The first time Leo realized he was no longer just working for Mr. Kola was the morning he woke up to instructions instead of requests.
The message came at 5:12 a.m.
Be at the workshop by six. Wear clean clothes. Someone important is coming.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Leo stared at the screen for a long moment, then swung his legs off the bed. The floor was cold. The room felt unfamiliar, like he had slept in someone else's life and borrowed their consequences.
By the time he reached the workshop, the sky was just beginning to lighten. Musa was already there, sweeping, eyes darting toward the road every few seconds.
"Oga Leo," he said quietly. "Three black cars passed earlier. They didn't stop."
Leo's jaw tightened. "Did anyone come in?"
"No."
Leo nodded and unlocked the door.
He didn't like the feeling crawling up his spine — the sense of being prepared for rather than preparing to.
At exactly six-thirty, a convoy pulled in.
Two SUVs. One sedan in the middle.
The engines purred like restrained animals.
Leo wiped his hands on his trousers as a man stepped out of the sedan — tall, lean, dressed in muted colors that didn't draw attention but demanded respect anyway. He looked around once, sharp eyes cataloguing everything.
Then Mr. Kola emerged from the second SUV.
"Leo," he said warmly, like this was a social visit. "Good morning."
"Sir," Leo replied.
"This is Mr. Okorie," Mr. Kola said. "A friend."
The word friend did a lot of work in Mr. Kola's vocabulary.
Okorie nodded once. "So this is the famous workshop."
Leo didn't miss the emphasis.
"We heard you're reliable," Okorie continued. "That you fix things properly. Permanently."
Leo chose his words carefully. "I fix what I'm given."
Mr. Kola smiled. "That's humility. Rare."
They moved inside.
The air shifted immediately — like the walls themselves were aware of the men who had entered. Musa lingered near the back, pretending to organize tools.
Okorie gestured toward a covered vehicle at the far end of the workshop. "That one."
Leo pulled the tarp back.
The car was expensive. Imported. Modified. Too clean to belong here.
"What's the issue?" Leo asked.
Okorie and Mr. Kola exchanged a look.
"Officially?" Mr. Kola said. "Electrical malfunction."
Unofficially was written all over their silence.
Leo popped the hood.
As he worked, he felt their eyes on him — measuring not just his skill, but his discretion. The fault revealed itself quickly: a device installed where it shouldn't be. Not a tracker.
Something else.
Leo froze.
"This isn't just a repair," he said slowly.
Mr. Kola's tone remained calm. "No one said it was."
Leo straightened. "If I remove this, it changes things."
Okorie finally spoke. His voice was low, controlled. "That's the point."
The workshop felt suddenly too small.
Leo's mind raced — consequences stacking on consequences. This wasn't about convenience anymore. This was about erasure.
"I need to know what I'm fixing," Leo said.
Mr. Kola's gaze sharpened. "You need to decide whether you trust the people who brought it to you."
Leo swallowed.
Trust.
That word again.
He looked at the car. At his hands. At the grease that had once been his shield, his excuse, his honesty.
"Do it," Okorie said. "Or say no."
Saying no echoed in Leo's head.
He thought of frozen accounts. Of investigations that could be reopened. Of how easily a man could be crushed when his name was already under scrutiny.
He bent back over the engine.
"Clear the workshop," he said quietly.
Musa hesitated, then obeyed.
When Leo finished, the device lay wrapped in cloth on the bench — inert, powerless.
Okorie examined the engine, then nodded. "Good."
Mr. Kola clapped Leo lightly on the shoulder. "You see? You're invaluable."
The word made Leo's stomach churn.
They left without another word.
The workshop felt hollow afterward.
Musa approached slowly. "What was that?"
Leo didn't answer immediately.
"It was work," he said finally.
Musa studied him. "Not all work is the same."
Leo turned away.
That night, Leo couldn't sleep.
The image of the device wouldn't leave him — the way it fit too perfectly where it didn't belong. The way his hands had moved automatically, like muscle memory had taken over morality.
His phone buzzed.
You did well today.
Another message followed.
There will be more days like this.
Leo typed, erased, typed again.
What if I say no next time?
The reply came instantly.
Then we revisit why you said yes the first time.
Leo dropped the phone onto the bed.
The room felt tighter. The air heavier.
For the first time since signing, panic clawed at him — not sharp, not explosive, but slow and suffocating.
The consequences didn't wait.
Two days later, a blogger published a piece praising Leo's workshop — calling it "quietly backed by powerful interests."
The wording was careful.
Too careful.
Customers began to ask questions disguised as jokes.
"So you're big now, eh?"
"Which big man is sponsoring you?"
"You fix more than cars these days?"
Leo smiled through it.
At night, he replayed every conversation, wondering who had seen too much.
Sophia texted again.
We need to talk.
He didn't respond.
He didn't trust his voice anymore.
The breaking point came quietly.
A police officer stopped by the workshop one afternoon. Friendly. Smiling.
"Routine check," he said.
Leo knew better.
Papers were examined. Numbers compared. A nod here. A note there.
Before leaving, the officer leaned in slightly. "You're doing well for yourself. Just… keep your records clean."
Leo watched him go.
His phone vibrated.
Handled.
No sender needed.
Leo sat heavily on the workbench.
Handled.
The word echoed.
He realized then what the deal had really given him.
Not protection.
Coverage.
And coverage came with expectations.
That evening, he stood alone in the workshop, lights dimmed, tools hanging silently.
He pressed his palms against the bench.
"I didn't sign up to disappear," he muttered.
The walls didn't answer.
But his phone did.
You signed up to survive. Don't confuse the two.
Leo closed his eyes.
The weight of being chosen settled fully on his shoulders.
He understood now.
The contract wasn't about control.
It was about alignment.
And once aligned, there was no neutral ground left.
If this chapter made you uneasy, that's intentional.
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The weight has been placed.
Next comes the reckoning.