The campus was quieting down as the Lagos sun sank low, turning the sky into streaks of orange and purple. Outside the hostel, the faint calls of vendors winding down merged with the distant hum of buses and motorcycles navigating the chaotic streets. Students bustled between buildings, some heading home, others dragging their feet toward night lectures.
Nora's heels clicked softly on the concrete walkway as she made her way back to the hostel, backpack light but her mind heavy with the weight of finals. Every assignment, internship requirement, and looming viva pressed on her. Her pulse felt slightly faster than usual—an unease she could not name—but she dismissed it. Today, she needed focus, not fear.
Inside the hostel, Peace was nowhere to be found. The room smelled faintly of fried akara from earlier in the day, and a small breeze from the fan brushed across the neatly arranged beds. Nora dropped her bag onto her side of the bed, brushing hair from her face, and changed into light clothes: a soft tank top and shorts that clung to her curves just enough to be comfortable. She stretched on the bed, letting the silence wrap around her.
Sleep claimed her quickly.
⸻
The dream came like wildfire—dark, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. She sensed him before she could see him—a tall, commanding presence radiating raw power and magnetic sex appeal, a dominance that set her nerves alight. Even faceless, his heat pressed against her like a living force, a pull she could not resist.
His hands brushed first along her shoulders, trailing down her arms with deliberate pressure that sent shivers straight to her core. Every nerve ending seemed alive, screaming in response to touches she could not see but felt in every inch of her skin. A soft gasp escaped her lips. Her body arched instinctively, responding to the fire and dominance radiating from him.
The faceless man leaned closer, brushing her neck with a teasing intensity that made her tremble. Her chest rose and fell faster; her thighs pressed together; heat pooled between them with an aching, insistent need. Every imagined caress, every phantom brush across her curves, drove her wild with longing.
She reached out instinctively, desperate to touch, to feel, but met only air. And yet, the heat, the pull, the magnetic dominance of this man—it was almost unbearable. Her moans were soft and trembling, escaping even as she clutched at the sheets, every inch of her body alive with desire she could not name.
Then, as the ache became almost too intense to bear, the dream withdrew. She gasped, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, body trembling. Even the gentle hum of the fan could not cool the fire left behind in her veins. Her pulse raced violently, her body aching with a craving she couldn't satisfy.
"Who… are you?" she whispered into the still room, voice barely audible. "Why do you feel… like fire?"
⸻
Shaking herself, Nora rose, aware she needed to prepare for night class. Not a lecture by a professor, but a session led by a fellow student who had offered to help those struggling with calculations in their course. A till-daybreak session, as the organizer had warned. Some students thrived on caffeine, others on sheer determination, but all were desperate to grasp the concepts before finals.
She changed into something more practical for hours of sitting and scribbling—jeans, a loose blouse, her hair tied neatly. She grabbed her calculator, notebooks, and pens, tucking them carefully into her backpack. The hostel corridor hummed with the quiet sounds of students preparing for similar night marathons.
Debbie arrived at the room just as Nora finished packing. "Finally!" she exclaimed, tossing her own bag onto the bed. "I'm meeting Christian after this class, but first… till dawn, girl. Till dawn!"
Nora smiled faintly, hoisting her bag. "Let's survive this… then we can sleep forever."
As they stepped out into the Lagos evening, the campus was alive in its typical chaos: students arguing over taxis, vendors making last-minute sales, motorcycles weaving recklessly, and the distant hum of traffic carrying the smell of roasted suya and zobo. The atmosphere, frantic and alive, grounded her even as the dream's fire lingered in her veins.
⸻
In the lecture hall—a small, brightly lit classroom crowded with students eager for clarity—the student-organizer stood at the front, chalk in hand, voice steady and confident. Students whispered among themselves, trading notebooks, calculators, and anxious glances. Nora, Debbie, and a few other friends claimed their usual corner, settling in for what promised to be an exhausting night of calculation, discussion, and sleepless determination.
Even as she focused on the numbers, the equations, and the scribbles, Nora's mind occasionally drifted to the faceless man in her dream—the heat, the dominance, the magnetic pull that had left her trembling. She tried to shove the images away, but the memory of every imagined touch, every brush of skin, every whisper of power lingered, making it impossible to ignore.
Outside the window, the Lagos night stretched on, streetlights glowing dimly, occasional car horns breaking the quiet. Inside, Nora scribbled furiously, calculating, double-checking, but every so often, a subtle shiver ran down her spine. The pulse beneath her veins—the one awakened by the dream—was steady, insistent, a silent warning that something was coming, something patient, precise, and inevitable.
⸻
By midnight, the room was thick with tension, caffeine, and quiet desperation. Debbie had slipped into her usual energetic commentary, Nora scribbling silently, and a few other students muttering over mistakes and corrections. Every tick of the clock seemed to stretch longer than the last, the exhaustion pressing on each of them, but Nora remained alert in a way that went beyond caffeine and focus.
Her mind wandered once more, to the fire of the dream, to the faceless man who had left her trembling hours ago. She didn't know who he was, but something deep inside her—something in her blood, in her pulse—knew that meeting him would ignite everything the dream had only begun.
And even as she jotted down another calculation, the tiny hum in her veins persisted, growing louder, insistent, as if answering to someone far away—someone watching, waiting, drawn to her in ways she could not yet comprehend.
By 3 a.m., the numbers blurred, voices in the hall began to droop, and fatigue set in. Yet Nora's pulse, the ache in her body, and the memory of the dream refused to fade. She shivered slightly, clutching her notebook, whispering softly to herself:
"Who are you…?"
And somewhere, far beyond oceans and continents, a presence stirred, patient, hungry, and utterly aware of her.