Day three of suspension, and Zion's penthouse felt like a cage made of marble and glass.
The city sprawled below him—Lagos in all its chaotic beauty, traffic honking, street vendors calling out, life moving forward without him. But up here, forty stories above it all, everything was silent. Too silent.
His parents were gone, as usual. Tokyo this time. Or maybe Singapore. He'd stopped keeping track. They'd sent a message through their assistant: "Handle this maturely, Zion. We're disappointed."
Disappointed. Not surprised. Not concerned. Just disappointed.
He deleted the message without responding.
The apartment was pristine, untouched, like a showroom nobody actually lived in. Zion had spent the first two days pacing, rage simmering under his skin. He'd broken a glass. Punched a wall. Screamed into the void of his empty bedroom until his throat was raw.
But on day three, something shifted.
The anger crystallized into something colder. Sharper. More dangerous.
He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his home gym, shirtless, sweat dripping down his torso. His knuckles were wrapped, the punching bag still swaying from the last round. He'd been at it for two hours.
His reflection stared back—lean muscle, defined shoulders, the kind of body that came from discipline, not desperation. But it was his eyes that had changed. They were darker now. Emptier.
"Two weeks," he muttered to himself. "That's all I need."
He wasn't just training his body. He was sharpening his mind.
His phone buzzed on the bench. He grabbed it, expecting another useless message from Mikey trying to "check in." Instead, it was an unknown number.
Unknown: You're making a mistake.
Zion's jaw tightened. He typed back quickly.
Zion: Who is this?
The response came almost immediately.
Unknown: Someone who knows what Kevin's planning. And trust me, you're not ready.
Zion's heart rate spiked, but his face remained calm. He sat on the bench, staring at the screen.
Zion: If you know something, say it.
Unknown: Not over text. Meet me tomorrow. 2PM. The old basketball court near Goldridge. Come alone.
Zion: Why should I trust you?
Unknown: Because if you don't, Kevin wins. And we both know you'd rather die than let that happen.
The message ended there. No follow-up. No explanation.
Zion stared at the screen for a long moment, his mind racing. It could be a trap. It could be Kevin himself, trying to bait him into breaking the terms of his suspension.
But something in his gut told him it wasn't.
Someone else was playing this game. Someone he hadn't accounted for.
He saved the number, labeled it "Ghost," and set the phone down.
Tomorrow, then.
That night, Zion couldn't sleep.
He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the city lights casting shadows across the walls. His mind cycled through every possibility, every angle.
Who would reach out to him now? Nyra? She'd always been quiet, calculating. Maybe she'd been watching longer than anyone realized.
Lucian? No, Lucian was too comfortable playing both sides. He wouldn't risk exposing himself.
Isla? Unlikely. She was too caught up in her own emotional mess with Lucian to focus on the bigger picture.
That left one option he didn't want to consider: someone from Kevin's camp. A defector. Someone who'd seen enough to switch sides.
The thought made him sit up, adrenaline prickling his skin.
If someone close to Kevin was willing to talk, that changed everything. It meant cracks were forming. It meant Kevin wasn't as untouchable as he pretended.
Zion grabbed his phone, scrolling through old messages, old photos, trying to piece together who might've sent that text. But the harder he looked, the more the answer slipped through his fingers.
He tossed the phone aside and stood, walking to the window. The city blinked and breathed below him, indifferent to his war.
"Two weeks," he whispered again, pressing his palm against the cold glass. "Just two more weeks."
The next afternoon, Zion stood at the edge of the old basketball court, hands in his hoodie pockets, eyes scanning the empty space.
It was the same court where he and Kevin used to play one-on-one after school, back when they were still friends. Back when competition was just a game, not a blood feud.
Now it felt haunted.
He checked his phone. 2:03 PM. Whoever "Ghost" was, they were late.
Zion's jaw tightened. If this was a setup, if Kevin had orchestrated thisâ€"
"Relax. I'm here."
The voice came from behind him, low and familiar.
Zion spun around, and his breath caught.
Standing at the edge of the court, hood pulled low over her face, was Nyra.
She stepped forward slowly, her expression unreadable. "Surprised?"
Zion's mind raced. Nyra. Quiet, calculating Nyra, who'd always seemed more interested in observing than participating.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice guarded.
She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "Saving your ass, apparently. Though I'm starting to regret it."
"Saving me from what?"
Nyra's eyes narrowed. "From walking into Kevin's trap blind. You think you're the only one who's been watching him? I've been two steps ahead of both of you this whole time."
Zion studied her, trying to read her angle. "Why would you help me?"
"Because Kevin doesn't just want to beat you, Zion." Her voice was sharp, cutting. "He wants to erase you. And if he succeeds, guess who's next on his list? Everyone who ever stood in his way."
Zion's fists clenched. "What do you know?"
Nyra pulled out her phone, scrolling through something before turning the screen toward him. It was a screenshot of a group chat—Kevin's inner circle.
Kevin: When Zion comes back, we don't just ignore him. We isolate him. Turn everyone. Make him invisible.
Unknown 1: And if that doesn't work?
Kevin: Then we make sure he has a reason to leave for good.
Zion's blood ran cold.
Nyra pocketed her phone. "He's not playing fair, Zion. And if you go back thinking you can win with honor and strategy alone, you're going to lose."
Zion's jaw worked. "So what do you want from me?"
Nyra stepped closer, her voice dropping. "I want you to stop pretending you're the good guy. You want to beat Kevin? Then you need to be willing to get your hands dirty. Really dirty."
The weight of her words hung in the air.
Zion stared at her, his mind spinning. She was rightâ€"he knew she was right. But accepting it meant crossing a line he wasn't sure he could come back from.
"What's your angle in all this?" he asked.
Nyra's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Let's just say I'm tired of watching from the sidelines. And Kevin made the mistake of underestimating me."
She turned to leave, then paused. "You've got eleven days left, Zion. Use them wisely. Because when you come back, it's not just a fight. It's war."
And with that, she walked away, leaving Zion standing alone on the court, the ghost of his old life echoing in the silence.