The knock came just after dawn.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just… casual. Like a neighbor asking for salt.
Dave opened the door slowly, hoodie on, eyes sharp.
Two men stood outside. Plain clothes. Worn shoes. Hard eyes.
The shorter one smiled. "David Reign?"
Dave didn't answer.
"We're just asking a few questions. About your friend… Red."
Dave's body stayed still, but his mind started running.
Red was gone. Picked up. Probably being broken open in some underground cell. And if these two were here, it meant names were being thrown.
The taller cop — or maybe just a government man playing cop — stepped forward. "Relax. You're not under arrest. Not yet. We're just talking."
Dave stepped outside, closed the door behind him.
"Talk."
The short one pulled out a notebook, flipping it slowly. "You run errands sometimes, right? Phones. SIMs. Maybe pass a bag here and there?"
Dave said nothing.
"Your name came up. Just once. But it's there."
Still nothing.
Then the taller one leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper.
"You're smart, boy. But smart boys get overconfident. Stay invisible. Or you'll be seen."
He tapped the notebook closed.
"Tell your mother we stopped by."
And just like that, they were gone.
Dave stood outside for a long time, watching the dust from their car fade into the horizon.
They weren't here to catch him.
They were here to warn him.
And that meant something worse.
That meant he was valuable.
Which also meant…someone higher up wanted him alive — for now.
Later that night, Razor called.
Not a message. Not a summon.
A personal call.
"Come to the pit. Alone."
When Dave arrived, Razor wasn't smiling.
He was pacing. Shirtless again. Cigarette burning between two fingers like it owed him money.
"You made noise," Razor said.
"I thought you liked noise."
"I like power. Not chaos."
Dave didn't flinch. "Then give me something bigger."
That stopped Razor mid-step.
He turned. Smiled slowly.
"You want bigger?"
He walked over to a nearby table and tossed a manila envelope onto it.
Inside: maps, photos, and a sketch of a small warehouse by the port.
"Inside there, dem dey move powder. Big weight. Belongs to Ijele crew. They think say Razor don retire."
Razor leaned in.
"I want you to burn it. Clean. No survivors. No witnesses. Send a message."
Dave's breath didn't catch — but his mind did.
This wasn't petty SIM card hustling anymore. This was war.
He nodded once.
"When?"
Razor grinned.
"Tonight."
11:08 p.m
Behind an abandoned mosque in Ketu.
Jamzy was pacing in circles like a caged wolf, pipe in hand, hoodie soaked in sweat.
"They think say we be punks," he muttered. "They forget say we fit burn this whole town if we wan."
Dave watched him from the shadows. Jamzy had always been wild — but now, he was fracturing. Since the stabbing, since the girl, since Red vanished… something inside him had changed.
He was quicker to swing. Slower to listen. Always on edge.
"Relax," Dave said. "This one no be playground. We move clean. Burn and go. No noise."
Jamzy stopped. "Burn and go?" he scoffed. "No be better if we light everybody inside? Let dem scream small before flame take them?"
Dave's eyes narrowed. "We're not murderers."
Jamzy stepped close, pipe twitching in his hand. "You think say this game get saints?"
"No," Dave said. "But it has rules. We don't start by killing ghosts. We burn names."
There was a long silence.
Then Jamzy laughed, but it wasn't funny. It was cold. "I go follow you. But if them spot us? I dey finish everything moving."
Dave said nothing.
Deep down, he knew:
Jamzy was becoming a problem.
1:37 a.m.
Harbor line. Near the Ijele warehouse.
The air was thick with salt, smoke, and sin.
Dave and Jamzy crouched behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, dressed in all black. A duffel bag full of accelerants lay between them.
Dave peeked around the corner.
Three guards. No uniforms. Armed. Talking, not watching.
"Plan B," he whispered.
They moved silent. One knocked on a generator, drawing one guard aside. Jamzy flanked him, knocked him cold. No blood.
Second one walked off to piss. Dave waited. Waited. Then followed, choked him from behind until he collapsed. Still breathing.
Third one?
Gone.
Dave's pulse surged. "Where's the third guy?"
Jamzy shrugged. "Maybe spirits carry am."
But Dave didn't like loose ends.
Not on a job like this.
Inside the warehouse, the smell hit first — chemical rot and sweat. Dozens of sealed crates. Labels scratched off. A small table in the corner with counting machines, black gloves, and stacks of money.
Jamzy poured fuel.
Dave set timers.
In and out.
No show.
No sound.
No deaths.
That was the plan.
Until the third guard returned.
He wasn't alone.
1:59 a.m.
Inside the Ijele warehouse.
The third guard walked in through the back entrance — holding a young boy by the arm.
"Found this one sneaking near the loading bay," he said, tossing the kid forward like a stray dog. "Maybe one of those drug-runner rats."
The boy — couldn't have been more than eleven — scrambled to his feet, terrified. His shirt was torn. Knees scraped.
He didn't even notice Dave and Jamzy hiding in the shadows.
But Jamzy noticed him.
And more importantly, Jamzy noticed the risk.
He raised his metal pipe.
Dave stepped in front of him.
"Don't," Dave said, voice low.
Jamzy's eyes flashed. "You serious? This kid seen too much. He go talk."
"We don't touch him."
"He go ruin everything."
"No. You will."
Jamzy's grip tightened. His face twitched. That look again — the one that didn't care about consequences. The one that smelled blood and smiled.
The guard turned. "Who the hell—"
Dave moved.
Fast. Clean.
Fire extinguisher to the face.
The guard dropped.
The kid screamed.
Jamzy was already dragging the duffel bag toward the exit.
"Set the flame!" he shouted. "NOW or we both die here!"
Dave hesitated — just a second — then lit the first charge.
Flames licked the fuel-soaked wood like it was starving.
He grabbed the boy.
"Run," he whispered. "Don't look back."
2:07 a.m.
The warehouse exploded behind them.
Not like in movies — no fireball into the sky.
Just a deep, choking whump and a bloom of orange and black that lit up the port like war.
Dave crouched near a fishing dock, smoke in his lungs, boy safe beside him.
Jamzy was pacing in tight circles again.
"We dead men," he hissed. "You let that kid go? You mad?"
Dave didn't respond.
He just watched the smoke rise.
Later that night, he returned home.
Window still cracked. Ceiling still leaking.
But on his mattress…
A folded white handkerchief.
Stained with blood.
No note.
No name.
Just the cloth.
And tucked inside?
A SIM card.
Dave stared at it for a long time.
Then slotted it into a spare phone.
One message.
"Soft hearts die fast. Next time, don't blink."
— Dagger
Razor's enforcer had spoken.
This wasn't just business anymore.
This was a warning.
Dave had made a choice — and that choice had drawn a line between him and the street.
A line written in fire.