The automatic doors hissed open, letting the warm night air of Lagos spill into the hospital lobby. Obi and Oliver stepped out together, the fluorescent light fading behind them as the hum of the city filled the silence, generators humming, the distant blare of danfo horns, and the sharp scent of diesel hanging in the air.
Oliver walked slowly, still a little unsteady, his left arm bandaged from shoulder to wrist. The doctors called his recovery a miracle
“Still feels strange, doesn’t it?” Obi asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Oliver smirked faintly. “Strange? More like unnatural. I woke up today and the pain was just... gone.”
“Maybe God’s giving you a second chance,” Obi said, trying to sound casual, though his eyes betrayed a deeper worry. “Xavier’s healing too. Not as fast as you, but... It’s progress.”
Oliver nodded, his expression softening.
They reached the edge of the hospital compound, a sleek, white structure with tinted glass windows, a stark contrast to the cluttered mainland skyline beyond. The Mainland Medical Centre, one of the few private hospitals that actually looked like something out of a city in motion. But the comfort came at a price, one Omonigho had paid with desperation, using the little YouTube creator revenue Xavier had earned on his small YouTube channel but had withdrawn to use for the different projects he and Oliver had planned.
Obi couldn’t forget the story: how she had pulled her brother and Xavier out of that chaotic government hospital, where patients were packed and left unattended for hours, and nurses avoided eye contact unless you had cash in hand.
Now, as they stepped into the dim glow of the streetlights, Obi spoke again.
“You know, Omonigho shouldn’t have had to go through all that. She could’ve called me earlier.”
Oliver shot him a look. “And let you dig into your college fund again? Hell no!”
“Boy, you underestimate me!” Obi said.
They walked in silence for a while, the night breeze carrying the smell of suya and fried plantain from a nearby street vendor. Traffic murmured on the highway, headlights slicing through the humid dark. Obi pulled out his phone, trying for the fifth time to order a ride.
“No drivers nearby,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Everyone’s either at the Island or asleep.”
Oliver chuckled under his breath. “Let's just take the freaking bus.”
Obi frowned. “You sure you can handle it?”
“Relax,” Oliver said, adjusting the small sling bag slung over his shoulder. “It’s not like I’m made of glass.”
Inside the bag were pieces of salvaged camera gear, a camera lens, a memory card case, and a functional mic. The rest of the salvaged gear was already at Obi’s house. Omonigho had brought them there herself after the crash, saying it was safer with him.
The bus stop was half-lit, a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows over a few passengers waiting quietly.
Obi watched Oliver for a long moment, the way his friend’s eyes kept scanning the street, lost somewhere between exhaustion and something deeper.
“You know,” Obi said softly, “you should crash at my place for a few days. It’s quieter. Might help you... breathe again.”
Oliver shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “You just don’t want me sleeping in that shitty tiny place of mine at Yaba.”
Obi grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe I don’t trust you not to pass out mid-editing one of your YouTube videos.”
They both laughed lightly, the kind of laugh people use to hide the things they can’t explain. The bus screeched to a stop, its doors creaking open like an old hinge. Obi helped Oliver climb in, the metal floor rattling beneath their feet.
As the bus lurched forward, the city unfurled outside, neon lights reflecting off puddles, street preachers shouting near closed shops, and the distant skyline of Lagos Island glowing faintly across the lagoon. Obi leaned back, glancing once more at his friend, who had already drifted into silence, his gaze fixed out the window.
Something about Oliver felt... different. Not just healed. Changed.
And Obi couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.
The danfo rattled along the freeway, its old tyres humming over the cracked asphalt. The driver’s radio murmured faintly, a unique song bleeding through static, as yellow streetlights flickered by in uneven rhythm. The air inside the bus was heavy with the smell of sweat, fuel, and the faint metallic tang of rain that had fallen earlier.
