She didn't cry.
Not when he said it.
Not when he left.
Not even when the door clicked shut and left her alone with the hum of machines and the shallow rhythm of Seyi's breathing.
But inside, something split.
Something sharp.
She sat there for ten more minutes.
Then she stood and did something dangerous.
She started thinking.
⸻
Back in her room, Kelechi didn't sit. She began to pace.
If Seyi was targeted… it meant someone knew exactly how to hurt her without touching her. Which meant whoever had made her sister sick didn't just want revenge—they wanted her distracted. Broken.
And that meant they were scared.
She grabbed the notepad they'd left on the table—blank, almost like an insult—and started scribbling everything she knew.
Names. Locations. Dates. Things that didn't add up.
The stolen cartons.
The port manifests.
The expired narcotics that never got logged but somehow always disappeared.
The mid-level supervisor who'd "resigned suddenly" two months ago.
And a name that kept circling her brain like a ghost: Oba Eze.
He'd been listed as a supplier. Legit on paper. But he never answered her calls, and the one time she'd gone to the address listed on the drug invoice, she'd found an abandoned building and two men watching her from a parked Corolla.
She circled his name three times.
Then she picked up the burner phone.
She didn't turn it on—just stared at it.
Because if this was chess, she had one pawn: information.
And she needed to play it before they took her queen.
⸻
That night, she wasn't escorted to dinner like usual.
She found her door locked. No knock. No sound.
Kelechi sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched, until her stomach started to burn. She could survive a little hunger. It wasn't new.
But the message was clear:
They were reminding her who held the leash.
And she was just as clear.
Because two hours later, she slid the notepad under the door.
Folded.
Labeled with one word:
"Oba."