NEEDLEPOINT OF NO RETURN

The first bullet struck the iron beam above Zainab's head. She didn't flinch.

Obi dragged her behind an overturned table as shouts echoed through the textile hall.

"Six men," he whispered. "Three flanking left. One at the back. Two on the roof."

Zainab's eyes darted to the fabric samples still hanging on the wall—coded designs. A silent archive. She crawled toward them, ripping one down. The cloth shimmered under the dust, embedded with microdata strands.

"This is proof," she whispered. "Everything Mama wrote about. The Spindle Initiative, the child experiments—they kept it in the weaves."

"Zee, we need to move!"

She nodded, folding the cloth and stuffing it under her shirt.

"Back exit?"

"Boarded up."

Zainab pointed. "The dye vats. There's a drain tunnel under them."

Obi grunted. "Tight crawl."

She looked him dead in the eye. "So was my life."

They moved low and fast, gunfire shredding the air behind them. Obi fired twice, striking one of the armed men in the leg. Another grenade exploded near the old cutting table, sending splinters into the air.

Reaching the vat room, Zainab and Obi yanked open the rusted grate beneath a broken dye tank. The stench of mold and metal flooded out.

"Ladies first?" Obi joked.

Zainab gave him a flat stare. "I'm already halfway dead."

She slid in. He followed.

The tunnel twisted like a serpent's intestine—damp, narrow, suffocating. Zainab's arms scraped along jagged walls. Her breath became steam in the choking dark.

Halfway through, she paused.

"What now?" Obi hissed behind her.

She reached into her shirt, pulled out the coded cloth.

"Don't let this get lost," she said.

"Don't talk like you're not making it."

"I'm just making a will," she said softly.

They emerged in an alley behind a burnt-out butcher's stall. Two girls playing with marbles stared at them in awe.

Zainab stood, coated in grime, hair undone, blood on her sleeve.

"Where's the van?"

Obi checked his watch. "Five blocks east. We'll have to run."

They ran.

Each step pounded with memory.

The lab.

The betrayal.

The girl she was.

The woman she'd become.

At the van, Obi jumped in. Zainab tossed the coded cloth into a hidden panel beneath the back seat.

They didn't speak until they were out of Jos.

Out of the hills.

Out of the trap.

Later that night, by the roadside in Kaduna, Obi poured water over Zainab's wounds.

He asked her again, softly this time:

"Do you ever wish you had a normal life?"

She didn't answer for a while.

Then: "No."

She opened the microchip in her bracelet and inserted the code from the cloth.

Lines of data bloomed across the screen. Names. Transactions. Locations.

And at the top: PROJECT PHOENIX – Resurrection Protocol

Zainab's voice dropped into a whisper.

"They're not just hiding corruption."

Obi leaned closer.

"They're building a replacement."

"A replacement for what?"

Zainab looked up.

"For democracy."