Obi sat by the window, his phone dimly lighting his face as he scrolled absentmindedly. Oliver sat beside him, staring straight ahead, lost in thought. The other passengers, mostly men, were unusually quiet. They wore dark clothes, caps pulled low, faces expressionless. A few of them kept glancing around the bus, not at anyone in particular, just scanning. Obi noticed, and a familiar unease crawled up his spine. In Lagos, silence like that was never good news.
He leaned slightly toward Oliver and whispered, “You see these guys? They don’t look right.”
Oliver didn’t answer immediately. His focus was on the dim road ahead, the way the headlights stretched into darkness. “Let’s just get home,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough drama.” Oliver thought to himself as this statement reminded him of his late uncle which whose last memories with him sent chills down his spine and also started a mini panic, but he held his chest to control the situation. He said to himself, “This is different.”
The bus picked up speed as they cleared the congested Oworonshoki bridge, the noise of the city fading behind them. The rhythm of the ride lulled for a moment, the engine’s steady drone, the faint wind through the open window. Then Oliver turned, his tone softer.
“Obi, remember,” he said, “Xavier’s older brother’s flying in from New York on the first flight he can get. He is so stressed from all these. I told him things are better, but maybe we should send a photo, you know, show him Xavier looks alot better than the last image he saw.”
Obi nodded, half-smiling. “Yeah, good idea. Maybe that’ll calm him down.”
He reached for his phone camera, and then the bus light flickered once, twice, and went out completely.
Darkness swallowed the interior. Only the blurred streaks of highway lights outside cut through the shadows.
Before Obi could react, strong arms wrapped around him from behind. A rough cloth pressed hard over his nose and mouth. He tried to shout, but his voice caught in his throat; the chemical sting hit instantly, sharp and burning. His body convulsed, vision dimming. He heard Oliver grunt beside him, then a muffled struggle, boots scraping, a bottle clattering to the floor. He sees from the corner of his eye not just him and Oliver, but a couple of other passengers are being attacked from the back, before everything fell away into silence.
Oliver opened his eyes slowly. His vision was at first blurry; he was on the cold floor. The air was thick, the smell of blood, iron, and wet wood mixed with something foul, something decaying. His head throbbed. Voices echoed faintly in the distance.
“Hold him down!” someone barked.
He blinked hard, trying to steady his vision. A single fluorescent bulb hung above a rough wooden table in front of him, flickering in and out like a dying heartbeat. The rest of the room was swallowed in shadow — the kind of shadow that seemed to move on its own.
Then he saw it.
Blood, a thin stream trickling off the table’s edge, was pooling onto the cracked cement floor. It dripped rhythmically, plop... plop... plop...
“Obi?” Oliver croaked, his voice breaking.
A scream tore through the room, Obi’s voice, raw and terrified. Oliver’s heart seized. His sight cleared just enough to see the shape on the table.
Obi was held down by three men. Two others stood nearby, their mouths stuffed with leaves, eyes glazed over in trance. They muttered under their breath in a language Oliver didn’t recognise, their tones low and rhythmic, like a prayer.
This wasn’t a robbery. This wasn’t random.
He turned his head slightly, and what he saw next ripped the breath from his lungs.
Two bodies lay on the ground beside the table, the same passengers from the bus. Their torsos were split open from belly to chest, ribs splayed apart like broken gates. The blood was still fresh, gleaming under the harsh light. Their faces were frozen in horror.
Oliver’s stomach twisted. His pulse roared in his ears.
He tried to move, his wrists pulled, but they wouldn’t budge. Two men were gripping him from behind, holding him down. Their grip was iron.
He thrashed, panic giving him strength.
One of the men slammed his fist into Oliver’s jaw, snapping his head sideways.
The leader, a tall man in a red wrapper, bare-chested, his body covered in symbols drawn with white chalk, turned toward him slowly. His eyes gleamed under the bulb’s light.
“Be still,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “Your turn is next.”
The words chilled Oliver to the bone.
Oliver couldn’t move. He couldn’t even scream.
His throat locked tight, the air around him thick like wet cloth. But his eyes, wide, trembling, said everything his voice couldn’t.
The leader stepped towards the table. The room seemed to darken around him.
