Idan Odogwu's hands, were currently handling engine oil.
He knelt beside a battered Toyota Camry in the greasy lot of Mama Caro's Quick-Fix, a small, one-man-show mechanic shop tucked away in a bustling, low-income district of the city. He wore a faded blue jumpsuit, stained with the historical evidence of a thousand vehicular battles.
He was a masterpiece in camouflage.
At six-foot-four, his frame was impossible to ignore. He possessed the sculpted, lean musculature of a high-fashion runway model, but beneath the grease and the cheap fabric, that frame housed the kinetic power of a heavy-weight boxer. His skin, a deep, flawless blue tinged obsidian black, was currently glistening with sweat and engine grime. He had the kind of face that demanded attention—clean jawline, high cheekbones, and dark, brooding eyes that usually held an expression of profound, almost bored, patience.
When he moved, there was no wasted motion. He didn't fumble for the wrench; his hand was already there. He didn't grunt or struggle with the lug nut; it yielded with a soft clack under his controlled torque. Every movement was a study in economy and applied force, honed by instinct and the same strategic mind that made great generals conquerors.
His current life, however, as a mechanic's assistant was honest, hard work that paid cash and kept him off the grid—the perfect mask for a man jaded by the mundanities of the contemporary era.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of black oil across his temple. His attention drifted to the corner of the lot, where his true treasure rested.
It was a matte-black powerbike, a heavily modified Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14R (the bike he settled on after was less flashy than the Yamaha R1 but still an absolute beast, practical yet monstrous). He had painstakingly stripped away any unnecessary weight, tuned the engine to an impossible degree, and reinforced the frame. It looked menacing, practical, and fast—a reflection of its owner.
"Idan!" Mama Caro, a rotund woman with an infectious laugh, called out from the doorway, her voice competing with the traffic noise. "Get going! That fuel tank is bone-dry and I need this oil filter replaced before sundown!"
Idan nodded once, quickly cleaned his hands with a rag, and shrugged off the jumpsuit to reveal a simple, clean black T-shirt and dark jeans. He didn't rush, but in the time it took an average man to take three steps, he was already straddling the Ninja. He thumbed the starter, and the bike roared to life—a deep, resonant growl that cut through the city noise.
He pulled out of the lot, heading for the high-end filling station near the business district. His eyes, though seemingly placid, were already cataloging the state of the street: traffic density, potential choke points, and the precise angle of the late afternoon sun.
Idan pulled into the gleaming, corporate PrimeFill Station. It was situated right on the border between the low-income area and the district where glass towers scraped the sky—the domain of the fat cats.
He parked at the pump and started fueling. The delicious scent of high-octane gasoline mingled with the city's dust and exhaust.
Next to him, an obsidian-black, armored Mercedes G-Wagon idled. It was immaculate, a fortress on wheels. Inside, he caught a glimpse of the driver, a massive man in a dark suit, looking sternly ahead through his shades. In the back seat, however, sat a woman who drew Idan's calculated attention.
She was young, dressed in sharp, expensive tailoring, but her demeanor was frayed. She held a sleek smartphone pressed to her ear, her expression one of controlled, intense panic. She was talking in quick, hushed tones, her eyes darting nervously to the side mirror.
Idan instantly recognized the type: rich heiress, by the aura of suppressed tension and extreme wealth she carried. She was the kind of person who existed in a different dimension of reality, where the rules of the common man didn't apply.
Something is off, Idan's mind registered instantly. The armed driver was tense, but his eyes were focused on the road, not the environment. Eshe was checking the mirror too often. They were expecting trouble, but they weren't prepared for the kind of trouble that was coming.
He topped off his tank, paid the attendant with cash, and was just slipping his helmet back on when the relative peace of the station shattered.
A heavily tinted, matte-black Ford Transit van, moving like a predator that had just spotted its prey, screeched into the station, cutting off the G-Wagon and boxing it in against the pump.
The van doors didn't slide open—they were kicked open from the inside.
Four men in full tactical gear—balaclavas, black vests, and thick gloves—poured out, moving with terrifying, military-grade efficiency.
Weapons check, Idan's strategic mind clicked immediately: Three with suppressed automatics (AK-variants), one with an Uzi submachine gun for close-quarters deterrent.
The driver of the G-Wagon didn't even stand a chance. He still was pulling his sidearm when two of the men were already on him. There were two quick, muffled thwips from the suppressed automatics. The driver collapsed instantly, a silent heap of expensive suit and tragic heroism.
This was not robbery. This was an extraction.
The leader, moving with the cold confidence of a career killer, ripped the G-Wagon's back door open. The heiress, screaming, tried to recoil.
"Don't fight it, Miss Ego," the leader hissed, his voice grating and practiced.
The Uzi man moved to hold the crowd back. People were screaming, dropping their nozzles, and scattering like startled pigeons. Attendants abandoned their booths. Panic was a thick, paralyzing fog.
Idan watched the leader grab the young woman, roughly pulling her out. That was when he saw the glint—a flash of reflective steel and glass.
The syringe.
The leader pressed a small, clear syringe into her neck. She went instantly limp, her fight draining out of her. The syringe was emptied and carelessly tossed aside.
Idan's internal clock began ticking. He didn't know the drug, but he knew that type of swift, forced sedation was never benign.
He saw the leader shove her unconscious body into the van. The van's engine was already running. The entire operation—from the screeching arrival to the van accelerating out—had taken 28 seconds.
While others looked away and ran for cover, Idan's Hannibal-mind calculated the van's make, weight, acceleration curve, the driver's competence, and the best escape route they would take to lose the chase in the city grid.
He was already moving. He threw his leg over the Ninja, his muscles taut and coiled. He didn't scream. He didn't draw attention. He simply ignited the engine, its roar shaking the gas pump.
As the black van peeled out, leaving squealing tire marks, Idan Odogwu, the out of place king of strategy and might, born in the wrong era was already a blur behind it.
The chase had begun.