Six Days Later.
Somewhere in Ebute-Metta.
Dave sat inside a small compound house with peeling yellow paint. Not flashy. Not armed to the teeth. But strategic.
The boys inside weren't just street heads. They were thinkers.
Tunji: A tech genius expelled from FUTA, could hack bank logs with a USB stick and a cup of garri. Wale "Thin Ice": Quiet. Calculated. Trained in finance scams and deep web currency flips. Chuka: Ex-seminary student turned social manipulator — could walk into any bank and walk out with someone's soul.
Dave wasn't recruiting thugs.
He was building a machine.
No uniforms.
No tattoos.
No loud chains.
Just order.
"No noise," he told them. "No slang. No ego. Just result."
He called it:
The Framework.
Not a gang.
Not a cult.
A silent corporation of chaos.
And the streets would never see it coming.
Meanwhile… Razor was bleeding.
Literally.
He'd been ambushed in his own safehouse — not killed, just humiliated.
Chairs broken. Knees dislocated. Phone stolen. Warehouse torched.
He limped back into the game with half his crew missing, and a message carved into his floorboards:
"The rules changed. Adapt… or disappear."
He blamed Dave. Of course he did.
But he couldn't touch Dave now.
Not directly.
Not yet.
So instead…
He called someone darker.
Osas.
Also known as "The Red Bishop."
Ex-oil militant.
Known for bathing rivals in diesel and lighting them while they screamed prayers.
Now? A freelancer.
Razor handed him a file.
Inside — photos of Dave, Jamzy, Tessa… maps, drop points, contact names.
Osas closed the folder and said only one thing:
"Consider it handled."
Back at the Framework house.
Dave stared at a whiteboard filled with symbols, arrows, and target cities.
He drew a circle around one word:
"Port Harcourt."
Then turned to his boys.
"Razor still thinks he owns the south. We'll take it while he's bleeding. Quietly. Efficiently. I don't want blood unless it's necessary. No street fights. No headlines."
Thin Ice raised a brow. "How we move there?"
Dave smiled.
"Like shadows."
That night, he sat alone again — outside on the roof, smoking quietly.
Tessa climbed up beside him.
"Everyone's afraid of you now," she said.
Dave exhaled. "They should be."
"Are you afraid of you?"
He turned slowly to her.
Then whispered:
"Not yet."
Port Harcourt.
The oil heart of Nigeria.
Where wealth and rot dance in the same alleys.
Dave touched down at 4:42 a.m.
No entourage.
No tinted convoys.
Just him, a backpack, and silence.
He wasn't here to announce himself.
He was here to install a system.
The Plan:
Step 1: Hijack the street unions through economic dependency.
Not bullets. Micro-loans. Controlled credit. Fake NGOs.Step 2: Slip Framework operatives into existing networks — ride dispatchers, port loaders, phone repair stalls.Step 3: Use Tunji's scripts to reroute foreign transfers through shell accounts disguised as orphanage programs.
No violence.
No noise.
Just leverage.
Dave smiled as he watched it begin — like planting seeds in corrupted soil.
And the soil… was rich.
But Razor wasn't sleeping.
Back in Lagos, the Red Bishop had begun his hunt.
He didn't threaten.
He didn't shout.
He watched.
He followed Tessa after library hours.
Saw who she met.
Tracked her routes.
Then — like a ghost — he left a rose on her window with one razor blade tied to the stem.
She found it the next morning.
Her hands shook as she held it.
Because she'd heard of Red Bishop before.
Everyone had.
In P.H.
Framework Cell Alpha moved quickly.
By Day 3, they'd bought out four major dispatch riders, bribed two telecom engineers, and created proxy ownership of a diesel logistics yard.
Dave was impressed — but not surprised.
What surprised him?
The call.
From Jamzy.
"Bro… I know I messed up. But I need to see you."
Dave paused.
"You in Lagos?"
"No… I'm in P.H."
Silence.
Jamzy continued.
"Someone's following Tessa. I don't know who. But it's dark. Real dark. I… I'm sorry. Please."
Dave's knuckles went white.
He didn't respond.
He just ended the call.
And then…
He told Thin Ice:
"Pull the crew. Get a clean car. We're going back tonight."
Meanwhile…
The Red Bishop had entered P.H. too.
Wearing a priest's collar.
Carrying a briefcase.
Inside the case?
A small BibleA silencerAnd a photograph of Dave Reign, circled in red ink
He placed it carefully on the motel desk.
"Time to baptize the street king."
Night.
Port Harcourt breathed smoke and tension.
Tessa walked fast. Hoodie up. Head down.
She felt it — the eyes.
Not from the street.
From the shadows.
She ducked into an internet café — lit only by a few flickering bulbs. She didn't trust anyone, not after the rose-and-razor.
Logged into a secure line.
Messaged Dave.
"He's here."
"Who?"
"I think it's the one they call Red Bishop."
"Where are you?"
"Café off Rumuola. I didn't go home."
"Stay. Don't move. Someone's coming for you."