In his hand was a dagger, its edge rusted, the blade wet and red from old stains.
The man moved slowly, almost ceremoniously, until he stood over Obi.
Obi’s screams cut through the air, raw and desperate. He thrashed, fought, his wrists bound, legs kicking against the table.
“Stop! Please!” he shouted, voice cracking.
One of the men yanked Obi’s shirt up, baring his stomach to the cold air. Obi looked down, saw the blade glint, and his entire body stiffened in primal terror. His chest heaved, breath breaking into sobs.
Oliver’s heart pounded like a drum. His mind was spinning. Fear clawed up his chest, freezing him in place. Then, as if through the fog, a memory hit him.
He was ten again, crouched behind his uncle’s on a dusty road outside Benin. Gunshots. His uncle’s arm around him, shielding him as bullets whizzed past, the man’s voice steady even in chaos: “You don’t freeze, Oliver. You fight.”
The memory collided with the present, Obi’s screams, the smell of blood, the cultist’s dagger descending.
The blade touched skin.
It broke the surface.
Time slowed. Sound faded. Oliver’s pupils dilated. Every heartbeat echoed like thunder inside his skull.
Something inside him snapped, a dam bursting open.
His fear ignited into fury.
Electricity, faint at first, flickered in his eyes, now glowing blue.
Then a sharp, violent surge erupted through his veins, racing across his skin in veins of blue light.
He didn’t scream, he roared.
The light expanded, searing, blinding, and in an instant, the occult leader vanished.
A deafening boom tore through the room. The wall behind the leader exploded outward, dust and debris flooding the air.
Oliver stood there, on the other side of the busted wall across the room from the position he was just in a millisecond ago, trembling, his hand crackling with blue lightning that arced across his fingers. His chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes glowing through the dark.
The cult leader’s body was gone — shattered into the next room, crushed into the wall like an insect under a hammer. The dagger lay in pieces near his remains.
The six men left in the room froze where they stood. Their chants had died. Their faith was gone.
And Oliver, no longer trembling, turned toward them.
Let out a roar.
His voice wasn’t human anymore. It echoed, layered, deep and electric.
No one moved.
Oliver charged.
The first man barely saw him coming, a blur of light and movement. Oliver’s fist connected with his chest, sending him flying into the wall. The impact cracked the concrete, leaving a bloody crater.
Another swung a machete; the blade shattered against Oliver’s arm like glass. Oliver responded with a punch so brutal it caved the man’s face in, bone collapsing under the force. The others tried to scatter, but there was nowhere to run.
The blue energy coursing through Oliver’s body was growing stronger, brighter, veins of light racing under his skin. He grabbed one cultist by the throat, slammed him into another, both hitting the ground lifeless.
Another charged at him, Oliver’s kick sent the man airborne, crashing through a wooden pillar.
In seconds, the room was unrecognisable — blood, debris, and the smell of ozone everywhere.
Then, the door creaked open.
A man stepped in, gun drawn, eyes wide in horror. He saw the carnage, saw Oliver standing in the centre of it, surrounded by the bodies of his men.
The gunman fired twice.
The bullets hit Oliver’s chest and ricocheted off, sparks flashing as if striking metal.
Oliver turned. Slowly.
The man’s face drained of colour.
Oliver closed the distance in a blink, grabbed him by the neck, and lifted him off the ground. The gun fell, clattering.
The blue energy surged again, brighter this time, whirling violently around Oliver’s arms.
“You evil bastard!” he roared.
The henchman convulsed, his skin blackening, eyes rolling back, body disintegrating from the inside out. His scream was swallowed by the crackle of lightning as he burned into ash, skin and bones that scattered across the floor.
Then, silence.
Only the faint hum of residual electricity and Obi’s shaky breathing remained.
Obi stumbled to Oliver’s side, clutching his arm. “We need to go. Now!”
Oliver turned to him, still glowing faintly, his body trembling from exhaustion and fury. For a moment, Obi just stared, fear and awe mixing in his eyes.
Whatever had just happened, whatever that power was, it wasn’t anything close to normal, but now it's their miracle.
