CHAPTER 1— The Exhibition
The docks stretched out in long, rust-bitten lines, cargo containers stacked like silent witnesses beneath a brooding sky. The morning sun strained through a heavy blanket of clouds, its light thin and unwelcome.
The ocean lapped restlessly against the concrete, dragging the scent of salt inland.
But it wasn't the sea that turned stomachs that morning.
It was the metallic stench beneath it.
A crowd had gathered anyway.
Not ordinary people. Not the kind who turned away from things better left unseen.
They stood around it.
Watching.
Waiting.
Studying.
"Detective Izuora, you're here."
The voice cut through the low murmur. Husky. Worn.
Detective Izuora stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against damp concrete. She moved with quiet precision, her expression unreadable.
"Femi," she said. "What do we have this time?"
Femi exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.
"Same as the last three." He gestured ahead. "Killed. Mutilated. Arranged."
They stepped closer.
And there it was.
Not just a body.
A composition.
Blood had been used like paint—carefully spread across the concrete in deliberate strokes. At the center lay the figure of a nude woman, her form rendered with disturbing precision.
Not messy.
Not random.
Intentional.
Around her, pieces of flesh, bone, and shredded fabric had been placed in a grotesque symmetry.
Even the breeze seemed to falter.
Izuora crouched slightly, her eyes tracing the shape, the balance, the control behind it.
"A pattern," she murmured.
Femi let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. That's one word for it."
She straightened.
"It's official," she said. "We're dealing with a serial killer."
A pause.
"And a meticulous one."
She turned, her voice sharpening.
"Get forensics on everything. I want prints, fibers, trace evidence—anything. We don't miss a single detail."
——
Across the city, far from the docks—
A young man smiled.
"That went well."
The words slipped out softly.
George pushed himself upright from his bed, stretching lazily. His frame was thin, almost fragile—easy to overlook.
He moved into the adjoining bathroom, his limp noticeable but unhurried.
Minutes later, he emerged clean, composed.
Normal.
He dressed, slipped on his shoes, and eased himself into the wheelchair beside his bed.
The motion was smooth. Practiced.
He picked up his backpack and headed for the door.
Routine.
Ordinary.
Invisible.
—
"Ayyo, George! Wait up!"
George closed his eyes briefly.
There goes my peace.
He pushed forward, picking up speed.
Behind him, footsteps rushed.
"Man—hold on—" Chris caught up, slightly out of breath. "You trying to outrun me or something?"
George didn't look back.
"That thing is fast," Chris added, tapping the wheelchair lightly. "Feels like I'm chasing a batmobile."
George sighed.
"Chris… I didn't get enough sleep last night. Do me a favor and let me have some quiet today."
Chris grinned.
"Wow. Someone's cranky."
They moved through the dorm hallway as voices buzzed around them.
"You've seen it, right?"
"It happened again…"
"Fourth one in three weeks."
"Same pattern…"
"That's insane…"
Chris leaned closer.
"Bet you've heard."
"Heard what?" George replied.
Chris stared at him. "The news. Another body. This time near a shipping dock in Lekki."
George's hands rested calmly on the wheels.
"Same condition as the others," Chris continued. "They're calling it a serial case now."
He shook his head.
"They said the killer paints them. With their own blood." He grimaced. "That's just sick."
A pause.
George chuckled.
Soft. Brief.
Chris frowned. "What's funny?"
"Nothing," George said. "We're running late."
Chris blinked.
"Did you just say we're running late?"
Chris squinted at him—then broke into a grin. "Nah… you did not just say that."
George didn't answer.
He just kept moving, the faint trace of something unreadable settling on his face.
——
"So, how's the investigation going?"
Said a man, in his middle to late fifties, standing behind his desk, staring out the window at the city below.
"Still no leads, sir."
Anyi stood across from him, posture straight.
He turned sharply.
"No leads? We have four bodies, and you're telling me we have nothing?"
His voice filled the room.
Then he exhaled, tension easing slightly.
"I'm sorry. That was out of line." He rubbed his temple. "The Commissioner's on my neck. The public's restless. And now this…"
"We're doing everything we can," Anyi said.
He studied her, then smiled faintly.
"You don't have to be so formal when it's just us."
A small pause.
"…Uncle."
He chuckled.
"Better. You should get some rest."
Anyi nodded and turned to leave.
—
The elevator doors slid shut.
Silence.
A flick of flame.
Cigarette lit.
She took a slow drag, shoulders loosening as smoke curled upward.
For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.
Then the elevator chimed.
She stepped out onto the fifth floor, composed once more.
The station buzzed with activity.
"Sergeant!"
Femi approached quickly.
"Anything new?" she asked.
He hesitated.
That alone made her stop.
"The bastard…" he said slowly, "…he's changing."
Anyi's eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean?"
Femi handed her a file.
She took it and stepped into her office. He followed.
The door shut.
Silence.
Pages turned.
Once.
Twice.
Her expression shifted.
Focus… to confusion…
Then something sharper.
Her eyes lifted to Femi.
And for the first time—
There was fear in them.