Leo didn't sleep.
He lay on the narrow mattress with his eyes open, counting the slow turns of the ceiling fan, listening to every sound the night offered him. A passing car. A dog barking far away. The faint hum of electricity. Each noise felt like a warning.
By morning, his body was exhausted, but his mind was sharp in the worst way.
Fear does that. It keeps you alert, even when you don't want to be.
At the garage, the air felt different.
Not tense — cautious.
Kunle noticed it immediately. "Boss, you dey alright?"
Leo nodded too quickly. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
The black car was gone. So was the second one. The empty space they left behind felt louder than their presence ever had.
Relief washed through him first.
Then panic followed close behind.
Musa hadn't warned him. Which meant this wasn't over.
Damage control, Leo reminded himself.
That was the goal now.
He gathered the boys before work began. "Listen," he said, keeping his voice steady. "For the next few weeks, no one stays late. No cars overnight. Anyone asks questions, you send them to me."
Kunle frowned. "Something happen?"
"No," Leo replied. "Just tightening operations."
They exchanged looks but nodded.
Control the narrative. Reduce exposure.
By midday, Leo was already on his phone — calling suppliers, rescheduling deliveries, clearing any trace that suggested abnormal activity. He paid outstanding balances early, even when it hurt. Clean books mattered now more than ever.
At 2:17 p.m., his landlord showed up.
"I heard you expanded," the man said, scanning the space. "Good for you."
Leo smiled politely. "Just trying to grow."
The landlord nodded slowly. "Growth attracts attention."
Everyone was saying that.
"You don't have issues, do you?" the man asked casually.
"No," Leo replied quickly. "Everything is above board."
The landlord studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Good. Because I don't like trouble."
When he left, Leo exhaled shakily.
Too close.
Later that evening, Sophia texted again.
People are talking about you.
Leo stared at the message.
What people? he typed.
The kind that notice when things change fast, she replied.
His fingers hovered over the screen. He wanted to explain. Wanted to defend himself. Wanted to say it wasn't what it looked like.
Instead, he put the phone down.
Sophia wasn't the problem.
Perception was.
That night, Musa called.
Leo let it ring.
Again.
And again.
On the fourth attempt, Leo answered.
"You ignoring me now?" Musa asked lightly.
"I told you I'm done," Leo said.
A pause. Then laughter.
"Relax," Musa replied. "I cleaned up. You're welcome."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't have to." Musa's voice sharpened. "Do you know how exposed you were?"
Leo's jaw tightened. "Then let's end it cleanly."
Musa sighed, as if disappointed. "You still don't get it. There is no 'clean.' There's only quieter."
Silence followed.
"Lay low," Musa continued. "Keep things normal. I'll reach out when necessary."
"When necessary?" Leo repeated.
The line went dead.
Leo sat in the dark, phone still in his hand.
He had wanted control.
Instead, he was being managed.
The next few days became an exercise in restraint.
Leo worked fewer hours. Talked less. Watched more.
He noticed things he hadn't before — unfamiliar faces lingering across the street, conversations stopping when he walked by, the way some customers studied him longer than necessary.
Paranoia, he told himself.
But paranoia grows best when fed uncertainty.
One afternoon, Kunle approached him quietly. "Boss… police come earlier."
Leo's heart skipped. "For what?"
"They were asking about the cars," Kunle said. "Nothing serious. I told them we just wash and go."
Leo nodded slowly. "You did good."
After Kunle left, Leo locked himself in the office and sat down hard.
It was starting.
That evening, he met Chike.
"You're moving reckless," Chike said bluntly. "Musa isn't someone you dance with halfway."
Leo rubbed his temples. "I didn't know."
Chike scoffed. "Nobody ever does. Until they do."
"So what do I do?" Leo asked.
Chike leaned back. "You make yourself boring. Invisible. You don't grow. You don't shrink. You survive."
Leo stared at him. "For how long?"
Chike shrugged. "Until you can afford to disappear."
The words sat heavy.
That night, Leo walked through the garage alone, touching the machines he'd once been so proud of. They felt colder now. Less like tools. More like liabilities.
He realized something then.
Damage control wasn't about undoing the mistake.
It was about buying time.
Time to plan.
Time to decide who he was willing to become — and who he wasn't.
As he locked up for the night, his phone buzzed with a single message from an unknown number.
Don't forget who helped you rise.
Leo stared at the screen.
He didn't reply.
But he didn't delete it either.
Some reminders aren't meant to be answered.
They're meant to be feared.