Three days later.
Rain on corrugated iron roofs.
The city breathing smoke and broken promises.
Dave sat in a dim cyber café behind a phone-accessory stall in Ojuelegba.
The screen glowed in front of him — a blank email form, cursor blinking.
The flash drive from Tessa sat plugged into the dusty CPU tower.
Its contents?
One encrypted folder.
No labels. Just a file name: "D-Chain Protocol"
He hadn't opened it yet.
He didn't know what it was.
But he knew what it felt like.
Power.
And right now, he needed that.
The door creaked open behind him.
He turned, slowly.
A tall woman stepped in — slim, suit jacket over plain jeans, eyes hidden behind aviator shades.
She walked straight to Dave, dropped a folded paper on the desk.
"I represent people who heard what you did to Ijele's warehouse."
Dave said nothing.
She continued. "Razor talks too much. His mouth is his downfall. You… you do things. Quietly."
Dave tapped the flash drive. "And who do you work for?"
The woman leaned in.
"Someone bigger than Chairman. Bigger than this city. A name you don't speak. But they're watching Nigeria now. Watching boys like you."
Dave raised a brow. "Why me?"
"Because you broke rules… and lived."
She stood. "You want more power? Learn to move outside the streets. Learn systems. Learn the global chain."
She pointed at the drive.
"You're already holding the first code."
Then she left — like a shadow.
No name.
No number.
Just the folded paper.
Dave opened it.
Coordinates.
A time.
One word written at the bottom:
"Choose."
Later that night, Dave met Jamzy in an unfinished building near Surulere.
Jamzy looked worse — face thinner, eyes red, spirit twitchy.
"You get anything for me?" Jamzy asked.
Dave tossed him a sealed brown envelope. Cash inside. Clean.
But Jamzy didn't reach for it.
He stared at Dave, lips tight. "You meeting with other people now?"
Dave's eyes narrowed. "You following me?"
Jamzy didn't answer.
Dave's fingers curled slightly.
"You think I'll cut you out?" he asked. "You think I forgot how we started?"
Jamzy laughed — a bitter, broken sound.
"No. I think you're outgrowing me. That's worse."
Silence.
Then Jamzy took the envelope, turned, and disappeared into the shadows.
And Dave knew — the first betrayal had begun.
Midnight.
Outskirts of the city.
A forgotten fuel depot near Badagry, surrounded by bush and rusted tankers.
Dave stood alone, hood up, flash drive in pocket, coordinates in hand.
No guards. No lights. Just the kind of silence that sounds like a warning.
Then a single SUV rolled out of the dark — tinted black, engine whisper-quiet.
It stopped ten feet away.
The passenger window rolled down.
Inside sat a man — maybe early forties, clean-shaven, eyes dead. Not Nigerian. Eastern European.
He didn't speak.
He just pointed to the passenger seat.
Dave got in.
No names were exchanged.
No weapons were drawn.
Just silence — then a single word from the man:
"Protocol."
Dave handed over the flash drive.
The man slotted it into a military-grade tablet.
For ten long seconds, nothing happened.
Then the screen lit up with a rotating global web — lines connecting cities:
Lagos. Cape Town. Berlin. Prague. Dubai. Sao Paulo. Atlanta.
Small red tags blinked across them, labeled:
▪️ Key Routes
▪️ Ghost Accounts
▪️ Dirty Laundries
▪️ Vault Names
Dave stared at the web.
The man turned to him.
"This is what Razor, Chairman, even your local politicians… don't know. This isn't the street game."
"This is the real chain. Black finance. Silent power."
He closed the tablet.
"You got this drive from someone smart. Which means you're lucky. But luck runs out. The question now is: will you run… or will you rule?"
Dave leaned back.
"I'm done running."
The man nodded once.
"Good."
Then he handed Dave a second flash drive — plain, silver, unmarked.
"This is a key. Not just to your rise… but to your survival.
Open it. Learn. Choose your city."
Then he opened the door. "You'll never see me again. But we'll see you — everywhere."
Dave stepped out.
The SUV rolled back into the shadows.
And just like that, Dave was back under the stars — but this time, holding a door to the world beneath the world.
Back in Lagos.
Jamzy sat in a bar off Oworonshoki Bridge, staring at a drink he hadn't touched.
A man sat beside him — short, wide, face hidden by a baseball cap.
He dropped a photo on the table.
Dave.
In the SUV.
"He's outgrowing you. Told you."
Jamzy didn't respond.
The man continued.
"But we can fix that. You help us clip his wings… we'll make sure you fly instead."
Jamzy's eyes twitched.
He looked at the drink again.
Then the photo.
Then back at the stranger.
"What do I need to do?"
2:46 a.m.
Dave sat alone in a cheap hotel room in Mushin.
Curtains drawn. Door bolted. SIM card removed from his phone.
The silver flash drive glinted under the light of a single dying bulb.
He slid it into his laptop.
Password screen appeared.
Then, as if triggered by presence alone, a soft voice echoed from the laptop's speaker:
"Welcome to the Chain."
