Gilbert followed Silvestor at a careful distance, keeping the bike slow enough not to draw attention but steady enough not to lose him. The gap stayed around eighty to a hundred meters, just far enough that Silvestor wouldn't notice the hum of the engine trailing him through traffic and just close enough that Gilbert could keep him in sight whenever the road curved.
Silvestor wasn't walking.
He wasn't sprinting either.
He was running at a controlled, sustainable pace, the kind people used when they planned to keep moving for a long time. His posture didn't change, his breathing didn't look ragged, and his steps landed with mechanical consistency, as if distance meant nothing to him.
Two buses passed them.
Then a third.
Each time, the doors hissed open briefly near him, and each time Silvestor ignored them without even glancing sideways. He stayed close to the edge of the road, shoes slapping rhythmically against the concrete, eyes forward, body locked into a routine that didn't account for convenience.
Gilbert frowned inside his helmet.
Street No: 44.
That was the route Jazz had mentioned.
But Jazz had also said Silvestor didn't live anywhere near the school. Too far for daily walking. Too far for casual running. It had sounded like a detail meant to confirm that Silvestor was hiding something, that there was some abnormal pattern behind his movements.
Then why was he doing this?
Another bus slowed beside Silvestor and honked once, lightly, almost politely. Silvestor didn't react. The bus pulled away again, carrying students who would get home tired and late and normal.
Gilbert muttered under his breath.
"As per what Jazz said… this makes no sense."
He kept following.
Fifteen minutes passed.
The speedometer ticked upward. The distance stacked without mercy. Six kilometers. Then a little more. Silvestor's pace didn't change.
"What the hell…" Gilbert breathed.
He pulled the bike to the side of the road and cut the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, staring down the long stretch of asphalt Silvestor had already eaten through. Then he took out his phone and called Jazz.
Jazz picked up on the third ring.
"Hey," Gilbert said flatly. "What the hell is wrong with your plan?"
A short pause followed.
"Did you follow him?" Jazz asked.
"I followed him," Gilbert replied. "And he just covered more than six kilometers in fifteen minutes."
Silence on the other end.
"What kind of dog are you trying to feed?" Gilbert muttered. "This isn't normal."
Jazz exhaled once.
"Chill, bro," he said. "Just watch him today. I'll explain later."
"That's it?" Gilbert asked.
"For now."
The call ended.
Gilbert stared at the road for a second longer, irritation tightening his jaw. Then he started the bike again and merged back into traffic.
Silvestor was still running.
Not slowing.
Not stopping.
"Whatever," Gilbert muttered. "Let's see where you're going."
Silvestor turned into a narrower residential lane. Then into another. Then another.
Gilbert slowed, widening the distance so the sound of his engine wouldn't echo too loudly between the houses. He took the turns carefully, letting Silvestor disappear briefly from view and reappear again at the end of each bend.
Then, suddenly, he didn't reappear.
Gilbert circled once.
Then twice.
Nothing.
"Damn it," he muttered.
He stopped near a small junction and checked the street sign.
Street No: 44.
A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Let's try the obvious."
He rode deeper into the neighborhood.
The street Silvestor lived on was cramped and worn down, lined with old houses that leaned into one another like tired men sharing weight. The walls were cracked and layered with peeling paint. Dim bulbs hung outside doorways, throwing weak circles of yellow light onto the uneven road.
Gilbert parked near a tea stall and stepped off the bike.
He bought a can of beer.
He bought a packet of chips.
Then he walked back, leaned against the seat of his bike, and pretended to be just another bored local killing time.
Across the street, Silvestor's house sat quiet.
Lights were on.
Curtains were drawn.
No visible movement.
No noise.
Nothing that looked even remotely suspicious.
Gilbert waited.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
The sky darkened slowly, shifting from dull orange to bruised purple and finally to black. Streetlights flickered on one by one. The tea stall closed. Foot traffic thinned.
Night settled.
Still nothing.
Gilbert cracked open the beer and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving the house.
That was when a police bike rolled into the lane.
Slow.
Casual.
Too casual.
The officer's gaze moved from Gilbert to the unfamiliar bike parked beside him and then across the street, straight to Silvestor's house. A thin, knowing smile crept across his face.
He parked beside Gilbert and cut the engine.
"Problem?" Gilbert asked flatly.
The officer didn't answer. His eyes dropped instead, settling on the chain hanging loosely from Gilbert's wrist. His expression shifted instantly.
"You…" he said softly. "You're the Chief's son."
Gilbert didn't move.
The officer stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"Are you here for the lady in that house?" he whispered.
Gilbert raised an eyebrow.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
The officer smirked.
"Oh come on," he said quietly. "Don't act clean with me."
He leaned closer.
"This is the rapist's family."
Gilbert stiffened.
