CHAPTER XXXVI

Fatima Rahman.

The name sounded like smoke. Like something half-remembered in a nightmare — soft, dangerous, nearly erased.

But now, it echoed.

Through Elara's mind.

Through the files.

Through every line of silence she'd mistaken for coincidence.

Her mother had not died.

She had been buried.

Alive. In secrecy. In a deal made with monsters.

NUMA found the first trace on an abandoned NGO server.

A video, dated fifteen years ago. Low resolution. Shaky.

Fatima stood in a garden, holding a mic. Behind her: a line of women in hijabs, mouths covered with red tape.

"This country was built on the backs of women they don't want you to remember."

"We remember them."

"And we will not let the Council write history in our blood."

Then — static.

The feed cut mid-sentence.

NUMA tried to recover the rest. Nothing.

Just silence.

But silence had patterns.

"She was building a resistance," NUMA muttered.

Elara stood over her shoulder, arms folded.

"No," she said. "She was the resistance."

Khalid traced one of the names listed in the old footage — a woman named Nana Okonjo, former activist turned herbalist in a quiet coastal town.

They left that night.

Three burner phones.

No digital trail.

No talking in transit.

Nana's shop smelled like mint and coal. Dust clung to the rafters. Prayer beads hung above the door.

She saw Elara and didn't speak. Just nodded once, like she'd been expecting her.

"You've got your mother's fire," Nana said, voice rough like gravel.

"You knew her?"

"I followed her."

"She's dead?"

Nana looked away.

"No."

She pulled out a leather-bound notebook, pages fragile and folded.

Inside were handwritten entries in Fatima's script.

Rough coordinates. Observations. Names — mostly crossed out.

And one title repeated in the margins:

"Initiation: The Black Cell."

NUMA whispered, "That's an old name for the original Council core. Before they went public."

Elara touched the paper like it might vanish.

"She was tracking them."

Nana nodded.

"She had the full list. People behind the curtains. The ones who don't make headlines."

Khalid stepped forward.

"Where is she?"

Nana hesitated.

Then said three words:

"She went underground."

There was a place — not on any map. Not on any network.

But Elara remembered it from her nightmares.

A white-walled complex with humming lights and no windows.

The Initiation Chamber.

Fatima had written about it in one line:

"If I disappear, start where the votes don't count but blood always does."

NUMA decrypted it.

The original Council facility.

Odogunyan.

They reached the outskirts by midnight.

A rusted gate. Overgrown brush. Guard lights flickering in long, robotic sweeps.

NUMA scanned the area with thermal goggles.

"Two guards. Eastern post. One camera, low-res."

Khalid pulled a knife from his boot.

"Silent entry?"

"No," Elara said.

"We walk through the front door."

She wore a scarf tight over her head.

Not to hide.

To carry the image of Fatima.

They approached the gate as if they belonged.

And no one stopped them.

Because ghosts walk where the living fear to.

Inside, the walls buzzed.

White paint peeling. Floors too clean.

There were no screams.

Only the hum of forgotten decisions.

They found a security room.

NUMA hacked in.

Ten screens flickered to life.

Rooms. Cells. Archives.

And one labeled: RAHMAN - OBSERVATION.

Elara moved before anyone could stop her.

Down two corridors. Through a coded door.

Inside: a room of glass. Sterile. Bare.

And seated on a narrow bed, reading a tattered book…

Was Fatima.

Alive.

Older. Thinner. Her hair streaked silver.

But unmistakable.

She looked up.

And froze.

The book slipped from her hand.

"Elara?"

They stared at each other.

A storm between them. Years. Grief. Betrayal. Blood.

"You… remember me?" Elara said.

Fatima rose slowly.

"You look like her."

"Like who?"

"My past."

They didn't cry.

There was no time.

Khalid appeared at the door.

"We have six minutes before they reroute guards."

Elara grabbed Fatima's hand.

"Can you walk?"

Fatima didn't answer.

She ran.

They escaped through the west wing.

NUMA jammed the alarms. Khalid disabled the final lock.

By the time they reached the van, the entire facility had gone dark.

No sirens.

Just silence.

The kind that follows revelation.

Back at the hideout, Fatima sat at the map.

She looked over every name Elara had burned.

Every story.

Every testimony.

And then she said:

"You did it."

"You woke them."

Elara shook her head.

"No. I only reminded them they were never asleep."