Oliver nodded once. The glow began to fade. His breathing slowed. The lightning in his veins flickered and died out, leaving faint scorch marks on his skin.
They moved into the dark hallway, shadows stretching long under the dim red glow of an emergency bulb.
From the stairwell ahead, footsteps thundered upward. Voices shouted in Yoruba commands, curses, and fear. Some carried machetes. Others, guns.
Oliver slowed, looking down at his trembling hands, the light gone. The energy... gone.
He looked at Obi, panic creeping back into his voice.
“It’s gone,” he whispered. “The power, it’s gone.”
Obi gripped his arm tighter. “Then we run.”
Gunfire erupted like thunder.
The men at the top of the stairwell opened fire the moment they saw movement, muzzle flashes lighting the dark hallway in rapid bursts. Oliver, standing in front, took the hits first. The impact threw him back against the wall, the force knocking the breath from his chest.
He gasped, clutching his ribs. The bullets didn’t pierce, but they hurt. Deep, bruising pain spread through his torso, worse than before. The power that had shielded him earlier was gone.
“Down!” Obi shouted, dragging him behind the wall as concrete chunks splintered around them.
They crouched, heartbeats pounding in sync with the echoing gunfire. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Obi’s eyes darted toward the heap of ashes and scorched bones where the earlier henchman had disintegrated. Something metallic glinted within it.
Without hesitation, he crawled forward, reached into the smouldering pile, and pulled out the fallen pistol. His hands shook, heat searing his fingers, but he gritted through it. He popped up from cover and fired a series of shots toward the stairway.
The bullets sparked off the concrete steps, forcing the gunmen to halt their advance.
“Oliver!” Obi shouted over the chaos. “What’s wrong? Your strength, it’s gone!”
Oliver tore open his blood-streaked shirt, revealing purple bruises blooming across his chest like storm clouds. The skin was dented where the bullets had struck, but not broken.
“They hit me,” he rasped. “I can feel it this time. But they didn’t go through.”
Obi looked at him, confusion flickering behind his wide eyes. Whatever that energy was, it hadn’t fully left, but it was no longer protecting him either. The spark in Oliver’s eyes, the lightning glow from before, was gone. In its place was raw, human fear.
Obi saw it. And without thinking, he did what came naturally, he moved in front of his friend.
He aimed the pistol back toward the stairs and fired again, forcing the attackers to duck. The return fire shattered the wall inches from his face, spraying concrete dust and deafening him. The impact jarred his grip, the gun slipping from his hand and skidding across the floor.
“Obi, no!” Oliver shouted, panic flaring in his chest.
He couldn’t let Obi die here, not after everything.
Before Obi could stop him, Oliver broke cover and charged up the stairs.
Gunfire roared again. Bullets slammed into his body, shoulders, chest, thigh, each one tearing pain through him, but he kept moving, teeth gritted, eyes burning. He reached the first gunman and punched his face with a single blow. Bone cracked, the man curled in pain instantly.
Another swung a machete, and it sliced across Oliver’s forearm, leaving a bruise. Oliver grunted but powered through, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw so hard it snapped sideways with a sickening crunch. The man dropped down in pain.
The remaining henchmen shouted, firing wildly, but Oliver moved like a force of nature, primal, relentless. He grabbed one man by the neck and slammed him against the stair rail so hard the metal bent. Another lunged at him; Oliver twisted, driving his elbow into the attacker’s throat. The man gagged, stumbled, and fell.
The fight was brutal — messy — a storm of fists, blood, and chaos. Gunshots echoed off the concrete walls. Machete blades scraped. Every hit Oliver took left a mark, but some of the hits he gave left more damage.
When it was finally over, four men lay broken at his feet.
Oliver staggered, breathing hard. His face was bruised, his lip split, and blood seeping from small cuts.
Obi stepped up beside him, gun now back in hand. He looked at his friend, battered, trembling, and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“I’m with you, bro,” Obi said quietly, voice heavy with emotion. “We’ll get out of this hellhole together.”
