people here don't ask questions."
"But you just did."
"I'm making an exception."
Silence.
Then she closed her book and said, "You're not the only one with ghosts, Dave. Just make sure yours don't eat you alive."
She stood up and left.
And just like that, the silence returned.
But Dave's mind was loud.
That night, his window shattered.
He hit the floor instantly — instincts sharp.
A rock landed beside him. Tied to it was a paper.
Scrawled in charcoal:
"YOU THINK YOU SAFE?
WRONG STREET. WRONG GAME.
WRONG ENEMY."
He didn't panic.
He folded the paper.
He'd been waiting for this.
Because when the threats start coming…
It means you've officially arrived.
Dave didn't sleep that night.
He sat by the broken window, the rock still on the floor beside him, the threat echoing in his head like a drumbeat.
He wasn't scared. He was calculating.
Every move creates ripples. But this wasn't a ripple — this was a wave. And whoever sent that message didn't just want to scare him.
They wanted to rattle his mind.
They failed.
By dawn, he was dressed and moving.
No phone. No tracker. No unnecessary weight. He took the long route through the back alleys, crossed a drainage ditch, and ended up in a compound he hadn't visited in years.
Inside sat Baba Trigga — an ex-street boss turned information plug. Old, blind in one eye, but still sharp as a rusted razor.
"You finally come see me," Trigga croaked, sipping black coffee from a stained cup. "I been dey wait since the day dem whisper your name for Ojota."
Dave sat without speaking.
Trigga grinned. "You think say na only Razor dey watch? Boy, you dey draw attention like blood dey draw flies."
Dave pulled the threat note from his pocket and dropped it on the table.
"Who sent this?"
Trigga didn't touch it. He just sipped again, then said, "There's a man… not Razor, not Loma. Bigger. Quieter. The one that moves Razor like pawn."
"Name?"
Trigga leaned back.
"They call am Chairman. Real name no dey matter. You cross him, you vanish. You move near him without invite, you get skinned."
Dave didn't react.
He was already building the mental map.
Trigga continued, "He dey run clubs, ports, politicians, prisons. Razor? Small fish. You? New ripple. But the Chairman? Ocean."
Dave stood.
"Where's the ocean hiding?"
Trigga laughed. "Boy... you no swim yet. You still dey float."
That evening, Dave went back to the library.
Tessa was there again. Same spot. Same book — but her eyes didn't move across the page.
They were fixed on the door before he even entered.
"I heard what happened," she said before he sat.
He paused. "How?"
She didn't answer immediately. Then:
"My cousin works for a club manager. Word gets around."
Dave sat slowly. His body calm, but his chest was tight.
"How deep are you in?" she asked.
Dave thought for a moment.
"Deep enough that I can't turn back."
Tessa closed her book. "Then make sure you don't drown."
Before he could respond, she pulled something from her bag — a small, folded piece of newspaper.
On it was a headline:
POLITICIAN'S SON CAUGHT IN ATM CARD FRAUD SCANDAL — ONE ARRESTED, OTHERS WANTED
The photo was blurry, but familiar.
It was Dave's plug.
Busted.
Tessa didn't look at him when she said:
"They're looking for someone else connected to this."
Silence.
"You?" she asked.
Dave looked at the ceiling fan, still spinning slowly, barely alive.
"Not yet," he said. "But soon."