Cyprian's POV
The tall man turned to me slowly, like a lion turning toward a goat that dared to bleat too loud.
"You dey mad?" he asked, amusement curling at the edge of his voice. "You, this small boy—so you get liver?"
"She's alone," I managed, my throat dry. "Just let her be. Please."
He studied me for a long, cold moment. I could feel the heat of his anger simmering just beneath the surface, but beneath that—something else. Curiosity. A flicker of something darker and sharper that made the hairs on my arms rise. Something about me amused him. And yet… the rage was still there. Boiling just under the surface at the sheer audacity of my defiance.
"Ehn. Ah," he said, with a crooked smirk. "Fine boy. Dey form protector. Dey do like say na him get heart pass the rest."
The others outside the bus chuckled under their breath.
"Na Nollywood we dey?" the man asked again, stepping closer. I could smell him now: the mixture of gunpowder, engine smoke, old sweat, and something sour that turned my stomach. "You wan form gangster? Okay. We go show you how gangster dey be."
His scarf slipped slightly as he spoke. Just for a second, I saw the beginning of a scar running jagged from his chin to his jaw, dark and raw against his skin. I knew without a doubt I would remember that scar for a very long time.
Before I could open my mouth again, he grabbed me by the collar and yanked me up.
The girl beside me screamed.
I shouted too—but not from fear. From helplessness. From anger.
"Leave her!" I barked, desperation pouring out of me.
A slap silenced me. A hot, stinging slap that burned through my skin and rattled through my bones. My ears buzzed. My face throbbed.
"You no dey hear word?" he spat, his eyes hard. "You wan do big boy. Come show us for base. We go leave her and take you."
He didn't drag me like I was a prize. He didn't handle me like I was a victim either. They hauled me like a mistake. Like something broken they were eager to punish. To correct.
I stumbled into the back of a waiting van. The two girls from earlier were already inside, curled into each other like frightened puppies caught in a storm. The metal door slammed shut behind me with a bang that sounded like the end of the world.
I didn't cry.
Not because I wasn't scared—I was terrified.
But because crying was the first step to breaking.
And I refused to break.
Not yet.
Oh Lord. This isn't happening.
My heart sank deeper as my thoughts spun. My bag! All my favorite T-shirts were in there. Where would I even get money to buy new ones?
The van roared beneath us, and the silence inside grew thick like disease—even in my own mind. Every attempt to distract myself from what was coming failed.
It was the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl because something is coming, and you can feel it long before it arrives.
I sat frozen, every breath shallow. I needed to think. I needed to piece together a plan before panic swallowed me whole.
The two girls kept crying. Silent, hopeless sobs. One of them kept darting quick glances at me—her eyes wide, almost hopeful. As if I could save us.
I wanted to tell them:
I'm just eighteen, man. I'm just a boy.
I couldn't save anyone. I could barely save myself.
But I looked away. I forced myself to focus.
There were only two gang members now. One of them had jumped into another vehicle earlier, just before we turned down the bush path. We were in the trunk, separated from the back seat by a crude metal barrier—rusty and sharp-edged. Just wide enough for a hand to slip through, but not strong enough to do anything with it.
The air back there was thick and foul—musty with the smell of engine oil, old sweat, and something faintly metallic. Blood. Old blood. The kind that dries but never truly disappears.
I scanned the van, hopelessly. I could fly out the window—if I had wings. But even if I smashed the glass, they'd be on me before I hit the ground.
If I was going to escape, this was the only chance. The thinnest sliver of opportunity cracked open by desperation. Because once we reached their base—wherever the hell that was—I knew what would follow.
Too many eyes. Too many guns.
And boys like me—soft boys, mouthy boys, boys who didn't belong—don't get second chances in places like that.
I didn't know which gang had taken us. It could have been Black Tiger. It could have been Dragon Gang. Both were murderers. Both lived by blood.
I prayed silently it was neither.
But hope was a fool's currency.
And I'd never been much of a fool.