Mushin never slept. It only waited — for its next body.
The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the gutters still coughed up dark water, and the streetlights flickered like they were scared to shine. Somewhere in the distance, a bottle shattered, and someone screamed.
Dre stood by the corner where his brother died.
Same spot.
Same blood, dried on the cracked cement.
People had walked over it like it was nothing. But to Dre, it was sacred ground.
He didn't cry. Not because it didn't hurt — it hurt more than breathing. But in Mushin, if they see your tears, they smell weakness. And weakness got you killed.
"Dre," someone said behind him.
It was Rico. Kofi's closest guy. A thick scar ran from his neck to his jaw — street-born, prison-raised, always carrying something sharp. Tonight, he looked like a man who'd seen a ghost.
"You've been standing here too long," Rico said, lighting a stick of Rothmans. "Go home. This place don't care."
Dre didn't answer. He stared at the burnt candle someone had left by the bloodstain.
"He was your brother, yeah," Rico continued, "but you ain't Kofi. You don't have to carry his war."
Dre finally looked up. His eyes didn't blink. "Then who will?"
Rico hesitated.
Nobody in Mushin wanted to talk about who killed Kofi — not even his own crew. They called it a "drive-by gone wrong." But everyone knew the bullet had a name on it. And it wasn't just random.
Rumors said Spanner, the wild dog of the Black Iron gang, had something to prove.
Others whispered that Inspector Adebayo, the crooked police chief, had beef with Kofi after refusing to pay bribe for "protection."
Some said it was from inside. Someone close. Someone trusted.
That's what kept Dre awake.
"Mama's asking of you," Rico said. "She hasn't eaten since the news. You know she won't sleep unless—"
"I know," Dre said. His voice was low, rough.
Rico took a deep drag, then flicked the cigarette onto the blood patch. "Just... don't do anything stupid. You hear me?"
Dre didn't nod. Didn't move. He was already thinking ten steps ahead.
---
Back home, Mama Tola was kneeling by the old radio, whispering prayers in Yoruba. The generator buzzed weakly, and the smell of fried pepper hung in the air from the buka she ran downstairs.
She looked up when Dre entered.
"You shouldn't be walking around, not after what happened," she said. Her eyes were swollen, her wrapper loosely tied around her thin frame.
"I had to," Dre said. "I had to see."
She touched his arm. "Your brother wouldn't want you to walk this road."
"I don't think we get to choose anymore," he replied.
She sighed and turned back to her prayer. "Pray for your brother's soul."
Dre said nothing.
He wasn't praying for souls.
He was counting names.
---
The next day, the Zone Boys met under the burnt-out kiosk near Igbobi junction. There were five of them left from Kofi's old circle — Rico, Slender, Tipsy, Bone, and Dre.
They greeted Dre like a ghost.
"I didn't think you'd show," Slender said.
"I didn't think we'd let Kofi's death pass like silence," Dre replied.
Bone chewed toothpick like it was a ritual. "What do you want, Dre? War?"
"No," Dre said. "Truth."
Tipsy laughed without humor. "Same thing."
Rico looked around. "We can't just start asking questions. Not out loud. Mushin listens."
Dre leaned forward, quiet but sharp. "Then we whisper. Until we find who pulled the trigger."
There was a pause. Wind blew dust through the street. A danfo honked aggressively nearby.
Slender broke the silence. "You hear about Mama Duru? Old woman who lives near Olosa Street? She say she saw the car that night."
Dre's jaw tightened. "Then that's where I'm going."
"She crazy, bro," Tipsy said. "Talks to cats."
"She saw something," Dre replied. "And crazy or not, that's more than any of you are offering."
---
As the sun dipped low over Mushin, painting the streets in fire-orange, Dre walked alone to Olosa Street. His brother's voice echoed in his head:
"If anything ever happens to me… trust no one, not even the ones smiling beside you."
He didn't know who to fear more — the gang, the cops, or his own people.
But one thing was certain.
Somebody wanted Kofi dead.
And Dre wasn't leaving Mushin until he knew who… and why.