"And the woman inside…" the officer murmured into his ear, finishing the sentence with something Gilbert hadn't expected.
Gilbert turned sharply.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
His voice dropped, cold and controlled.
"Get lost," he said. "Before I break your teeth."
The officer blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction. Then he chuckled nervously.
"Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands. "I'm leaving."
He stepped back and mounted his bike.
But before starting it, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Have some fun," he added lightly.
Then he rode off.
Gilbert didn't move.
The beer can crushed slowly in his hand.
His eyes stayed locked on Silvestor's house.
Gilbert threw the crushed beer can in his hand toward the gutter. It bounced once against the curb and rolled into the darkness beneath a parked car, forgotten as quickly as the mood he'd lost along with it.
The policeman's words refused to leave his head.
For a moment, his thoughts drifted somewhere else entirely.
To his childhood.
To a house that had once felt large and full and loud, and then slowly turned quiet in the wrong way.
His father had always been busy. Chief Head Police Officer. Meetings. Raids. Political calls. Emergencies that couldn't wait. Dinners that stayed cold. Birthdays that got postponed. Conversations that ended with, Later, son. Not now.
Later had never come.
His mother had waited for it.
For years.
And then one day, she had stopped waiting.
The divorce papers had arrived without drama. No shouting. No broken furniture. Just a thin stack of files that turned his family into a legal inconvenience. His father had signed without hesitation. His mother had cried without stopping. And Gilbert, too young to understand anything except that something permanent had been erased, had learned a lesson he never forgot:
Power always came first.
People came later.
If they came at all.
The memory tightened something ugly in his chest.
He took out his phone.
Typed "Dad" into the contact search.
The name appeared at the top of the list.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
For a second, he actually considered pressing it.
Then–
A low engine sound rolled into the lane.
Gilbert looked up.
A luxury car had stopped in front of Silvestor's house.
New model. Clean. Black. The kind of vehicle that didn't belong in this street.
His heartbeat picked up.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the house, every nerve stretched tight with a hope he didn't want to admit to himself.
Let that cop be wrong, he thought.
Just this once.
The door opened.
Silvestor's mother stepped out.
She wasn't dressed like someone going to the market. She wasn't dressed like someone staying in.
Her hair was done neatly. Her makeup was light but deliberate. Her clothes were expensive. Not flashy, but unmistakably chosen with care. The kind of outfit people wore when they expected to be seen.
She looked around once.
Then got into the car.
The door closed.
The engine purred.
And the car pulled away.
Something hot and violent flared in Gilbert's stomach.
His fingers curled into fists without him noticing.
"Fuck," he muttered.
His mind screamed at him to leave.
To start the bike.
To get the hell out of this street.
To pretend he hadn't seen any of it.
But another voice cut through the noise.
Jazz's voice.
Just watch him today. I'll explain later.
Gilbert swallowed.
He pulled out his phone again and called Jazz.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even lift the phone to his ear.
Jazz's voice came through the speaker anyway.
"Hello?"
No answer.
"Gilbert?"
Still nothing.
He could hear Jazz breathing faintly on the other end.
"Bro, say something."
Gilbert stayed silent.
His gaze never left Silvestor's house.
Jazz said his name again.
Then again.
–
Silvestor came out after she left.
He didn't walk toward the gate.
He didn't follow the car.
He stopped near the tree in front of the house.
Gilbert noticed.
"Alright," he said. "I'm here."
Gilbert didn't respond.
He ended the call and curiously looked at Silvestor.
Silvestor looked around and punched on tree.
Hard.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
His knuckles struck bark and wood with violent sounds. Leaves shook loose and fluttered down around him. He hit it again and again, shoulders jerking with each impact, breath uneven, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
Gilbert stared.
His stomach tightened.
He lifted his phone slowly and angled it through the narrow gap between two parked bikes.
Zoomed in.
Silvestor's face was twisted in something raw and ugly and completely unguarded. Not rage. Not grief.
Something deeper.
Something feral.
Gilbert took one picture.
Then another.
Then a third.
Each click felt like a small betrayal.
He lowered the phone.
Opened his gallery.
Selected the clearest shot.
Sent it to Jazz.
No caption.
No explanation.
Just proof.
Then he leaned back against his bike, eyes still on Silvestor, heart thudding in his chest with a pressure he didn't know how to release.
Damn bastard. If he used these punches on the car guy, probably… Gilbert thought.
For the first time since following him–
Gilbert wasn't thinking about Jazz's plan anymore.
He was thinking about whether he should've called his father after all or leave.
A notification popped up.
Leave.
Gilbert looked at his phone. It was Jazz's message telling him to leave.
He waited for Silvestor to return home.
After an hour, he left.
Gilbert sneaked near the tree and took one close-up picture of the dents on the trunk and left on his bike.