The scent of charred paper and scorched fabric still clung to the air, ghosting across the broken streets of Lagos. Smoke rose like incense from the remnants of what used to be a pressroom, now reduced to rubble and ember. Charcoal blackened the pavement. Windows glimmered with soot-stained reflection. The city wasn't weeping anymore; it was holding its breath.
Dapo stood like a sentry over his unraveling world from the rooftop of a collapsed municipal building. The files recovered from the warehouse, now destroyed, had only deepened the mystery. Behind every name was another. Behind every truth, a lie with longer legs.
"You're bleeding," Alero said beside him, wiping blood off his cheek with her sleeve. "You didn't notice?"
"I don't have time to notice."
Alero frowned. "You will if it slows you down."
Below them, the remnants of last night's chaos continued smoldering. The attack on the SafeZone wasn't just a message; it was a statement: no one was safe. The government hadn't issued a response yet, but that silence was its own form of declaration. Somewhere in the ruins, bodies were still being pulled out. The city had long crossed the line between resistance and war.
Dapo turned to Alero, "Where's Chuka?"
"Gone," she replied. "Disappeared just after the raid. Nobody saw him leave, but there's chatter he was seen heading towards Agbado with a convoy."
"Whose convoy?"
Alero shook her head. "Unmarked"
It didn't sit right. Chuka wasn't a deserter. If he vanished, it was either to protect something or to bury it deeper.
Dapo's phone buzzed; the screen was cracked but functional. It was a message from Tari:
"Meet me at the old ferry terminal. 5PM. Come alone. I have the missing pieces."
His jaw tightened. Tari had gone dark since the events of Onikan. Her reappearance meant either she had found what she was looking for or she was setting a trap. Both options required courage and a bulletproof plan.
The ferry terminal in Marina was derelict, its hull-like walls stained with graffiti and rain. The boats were long gone. Only rusted skeletons bobbed at the edges like forgotten promises. Dapo stepped inside slowly, footsteps echoing across cracked concrete.
"Tari?"
Silence.
He moved further in. A pigeon startled from the rafters. Then a figure emerged from the shadows, hooded, slender, cautious. Tari.
"You came," she said.
"You called."
"I wasn't sure you'd still trust me."
"I don't," Dapo replied. "Start talking."
Tari pulled out a small drive and tossed it to him. "Everything we couldn't find at the warehouse is on there. Names. Accounts. Audio files. Project Aremo was just the tip. There's another layer. A deeper operation called Oro-Ekun, funded directly through shell companies tied to the vice president's shadow accounts."
Dapo stared at the drive. "What's the endgame?"
"They're building a shadow government," she said. "Parallel structures, foreign funding, total information control. If they succeed, Lagos won't just be a city; it'll be a kingdom under smoke, ruled by ghosts."
He wanted to believe she was exaggerating, but he'd seen too much already. "And this is all real?"
Tari handed him a photo, grainy but clear. "That's the vice president meeting with General Okpara and leaders of the NFSR, the rogue faction we thought dissolved years ago."
Dapo's blood chilled.
"They're not planning a coup," she continued. "They've already executed one. Quietly. Strategically. Bit by bit. The elected government is just a puppet show now."
"So what do we do?"
Tari looked him in the eye. "We go public."
He shook his head. "They'll kill us before we reach the airwaves."
"Then we don't use the airwaves. We use the streets."
Back at Safehouse Seven, one of the few they hadn't compromised, Dapo laid out the files before a haggard group: Alero, Taye, Farouk, and Wura. Each face was more exhausted than the last.
"The files confirm our worst fears," Dapo said. "Project Aremo wasn't a political tool; it was a weapon."
Farouk leaned forward. "And what exactly is Oro-Ekun?"
"A system of manipulation," Dapo explained. "Digital profiling, voter control, media blackouts, clandestine arrests. Built to make Lagos forget who it is so they can mold it into something else."
Wura stood. "Then we leak it."
"Not enough," Dapo said. "We expose the hierarchy, name by name, transaction by transaction. We confront them where they cannot hide."
"You're proposing a confrontation?" Taye asked. "In public?"
"Not just a confrontation," Dapo replied. "A reckoning."
Two days later, during the Governor's masked charity gala, one of the year's most televised events, everything came to a head.
The gala was a spectacle of glittering glass and orchestrated smiles. Politicians, moguls, and foreign dignitaries danced beneath gold chandeliers while Lagos bled outside. Dapo, in a borrowed tuxedo and forged clearance, entered through the catering entrance with Alero dressed as a server beside him.
Hidden under trays and covered in napkins were four memory sticks, each pre-loaded with the files. Their target: the DJ booth connected to the external broadcast feed. The goal: hack the system, override the feed, and broadcast the truth.
Dapo made his way to the booth. Every step was a beat closer to exposure. His palms itched. Alero split off toward the comms cabinet. The guards didn't even blink.
He reached the booth. Inserted the drive.
A warning popped up: External override detected. Confirm?
He hit yes.
The music cut. Murmurs filled the hall. Then static.
Then video.
The first clip showed General Okpara receiving a brown envelope from the vice president. Then the accounts. Wire transfers. Dossiers. Then, testimony, anonymous, encrypted voices outlining the true scope of Oro-Ekun.
Gasps echoed across the room. Some guests rose. Others sat in stunned silence. Security scrambled, but the feed was being mirrored off-site; it couldn't be stopped now.
Then the final bombshell: footage of Governor Odediran, laughing, glass in hand, while protestors were gunned down in Alagbado.
And just like that, Lagos exploded.
Outside the gala, a crowd had gathered, hundreds watching the truth unfold on their devices. Some began marching toward the building. Others lit candles. Others lit fires.
Within minutes, chaos and clarity collided.
Dapo and Alero fled through the back as police sirens wailed. Farouk called from the Safehouse. "We've triggered something massive. Protests are erupting in Surulere, Festac, and Lekki. They're burning effigies."
"Any word from Chuka?" Dapo asked.
There was a pause. Then, "He's alive, but captured."
Dapo's throat tightened.
"Where?"
"Kirikiri."
"Get a plan ready," Dapo said. "We break him out."
Farouk chuckled bitterly. "You're out of your mind."
"No," Dapo replied. "I'm out of time."
Hours later, deep in the smoke-filled corners of Lagos, Dapo stared into the skyline. Fires dotted the horizon like angry stars. The city wasn't asleep anymore. It was waking up, firelit and furious.
Kingdoms built on smoke couldn't last forever.
But to bring them down,
Someone had to walk through fire first.