The road to Obasi's last known location was unmarked. No GPS signal, no map trail. Just coordinates sent through a secure line by an anonymous source three nights after the public testimony. The message was brief; a single line in Mira Okoye's cipher: "Where the veil was first stitched, the last thread remains."They knew what it meant. The orphanage. The first building Mira had looked for, which she had vanished from. It had burned decades earlier, but the hidden tunnels below remained intact, untouched by fire, untouched by justice. And now Laila stood before it. Thick scrub covered most of the compound. Vines had wrapped around the old brick, obscuring the lines of its brutality. Kemi, Kaima, and Tobi were left back at the outpost to monitor signals. Cassian alone joined her; he knew this last move would not be protected by tech or strategy. It would be done on a personal level. They crawled stealthily, slithering between the rusty gate and the fallen wall until they came to the cellar door; metal, dented, soot-scabbed. Laila's fingers trembled a bit as she typed in the code they'd found from the microfilm. A hiss of pressure. The lock disengaged. Cassian opened it slowly. The lower hallway was colder than she had recalled. The last time she had been in a place like this facility, she had been a small child hiding behind her mother's legs. Now she walked forward on her own. Emergency lights flickered to illuminate their path. Wires hung from the ceiling. Doors lined the hallway, some labeled with numbers, others with only a red stamp. Laila paused in front of one of the doors. I remember this," she stated. "Mum was crying when she came out of here. I did not understand why." Cassian gazed at the symbol. "Do you want to open it?" She nodded. There was a room that no child ever should have seen. Broken beds, scattered files, the stench of bleach. She stepped in, breathed deeply, and set down one of Mira's recovered pictures on the wall; a picture of the disappeared children, faces smudged by years of silence. "We see you now," she whispered. They moved on. The final room at the end of the corridor had been left alone. Obasi waited within. He sat behind a steel and arrogance desk, still wearing a pressed white shirt. His hair was grayer, his face lined with creases, but the cold determination in his eyes was still there. "I was wondering when you would show up," he said, folding his hands together. Laila didn't blink. "You sent the coordinates." "I did." Cassian stepped forward automatically, but Laila raised a hand to stop him. "Why?" she asked. Obasi leaned back. "Because I wanted to see the kind of woman that Mira raised. The kind of legacy you'd leave." "You mean the kind of threat," Laila breathed. He smiled. "Call it whatever." She moved closer. "You based a system on silence. On fear. On power. You wrecked lives." "I created something this country depended on," he snarled. "And now, you take it down with your sentiment." No," she said. "I bring it down with the truth." Obasi stood. "Then finish it." Cassian raised his hands to the cuffs on his belt, but Obasi held up his hands. "I am not here to flee," he said. "Let history see me whole." Laila pulled out the recording device and activated it. "You will be tried for crimes against humanity," she said slowly. "But before that, you will confess." The confession lasted hours. Every crime. Every name. Every witness entombed in vaults or bought out in shadows. It had all been captured. By the time they emerged from the compound, the sky was shattering into dawn. Cassian escorted Obasi to the parked car, where two Interpol officers stood. Laila did not look back. She looked ahead.
Weeks passed. The trial was the most-watched event on record. Survivors spoke out. Whistleblowers testified. Mira Okoye's diary was read into evidence. The locket. The letters. The documents that were recovered from the fire and memory. Laila did not attend every session, but she attended the day the verdict was delivered. Guilty. On all counts. Outside the courtroom, cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. Laila ignored them all and walked to the crowd of survivors gathered beyond the barriers. She embraced a young girl whose brother had died in one of the compounds. "We are rebuilding," Laila said softly. "You're part of that." In the months that followed, the network continued. Not in secret, but in strength. The Veilbreakers. That is what the media referred to them as. To Laila, though, they were people who had truth over fear.