Surulere – Bayo's Office, Morning
The sun rose over Surulere like a cautious observer, its light slicing through smog and bouncing off rooftops. The chaos below stirred—hawkers shouting, buses blaring, a city pretending not to know it was under siege.
Inside his office, Bayo stood by the window, a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside untouched files. His eyes were steady, but his mind was a storm of calculation and defiance.
Tope entered quietly, her tablet pressed against her chest.
"The audit trail's complete," she said softly. "You were right. The subcontracts have been rerouted."
Bayo turned, his voice controlled.
"How deep?"
"Deep enough to choke the project," Tope replied. "Half the North Lagos allocations are funneled through three shell companies—same signature patterns, different names. And all roads lead back to Governor Kareem Okunlola."
Bayo exhaled slowly, his gaze hardening.
"Eze is just the mask," he said. "The Governor is the mouth that feeds."
He walked to the map on the wall, tracing routes between Mushin, Surulere, and the island.
"Mutiu's disappearance wasn't random. Neither was his release. They're forcing me into the open. They want the city to think I cracked—or sold out."
Tope studied him.
"And you didn't."
Bayo looked out through the window, watching the city breathe beneath the smog.
"I never do," he said. "But in Lagos, refusing a hand means declaring war."
———
Mushin – Safe House, Midday
Mutiu sat on a threadbare couch, the hum of an old fan filling the silence. His clothes were still damp from last night's rain. Across the table lay the opened envelope—papers, flash drives, and coded pages scattered like evidence of betrayal.
He inserted a drive into an old laptop. Lines of data filled the screen—project codes, financial breakdowns, supply routes. But something was wrong.
He frowned, scrolling faster. Some numbers didn't add up. Dates clashed, entries duplicated. The deeper he looked, the colder the truth became.
"These files aren't meant to expose anyone," he muttered. "They're meant to bury him."
His burner phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He hesitated, then answered.
A hushed voice came through.
"Mutiu, you don't know me. I used to work in Alausa—internal procurement. Those documents you have… they've been doctored. They make it look like Bayo authorized the diversions."
Mutiu's grip tightened.
"You're saying he's being framed?"
"It's already in motion," the caller said. "Once the press gets those files, he's done. They've lined up witnesses, dates, signatures. It's airtight—on paper."
The call ended abruptly.
Mutiu sat back, breath uneven. He looked down at the papers, realizing the weight he'd carried wasn't proof—it was poison.
"Damn it, Bayo," he whispered. "They're using me to destroy you."
He grabbed the flash drive, shoved the papers into his bag, and rose. The walls seemed to close in. The safe house didn't feel safe anymore—it felt like a snare waiting to tighten.
———
Ikoyi – Governor's Residence, Afternoon
The Governor's mansion overlooked the Lagoon like a god's throne—marble, glass, and quiet menace. Governor Kareem Okunlola sat behind a wide mahogany desk, tie loosened, eyes sharp with calculation.
Across from him stood Mr. Eze, posture impeccable as always.
"The media cycle is ready," Eze said. "Once the doctored files leak, the public will crucify him. He'll lose credibility before he even blinks."
Okunlola smiled faintly, lighting a cigar.
"Good. Lagos needs obedient dreamers, not stubborn ones. Bayo thinks he can play fair in a dirty game."
Eze adjusted his cufflinks, eyes cautious.
"He's gaining sympathy—workers, local unions, small contractors. They see him as honest. That kind of influence doesn't fade quietly."
The Governor leaned forward, voice dropping.
"Then we make him dirty. When the Bureau comes knocking, even his friends will step away."
He turned toward the window, watching the Lagoon shimmer in the afternoon light.
"This isn't about money," he said coldly. "It's about air. Whoever controls the air controls the people. And I intend to own every breath Lagos takes."
Eze nodded, but a flicker of unease crossed his face. Even among wolves, the Governor's hunger was terrifying.
———
Surulere – Evening Strategy
The sky over Lagos turned bruised purple as night crept in. In Bayo's office, tension hummed like an electric current.
Tope's fingers danced over her keyboard while Bayo analyzed the last wave of financial logs. Then a soft ping broke the silence—an encrypted message.
From: Mutiu.
FILES POISONED. SOME FIGURES ALTERED. YOU'RE THE TARGET. CHECK ENTRIES 7B-11 TO 9A-04.
Bayo's expression hardened.
"Tope, cross-reference Tuesday's submissions. Who accessed them?"
She scanned quickly. "Analyst Daniel Aina. He's been remote since Friday. His credentials were used to modify the records."
"They bought him," Bayo said quietly. "Or scared him."
Tope hesitated. "Do we confront him?"
"No," Bayo replied. "We expose them, not chase them."
He opened a folder on his laptop, revealing his original archived versions of the project files—untouched, timestamped, verified. He uploaded them to an encrypted cloud.
Tope frowned.
"You're using your whistleblower link?"
"Not mine," he corrected. "Anonymous. Truth has no name."
A few keystrokes later, the files were on their way to The Civic Pulse, Lagos's only independent investigative outlet.
Tope turned to him, her voice low.
"This could destroy your career."
Bayo smiled faintly, the weariness in his eyes replaced by quiet fire.
"No, Tope. It'll destroy theirs. They started this blaze—I'm just showing them how to burn clean."
———
Mushin – Safe House, Night
Rain beat softly against the window. Mutiu sat in the dim light, the television flickering with breaking news.
Headlines: Scandal Rocks City Project—Bayo Adeniran Linked to Fraud Scheme.
He could see the manipulation unfolding in real time—the doctored files, the planted witnesses, the lies. But he also knew the truth was already spreading, slowly, like controlled flame.
He typed one last message to Bayo.
I was their bait. Not anymore. If Lagos must burn, let's make sure the fire finds its way home.
He deleted the chat history, powered off the phone, and leaned back. The rain outside sounded like applause for defiance.
———
Surulere – Closing Scene
The city lights blinked like dying embers. In his office, Bayo stood by the window, watching lightning ripple across the skyline.
"The price of fire," he murmured, "is learning who can stand the heat."
Tope stood at the doorway, her voice soft.
"And if the city burns?"
He turned to her, eyes steady.
"Then we make sure it burns for something."
Outside, thunder rolled. Somewhere in Lagos, deals were rewritten, loyalties collapsing under the weight of truth.
And for the first time, Bayo Adeniran was no longer playing defense.
He was rewriting the rules.
———
Every breath in Lagos carried the scent of smoke—and the promise of reckoning.