The garage smelled of engine oil, burnt rubber, and old decisions. A half-stripped Toyota sat on blocks behind him, its guts exposed—honest work. Predictable. Unlike everything he used to be.
Rael wiped his hands with a rag and leaned back under the flickering bulb. Outside, Lagos moved like it always did—restless, loud, alive. Inside, it was just him and the quiet he'd paid for.
Then the door slammed open.
The courier stumbled in.
Rael's eyes narrowed before his body even moved. Instinct never really leaves—it just waits.
"Lock it," the man rasped.
Rael didn't ask questions. He slid the bolt into place.
By the time he turned, the courier was already bleeding through his shirt.
Gunshot.
Not fresh. Managed.
But not for long.
The man gripped Rael's coveralls, dragging him closer with surprising strength. His breath was shallow, edged with panic and purpose.
"They're early," he said.
Rael said nothing.
The courier shoved something into his hand—a broken compass. The glass was cracked clean through, the needle twitching like it couldn't decide what north meant anymore.
Then came a folded sheet. Damp. Creased. Urgent.
"Four," the courier whispered. "You have to get the four."
Rael glanced down. Locations. No explanations.
Port of Tema. Jamestown. Akosombo. Kumasi.
Not random.
Never random.
"Who sent you?" Rael asked quietly.
The courier's eyes locked onto his. Recognition flickered.
"You were right," he breathed. "About the system… it's not broken. It's being tuned."
A sharp crack split the night.
The back wall exploded inward.
Rael moved before the sound finished echoing.
He dropped, dragging the courier with him as concrete dust filled the air. A second shot punched through the metal door, right where his chest had been.
Sniper.
Clean angle. Elevated.
Professional.
Rael's pulse slowed instead of rising. Old habits—danger sharpened him.
"Listen to me," the courier choked, gripping his arm harder now. "They're activating the Fifth."
Rael froze.
That word again.
Not possible.
"There is no Fifth," Rael said.
The courier tried to laugh. It came out as blood.
"There is now."
Another shot.
This one didn't miss.
The courier jerked once—then went still.
Silence rushed in after the gunfire, heavy and absolute.
Rael stayed low, counting seconds. Breathing slow. Listening.
No follow-up shot.
That meant one thing: the message was the mission.
Not him.
Not yet.
Carefully, he peeled the paper from the courier's hand. The ink had run slightly, but the locations held.
Four points.
A pattern forming in his mind already.
He looked down at the broken compass again.
The needle had stopped shaking.
It pointed… nowhere.
Rael exhaled slowly.
"Of course," he muttered.
Outside, somewhere in the city, the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then a full block went dark.
Rael closed his fist around the compass.
He'd left this life behind.
Burned it.
Buried it.
But something out there was waking up—something precise, engineered, intentional.
And it had started without him.
Bad move.
He stood, grabbed his keys, and killed the light.
The garage fell into darkness.
Lagos didn't.
Not yet.