A menu opened.
Inside:
Encrypted vault accessShell company blueprintsFake ID factories by countryAirport smuggling routesPolitical donation mapsAssassination payout logs
Dave stared at it.
This wasn't a tool.
It was a weapon.
One that could build empires… or collapse governments.
And now, it was in his hands.
Later that day
Library.
Tessa was already waiting. No books. No backpack. Just her. Hands folded.
Dave sat beside her.
"I opened the drive."
She nodded. "Then you know."
"Where did you get it?"
Her eyes darkened.
"My father was part of the Chain. Back when they ran Central Africa's oil corridors. He got too ambitious. Thought he could outsmart the silent bosses."
Dave leaned in. "What happened?"
"He disappeared. No body. No charges. Just… erased."
Silence.
Then she added, "He left that drive with me. Said: 'If anyone finds this, they'll kill to silence it. But if someone understands it — they can own the world.'"
Dave looked at her carefully. "Why me?"
Tessa smiled faintly. "Because you're dangerous in all the right ways. But still human. That won't last."
That evening.
Dave got a message.
Unmarked.
No sender.
"If you want to move product from Cotonou to Lagos without sniffers, meet us by the boatyard tonight. Come alone. Bring no phones. Bring silence."
He recognized the tone.
International. Clean. Cold.
He wrote the location down, burned the paper, and slipped out.
Boatyard. 10:32 p.m.
Fog covered the water. Cargo containers stood like grave markers.
Dave approached carefully.
Then he saw them — two men in fitted jackets, one with a burn scar across his jaw, the other lighting a cigar with a windproof flame.
They barely looked up.
"You the kid with the chain key?"
Dave nodded once.
Scarface spoke.
"Good. We got a sample for you to move. Just five crates. Untouchable. You succeed — you handle ports across West Africa."
Dave tensed. "What's in the crates?"
The other man smiled slowly.
"Don't ask questions you can't afford answers to."
Meanwhile…
At a hidden corner of Ikorodu, Jamzy sat with a burner phone.
Breathing hard.
Fingers twitching.
He'd been given instructions.
Drop a pin.
Just a pin.
To expose Dave's location at the boatyard.
He stared at the screen.
Sweat pooled in his palm.
His thumb hovered over the button.
Then…He pressed Send.
Boatyard. 12:12 a.m.
Dave stood by the crate marked "S7-KH", fingers lightly tracing the lock.
Scarface and Cigar Man had stepped aside, whispering near the dock's edge. Their backs were turned — but something felt wrong.
Too much silence.
Too little movement.
Dave didn't breathe.
He just listened.
Then he heard it.
A soft metal click.
Above.
Sniper perch.
Rooftop shadows.
Ambush.
He acted fast.
Pulled his lighter.
Dropped it on a trail of leaked fuel by the crates.
Flame surged instantly — smoke clouding the air.
"Move!" someone shouted. "Get him!"
But by the time the first bullet cracked the air, Dave was gone — already crawling beneath the dock, wet to the chest, cold, but calm.
Scarface was screaming into a walkie. "He set us up!"
Dave heard it all.
He heard panic.
And he smiled.
Because they didn't know…
He knew about the betrayal before even coming.
Two hours earlier.
Tessa had messaged one word on paper:
"JAMZY."
Dave didn't need more.
He checked the burner.
One outgoing pin, sent to a strange ID — just thirty minutes after Dave told Jamzy about the boatyard.
He knew.
He always knew.
So he turned the game around.
He had already called in his own crew — not Razor's, not local boys.
Two tech-runners from Ghana he'd bribed through the D-Chain's side network.
They were watching the roof before Dave even stepped into the yard.
So now…
It was time to clean house.
Back at the boatyard.
Dave crawled from the water, came around behind a stack of tires.
Pulled the pistol he'd wrapped in plastic.
One deep breath.
Then silence… broken by a single, cold gunshot.
Scarface dropped.
The other man reached — too slow.
Another shot.
Both down.
No words.
No mercy.
Just strategy.
Dave walked up to the crates.
He found a phone in Cigar Man's jacket.
Dialed one of the encrypted contacts inside.
A voice answered in Russian-accented English.
"We heard gunfire."
Dave replied calmly:
"Your men made noise. I fixed it. The shipment's safe. Your ports are mine now."
Click.
Call ended.
Just like that…
He had sent a message — not just to Lagos…
But to the Chain.
Dave wasn't a pawn.
He was a player.
Later that morning.
Jamzy sat at his mother's old house — eyes bloodshot, shaking.
He hadn't heard from Dave.
He thought he'd be dead by now.
He didn't expect the knock on the door.
Didn't expect to open it and find a single brown envelope.
Inside:
A photo of the two dead men at the boatyardA bulletA note written in red marker:
"I knew. Still spared you. Once.
— D"
Jamzy's hands trembled.
Because now he knew the truth.
Dave wasn't soft.
He was calculating.
And worse… he was becoming unstoppable.