The first post went up at 7:02 a.m.
Leo didn't see it immediately. He was at the garage early, earlier than usual, trying to anchor himself to routine. Routine was safety. Routine meant control. He swept the floor himself, even though it wasn't his job anymore, listening to the scrape of the broom against concrete like it could drown out his thoughts.
It didn't.
Kunle burst in ten minutes later, phone in hand, face pale.
"Boss," he said, breathless. "You need see this."
Leo took the phone.
A grainy photo stared back at him — the black car parked inside the garage at night. The angle was bad, the lighting worse, but the space was unmistakable. His space. His name was tagged.
The caption read:
Anybody know why a car wash dey park cars overnight? Or na new business line?
Comments flooded underneath.
This Lagos sha.
Where money dey enter, wahala dey follow.
I always talk am. Fast money no dey clean.
Leo's stomach dropped.
"Who posted this?" he asked quietly.
"Some guy from the next street," Kunle replied. "He say he just dey ask question."
Questions were dangerous.
By noon, the post had spread.
Not viral — not yet — but enough. Enough that customers came in already primed with curiosity. Enough that conversations lowered when Leo walked past. Enough that a woman asked, smiling too sweetly, "Hope everything dey okay here?"
"It's fine," Leo replied, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. "We just wash cars."
She nodded, unconvinced.
By afternoon, the police came back.
This time, they didn't linger at the gate.
They walked in.
Two officers. Calm. Polite. The worst kind.
"We just need to ask a few questions," one of them said, notebook in hand. "Routine."
Leo gestured to the office. His palms were slick with sweat.
Inside, the questions came gently — too gently.
How long had the business been operating?
Did he allow overnight parking?
Did he know the owners of the vehicles?
Leo answered carefully. Truth, but trimmed. Facts, but incomplete.
The officer nodded, writing slowly. "You understand how it looks."
"I do," Leo said.
"We'll be in touch."
When they left, the garage felt smaller.
That evening, Sophia called.
Leo considered letting it ring. Then he answered.
"I saw something online," she said without preamble. "Is it true?"
"No," Leo replied quickly. Too quickly.
There was a pause. "People are talking, Leo."
"I know."
"Are you in trouble?"
He hesitated. "Not yet."
Sophia exhaled. "You always do this. Carry everything alone."
"This isn't about you," Leo said.
"I know," she replied softly. "That's what scares me."
The line went quiet.
When they hung up, Leo felt something twist inside him — not regret, not longing — just the weight of being known and still misunderstood.
The next blow came from the bank.
A transaction flagged. A temporary hold. "For verification."
Leo stared at the email until the words blurred.
This was how it started.
Musa didn't call that night.
That scared Leo more than if he had.
The following day, a customer cancelled a large contract.
"I just want to wait," the man said awkwardly. "Until things settle."
Another followed.
Then another.
Whispers moved faster than facts.
By the third day, a reporter showed up.
Not a big one. A blogger. Camera phone out, smile eager.
"Sir, people are saying your business is connected to—"
"No comments," Leo said sharply.
The blogger grinned. "Silence speaks too."
That night, Leo sat in the dark office long after everyone left. He scrolled through his phone, watching narratives form without him.
He had wanted respect.
Now he had attention.
They were not the same.
Musa finally called at 11:46 p.m.
"You're trending," Musa said, amused.
"You said lay low," Leo snapped. "This is the opposite."
Musa chuckled. "Public noise is useful. It confuses people."
"You didn't tell me this would happen."
"I told you there are surprises."
Leo clenched his jaw. "This is ruining my business."
"No," Musa corrected. "It's testing it."
"I'm pulling out," Leo said. "This ends now."
Musa's tone shifted. "Careful."
"I'm serious."
"So am I," Musa replied coolly. "You think walking away now makes you clean?"
Silence.
"People already associate you with power," Musa continued. "With money. With things beyond you."
Leo felt sick. "I didn't ask for this."
Musa laughed softly. "Nobody ever does. But they enjoy it until the bill arrives."
"What do you want from me?" Leo asked.
Musa paused. "Patience."
The call ended.
The next morning, Leo arrived to find graffiti on the wall outside the garage.
Nothing explicit. Just words spray-painted crookedly:
WHO IS REALLY IN CHARGE?
He stared at it for a long time.
Workers gathered behind him, murmuring.
This wasn't quiet anymore.
This was public.
By evening, Leo understood something painful and clear.
Damage control had failed.
The cost was no longer private. It was written on walls, whispered online, questioned aloud.
And once a story escapes your hands, you don't get to decide how it ends.
He locked the gate slowly, the metal echoing louder than usual.
For the first time since the deal, Leo felt truly afraid.
Not of Musa.
Of losing himself completely.