The newsroom was quieter than usual that morning that rare stillness before the flood of breaking headlines. Outside, the Abuja sun was climbing slowly, spilling gold light through the tall windows of The National Lens. The hum of old computers and the faint whir of ceiling fans gave the room its pulse.
Adanna Adenike sat at her desk, her half-empty mug of coffee growing cold. She had been staring at her screen for ten minutes not because she didn't have work to do, but because her mind refused to settle.
She had built a career out of exposing other people's secrets, yet her own life had become one long silence.
She rubbed her eyes and clicked open her email. Dozens of unread messages blinked in her inbox, including press invites and spam. But one subject line stood out in stark, bold letters:
*Whispers in the Void*
No sender name. No signature. Just a timestamp 2:17 a.m.
She almost deleted it. Anonymous tips were often nothing but noise fake leaks, threats, or worse. But curiosity was the curse of every journalist worth her ink.
She clicked.
The message contained a single paragraph.
*"The man who vanished five years ago, the one you believed had died, lives. And he's not as you imagined him to be".*
Her hand froze on the mouse.
Five years ago.
She reread the line. Her heartbeat grew louder, filling the small space between her ears. There was no name mentioned, but she didn't need one. She knew exactly who the email was intended for.
Kenechukwu Okafor.
The man who taught her how to believe in love, and then shattered everything she believed in.
Her first story.
Her first betrayal.
Her first ghost.
Adanna exhaled shakily. She had buried that name, that past, under years of silence and work. She had promised herself she'd never look back. But fate, it seemed, was always watching from the corner of the room.
She leaned back, closing her eyes briefly. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw his face again: the calm brown eyes that always seemed to be hiding something, the quiet smile that used to make her forget about deadlines.
She forced the memory away.
No. Not again.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Tomi, her editor.
Tomi: "Meeting in 15 mins. Got a new lead on that corruption story. Big names involved. Bring your notes."
She typed a quick reply:
"On my way."
But her thoughts stayed on that email. "Whispers in the Void." It wasn't random. Whoever sent it knew what that phrase meant. It was what she and Kene used to call their late-night radio show back in university a private project that got them both noticed… and nearly expelled.
No one else should've known that.
By the time she walked into the conference room, her face was calm again the mask every journalist learns to wear. Tomi and the others were deep in discussion about government contracts, missing funds, and a suspicious shell company. She took notes quietly, pretending to focus, but the words alive and not who you think he is kept flashing in her head.
When the meeting ended, Tomi stopped her.
"Adanna, are you okay? You've been quiet."
"I'm fine," she lied. "Just tired."
He studied her face, then shrugged. "Get some rest. You look like someone just dug up a ghost."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe they did."
That night, she sat in her small apartment in Wuse 2, lights dim, the city outside humming like a restless heart. The email was still open on her laptop. She zoomed in on the metadata, tracing the sender's route. Whoever sent it had used multiple VPN layers someone who knew how to hide.
Her eyes caught a single attachment she hadn't noticed before. A photo file, encrypted. She entered her usual decryption tool. A minute later, the image blinked onto her screen.
It was grainy, taken in low light but unmistakable.
Kene.
Standing beside a black SUV, talking to a man she recognised instantly.
A senator.
One is currently under investigation for money laundering.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her phone. She should report this. She should tell Tomi. But something in her, something fragile and furious, whispered otherwise.
What if it wasn't just a lead?
What if it was a warning?
The clock struck midnight.
Her reflection in the laptop screen looked different not the calm, composed woman her colleagues saw every day, but someone standing on the edge of a story that could consume her life again.
Her phone buzzed. A new message.
Unknown number.
"You shouldn't have opened the email."
Adanna froze.
Her living room lights flickered once, then steadied.
Somewhere outside, a car engine started and drove away.
She sat very still, her breath shallow.
The void had whispered again.
And this time, it wasn't done with her.