Adesuwa had heard silence before—the kind that followed a gunshot or the stillness that lingered after an explosion. But this silence was different. It was thick, pulsed, and screamed without a sound.
She stood in the wreckage of what had once been the Sunrise compound. Black smoke drifted through the broken sky. Ash fell like confetti, gray and ghostly. Somewhere under her boots, the world that had hidden Lagos' darkest secrets lay in charred ruins.
Behind her, Damilola was checking his wound. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, but he'd wrapped it with a ripped piece of cloth. His shirt was soaked, but he still grinned through the pain.
"You should see the other guy," he muttered, half-laughing.
Adesuwa didn't smile. Her mind was still in the corridor, where that final voice message had played.
"You were never supposed to survive, Adesuwa," the voice had said.
Her father's voice.
She hadn't told Damilola. Not yet. How could she? That the man they'd been chasing, the ghost haunting every hallway, was someone who once read her bedtime stories? The fire outside was easier to face than the one inside her.
A single beep broke the stillness. The encrypted USB was still in her pocket. Untouched. Untapped. Untamed.
"What's our next move?" Damilola asked, catching her eyes.
She looked at him, really looked. He was no longer the rookie agent she'd met six months ago. There was something hardened in his gaze now, like he had crossed a line and didn't plan on returning.
"We open the files," she said.
Damilola raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? After everything, what if it's worse than we think?"
Adesuwa clenched her jaw. "Then we burn the truth into the world. And let the city decide."
They returned to the safehouse—a new one. The last had been compromised. This one was a crumbling building in Mushin, with cracked walls and peeling paint, but it had power. That was all they needed.
Adesuwa connected the drive to the encrypted laptop.
Damilola leaned over her shoulder. "What are we looking at?"
Lines of code. Folders. Passwords. She typed rapidly.
A loading screen blinked once. Then opened.
The first file was a ledger - names, dates, and payments. All tied to "Project Dawn," the codename for the Circle's operations. She scrolled, eyes darting.
Then stopped.
Her name was on the list.
Not as a target. As a beneficiary.
"What the hell?" she whispered.
Damilola leaned closer. "What is it?"
"Thirty million naira. Wired monthly for the last three years. From a shell company. To an account linked to... me."
He pulled back. "Wait—you didn't know?"
She turned, her face pale. "Of course not! I don't even—someone forged it. Framed me."
She clicked another folder. Video files. Labeled by date.
She opened one.
A dimly lit room. Her father. Sitting at a table. Across from her was someone she recognized from the burned compound—General Okonkwo.
"I told you," her father was saying, "Adesuwa won't stop. She's stubborn. She got that from her mother."
"You said she could be controlled," Okonkwo replied.
Her father leaned forward. "Control? No. Redirected, maybe. But if she uncovers the truth, we'll all burn."
The screen flickered. Damilola swore under his breath.
Adesuwa didn't move. She watched, frozen.
Later that night, she sat alone on the balcony. Below, Lagos buzzed—horns blaring, generators humming, the scent of suya drifting through smoke.
"You okay?" Damilola's voice was soft.
"No," she said.
He sat beside her. "We've got enough to bring them down now."
"I know."
"But?"
She swallowed. "He betrayed me. Lied to me my whole life. And part of me... still misses him."
Damilola didn't reply.
The silence wrapped around them again.
"I think we should go public," she said finally.
"Now?"
"Yes. Release everything. No middleman. No delay."
He nodded. "You trust the people?"
She met his eyes. "I trust the truth. And I trust that some silences deserve to be broken."
The next morning, the files were uploaded. The ledger. The names. The video. All of it.
They used an anonymous source. Dropped links to journalists, influencers, and human rights groups.
Within hours, #DawnFiles was trending across Nigeria.
By afternoon, protests erupted.
By night, a curfew was announced.
But it was too late. The Circle was bleeding. And Lagos was listening.
Elsewhere, in a quiet office tucked behind the facade of a church, General Okonkwo watched the footage in silence.
"They've gone too far," his aide said.
Okonkwo didn't speak.
"We can still stop them," the aide pressed.
He stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at the burning city.
"No," Okonkwo said. "They've already lit the match. Now, we burn."
Adesuwa didn't sleep.
At 3 AM, a call came through.
Unknown number.
She picked up.
"Did you like the show?" the voice asked.
It wasn't her father.
"Who is this?" she demanded.
"You opened the wrong box, Adesuwa. And now the real ghosts are coming."
The line went dead.
She stared at the screen. Her hand trembled.
"Damilola!" she called out.
He rushed in, half-dressed.
"What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, eyes wide. "This isn't over. It's just beginning."