Tessa swallowed hard.
"Is it you?"
No reply for a long second.
Then:
"No. It's better."
At the same moment…
Red Bishop knelt at a shrine inside an abandoned church, whispering verses.
He wasn't praying.
He was cleansing.
Behind him, two bodies lay — former P.H. hustlers who tried to tail him.
He'd slit their throats so perfectly, their blood formed a cross on the floor.
He stood, stretched his neck, grabbed his briefcase, and walked into the rain.
Meanwhile...
Dave moved like a ghost.
No bodyguards.
Just him, Chuka, and Thin Ice — parked outside the café in a Toyota that looked too broke to matter.
Inside, Tunji was on his laptop, jamming cameras and police scanners.
"Any movement?" Dave asked.
"Two strange SIMs entered the area five minutes ago. No calls made. Likely burners. Could be Bishop."
"Is she still inside?"
"Yeah."
Dave turned to Chuka. "You remember the plan?"
Chuka nodded once. "Loud if it fails. Silent if it works."
"Let's make it silent."
Inside the café...
Tessa sat at the corner seat.
The bell over the door jingled.
The Red Bishop entered — all black. Priest collar. Pale knuckles.
No rush. No fear.
He walked up to the counter.
Ordered water.
Then turned to her.
"You are Tessa."
She said nothing.
He smiled.
"You've been close to the boy with the drive. That makes you special. That makes you dangerous."
She stood up slowly.
"Why don't you sit down and find out how dangerous?"
He grinned.
Then raised his hand.
In it — a small dart pistol.
But before he could fire—
CLACK.
A silencer coughed behind him.
One shot.
Right to the neck.
Red Bishop froze — eyes wide — dropped the dart gun, stumbled.
Turned around.
Dave stood there.
Cold. Still.
Eyes empty.
"You followed the wrong queen, Bishop."
Red Bishop opened his mouth — no words came. Just blood.
Then he dropped.
Minutes later.
They burned the body in an oil drum behind a car workshop.
No cameras.
No witnesses.
No second chances.
Tessa sat on the ground, shaking slightly.
Dave knelt beside her.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded.
"Was that your first?"
She nodded again. "Close up, yes."
Dave looked away.
Then said:
"It won't be your last."
Lagos. 1 week later.
Razor sat in his compound surrounded by too many men and too little loyalty.
His hand trembled as he lifted a cup of herbal gin.
He hadn't slept well since Red Bishop disappeared.
No one heard from him.
No word. No warning.
But Razor knew.
Dave.
He knew it the same way you know when your shadow isn't yours anymore.
A new name had begun circulating.
"Ghost Boss."
Not shouted.
Not screamed.
Just whispered — the way people whisper the devil's name at night.
Razor stood, tried to speak, but one of his boys burst in.
"Oga, you need to see this."
A brown envelope.
Inside:
A photo of the Red Bishop's signature black briefcase — burned.A USB drive.And a card that read:
"I don't need to kill you. I just need to make sure everyone knows I could."
— D.R.
Razor's chest tightened. He staggered back, lips dry.
"Call the Shitta boys," he snapped. "Tell them we move tonight. We burn something. I want a message!"
But even as he spoke, his men hesitated.
That's when Razor realized:
Fear had switched sides.
Meanwhile.
Dave sat in a rooftop lounge in Accra, Ghana.
Not flashy. Just sharp.
Across from him sat a man in a patterned shirt, thick accent, gold tooth glinting.
"You dey shake things back home, brother," the man said. "We like that. Quiet fire. Not loud mouth."
Dave sipped water. Nothing fancy.
"I heard your city's been losing shipments."
The man leaned forward. "Too many hands. Too many snitches."
Dave slid a paper across the table.
"I can clean that up. Give me one port. One week. No blood."
The man looked impressed.
"You want turf?"
Dave shook his head.
"No. I want routes."
Pause.
"Power is heavy. I prefer control."
That moment?
The Framework became international.
Back in Lagos.
Jamzy sat alone, face thin, eyes sunken, talking to himself.
He hadn't slept since he found the envelope on his door.
He kept hearing things.
Kept seeing Dave.
One time, he woke up screaming — thought he saw Dave sitting at the end of his bed just watching him.
But Dave wasn't there.
That's when Jamzy began to crack.
He smashed his phone.
Slept with a blade.
Stopped eating.
Because guilt?
Guilt doesn't knock. It kicks the door open.
Three days later.
Razor's safehouse burned.
Nobody was inside.
Nobody died.
Just fire.
Fast. Controlled.
And on the wall? A word was spray-painted in red:
"Extinct."
When Razor got there, something inside him broke.
He didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He just sat in the ashes, whispered:
"I'm already dead. He just hasn't buried me yet."
Final Scene: Accra
Dave stood at the port.
Cargo being unloaded. Cranes moving.
Thin Ice stepped beside him.
"You're international now."
Dave didn't smile.
"No. I'm just beginning."
Then he looked out at the ships.
Eyes cold.
Heart locked.
Kingdom loading.