Lagos, 2079 – NDLEC, Ghost Cell One
The rain didn't fall anymore in Lagos; it shimmered — droplets glitched midair as nanobarriers filtered water from acid. The sky above was a dull chrome, lit by layered drone lanes and the pale glow of digital billboards that blinked like tired gods.
Tunde Bako stepped off the maglev tram and adjusted his collar. His NDLEC Delta-9 badge flashed red once as he passed a biometric scanner embedded into the sidewalk. A calm voice — female, synthetic — echoed from a speaker overhead.
"Welcome to the Nigerian Drug Law Enforcement Commission. Verify identity."
He placed his palm on the glass pedestal. Cool. Buzzing.
"Tunde Ajayi Bako. Clearance Level: Delta-9. Assignment: Confidential. Proceed to Level 11."
The doors of the NDLEC tower slid open silently. It was shaped like a clenched fist, black steel and blue-tinted glass clawing at the sky — the kind of architecture that warned you it wasn't here to be pretty. It was here to win wars.
Inside, the silence pressed on him. No posters. No distractions. Just cold marble, recessed lights, and a small army of agents moving with purpose.
He took the lift alone. When the doors opened on Level 11, he was met by a woman in an NDLEC tactical suit — skin the color of polished wood, hair in tight coils, a glowing red lens replacing her left eye.
"Bako," she said.
"Ma," he replied, standing straight.
"Follow me."
She led him through a corridor filled with glass-walled offices. Some held agents in VR interrogation rigs. Others were full of real-time drug analytics projected into 3D above sleek tables. No one smiled. The war against drugs wasn't metaphorical here. It had casualties.
Inside her office, Commander Farida Danjuma motioned for him to sit. Her face was unreadable.
"I read your file. Highest scores we've had in five years. Tactics, deception, neurolinguistics. You're not a soldier, Bako. You're a chameleon."
"I'm ready for the field, ma."
She leaned back. "The field doesn't exist anymore. This isn't 2025. There's no bush to hide in, no borders to cross. The war's in the clubs, the cloud, the bloodstream. We're losing. And we need someone nobody sees coming."
She pressed a button. The wall behind her flickered to life, showing a holomap of Lagos.
"The drug is called Neon Dust. Synthetic. Lab-grown. Precision dosed. Causes extreme focus, confidence, euphoria. Three hours later — brain hemorrhage."
Tunde's throat tightened. "How widespread?"
"Started in Obalende. Now it's in Ikoyi, Lekki, even the VR schools. We've traced distribution to a club called Noir — but that's just a spoke. The wheel is much, much larger."
She slid a file across the desk — real paper, not digital.
"Your new identity. Kene Oba. Former VR engineer. Street smart. Arrested once in Benin for piracy. Your job is to infiltrate, connect, rise. We'll supply minimal support. You're on your own, Bako."
Tunde opened the file. His new face stared back. Same skin. Slightly longer locs. A scar on the left cheek, digitally embedded through skin markers.
"What's the endgame?" he asked.
"Expose the source. Follow the money. Someone at the top is feeding this system. We believe the network reaches into Abuja, Benin City, and Warri. CEOs, senators, foreign nationals. This isn't just a cartel. It's a cabal."
"And if I get burned?"
She didn't blink. "You die with your cover intact."
He nodded. No bravado. No fake courage. Just quiet agreement.
She stood and handed him a small black capsule.
"Behind your left ear. Micro-injected ID, encrypted files, comms override. Activated by thought. Only you can access it."
Tunde took it. Pierced the skin behind his ear. It stung for a moment — then went cold.
"You leave tonight. Your first contact is a bouncer at Noir. Goes by Broda Vic. Don't flash. Don't act like a cop. Lagos will swallow you if you fake the vibe."
He stood to go. "Yes, Commander."
"One more thing," she said. "This is your first mission. It will mark you, one way or the other. I suggest you remember who you are before the city teaches you who it wants you to be."
He left her office and stepped back into the lift. As the doors closed, his reflection stared back — still Tunde, but not quite. A boy who aced his FIA training. A boy who believed in justice.
But the Lagos he was entering didn't believe in justice.
It believed in money. Power. Control.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The neon sky pulsed over a city that never slept.
And deep beneath the music, the lights, and the algorithms — something monstrous was breathing. Not knowing this will be his first and the last mission he'd undertake as NDLEC agent.