Chapter 4: The Return of James
Lekki, Lagos. Late Night.
The club was loud — too loud. But James Blake liked it that way.
The bass thumped through the walls like a heartbeat out of control. Smoke curled around the red neon lights, and the air smelled like sweat, cologne, and secrets.
James sat in a corner booth, surrounded by noise but untouched by it. He wore a black silk shirt, unbuttoned just low enough to show off his chest tattoo — a vulture with blood-red wings. On his fingers, heavy gold rings. On his wrist, a watch that could feed a family for a year.
He wasn't the broke musician anymore.
He had power now.
Not the legal kind. The dangerous kind.
He took a slow drag of his cigar and stared at the photo on his phone screen.
Hailey.
Smiling. Hair in curls. Wearing a simple dress, standing next to a tall, lean man with quiet eyes.
James zoomed in on him. Something about the guy felt off. Not just the way he looked, but the way he stood — too calculated. Too composed.
He passed the phone to his associate. "Who's this?"
The man studied it. "Goes by Jay Roland. New student at Rosewell. No online history. No past records. Looks clean."
James frowned. "No one is that clean."
"Maybe he's just a regular guy?"
James took another puff. "No. Hailey doesn't fall for regular."
There was a sharpness in his voice now, something lethal.
He hadn't thought of her in months. Tried not to. He buried her memory in bottles and women, in fast cars and faster crimes.
But one photo… and all the old fire returned.
She had moved on.
With someone else.
While he built empires from dirt and blood.
The rage curled inside him like a snake.
"You want her back?" the associate asked casually.
James leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "I don't want her back."
"I want her broken."
---
Two Days Later.
A small-time hacker hired by James sat in a cyber café near UNILAG, clicking through databases. It took hours — rerouted IPs, ghost accounts, stolen ID lists — but finally, he found something strange.
Jay Roland didn't exist.
Not before two months ago.
No school records. No national ID. No trace.
That night, James received a call.
"He's using an alias," the hacker whispered. "You were right. And get this—he has foreign bank transfers traced back to a Swiss source."
James smiled.
"A rich boy hiding something," he muttered. "I love it when they think money makes them untouchable."
---
Meanwhile, at Rosewell…
Jason felt it before he saw it.
It was a subtle shift — strangers on campus who stared too long, a bike rider who followed his car one evening, a flicker of a shadow in his rearview mirror.
He started noticing patterns.
Hailey didn't.
She was planning a mini campaign for sexual violence awareness. Busy, passionate, glowing. Jason didn't want to ruin her smile — not yet.
But something told him her past was catching up.
One evening, he got a call from Briggs — his longtime head of security. Jason hadn't contacted him in months.
"We have movement," Briggs said without preamble. "You've been spotted."
"By who?"
"Someone with links to the Crimson Vultures. We're running surveillance. You want us to pull you out?"
Jason looked out at the university garden where Hailey was laughing with a classmate.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
"You think it's him?"
"I know it's him."
Jason hung up.
The past he buried under the name Jay Roland was resurfacing — and this time, it wore a face.
James Blake was back.