Then, with calm precision, he turned the pistol downward and fired four shots, one into each fallen henchman. The echoes lingered in the stairwell, final and cold.
They descended to the ground floor, moving carefully. The building’s corridors were narrow, lined with half-finished walls and exposed rebar. When they opened a metal door, the stench hit them first, thick, sour, and unmistakably human.
Inside were bodies. Dozens.
Tables lined the room, and blood pooled beneath them. Some corpses were missing organs; others were still bound, faces frozen mid-scream.
Oliver stepped back, his hand over his mouth. “Jesus…”
Obi’s face hardened. “They’ve been doing this for a while.”
Neither spoke after that. They just moved, quietly, urgently, until they found an exit.
Outside, the night air was cold and still. The building stood in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense bushland. Through the trees, they could see a faint dirt road winding into darkness.
Then, headlights.
A bus rumbled slowly down the path, its engine low and rough. Obi pulled Oliver into the shadows. They crouched behind an old drum, peering through gaps in the rusted metal.
The bus stopped near the entrance. Five men stepped out, talking and laughing in low tones. Their laughter died when the interior lights flicked on, revealing six unconscious passengers sprawled across the seats, new victims.
The kidnappers didn’t know what awaited them inside.
Oliver clenched his fists, rage bubbling up. His body still ached, but anger was stronger than pain now. He turned to Obi.
“They don’t even care,” he whispered. “Not one bit.”
He swallowed hard, then said under his breath, “Better me than him,” referring to Obi.
He glanced back at Obi. “Stay here. If I go down… You run.”
Before Obi could respond, Oliver stepped into the open.
The night light caught his face, bruised, bloodied, and then his eyes began to glow.
Blue light flickered in them again, faint but growing. His veins lit up like crackling wires under his skin. The bruises across his chest started fading. The pain dulled.
He felt it, like a muscle he could flex, something alive inside him.
The men by the bus noticed him and froze. One of them recognised him instantly, the same man who’d been in the bus during the kidnapping. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“Na that guy! The one we took!” he shouted, pulling his gun.
He fired.
The bullets ricocheted harmlessly off Oliver’s chest. Blue light surged across his arms, brighter, hotter, until the entire area glowed in eerie pulses of electricity.
Oliver moved.
In a flash, he closed the distance, his hand grabbing one man by the collar and hurling him toward the building. The man hit the wall with a crack that ended his scream instantly.
Two more attackers rushed him. Oliver’s punches were blurs, bones shattering under each hit. One man dropped after a blow to the neck; another after a chest punch so powerful it left a gaping hole.
Oliver froze for a split second, staring at the hole, horrified by his own strength. He pulled his blood-steamed hand free, trembling — then turned as the last kidnapper bolted into the bushes.
Oliver caught up in an instant. He grabbed the man by the head, spun him around, and stared into his terrified eyes. The blue energy pulsed again, surging from Oliver’s hand into the man’s body.
The kidnapper screamed once, then crumbled into ash.
Silence.
The forest was still again, save for the faint crackle of dying energy.
Obi emerged from the shadows, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Found our stuff,” he said, his voice low, shaken. He looked at Oliver, at the faint blue light still dancing across his skin.
“Let’s go. The others will wake soon. They’ll be safe.”
Oliver nodded. Together, they ran into the night.
The first light of dawn stretched over the Lagos horizon. The city skyline was still a faint shadow in the distance.
By the time the boys reached Obi’s house, the world was just beginning to stir, birds calling, generators humming awake.
Oliver sat on the floor in Obi’s room, trembling, staring at his hands as faint sparks flickered and died out. His breathing was uneven, mind spinning.
“Obi,” he whispered. “What’s happening to me?”
Obi crouched beside him, steady and calm despite the chaos behind them.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “For now, we breathe. We shower. We sleep. When we wake… we start to understand.”
Oliver nodded weakly. The morning light washed over them through the window, quiet, surreal, almost peaceful.
But both of them knew something inside Oliver had awakened.
And it was only the beginning.
