THE NEEDLE’S EDGE

The cell was cold.

Not the kind of cold that came with air-conditioning or weather.

It was the cold of absence. Of forgottenness. Of time standing still.

Zainab sat on the concrete floor, her wrists chained to a rusted ring in the wall. No windows. No clocks. Just a flickering bulb overhead, swinging gently like the tail of a restless ghost.

Three days had passed.

Or maybe four.

There were no interrogations, no questions, no beatings.

Just silence.

And in that silence, Zainab did something dangerous.

She remembered.

She remembered Dapo's voice on the first night he brought her to the club in Ilorin.She remembered the Raven's handshake—heavy, deliberate, final.She remembered the fear in Obi's eyes the day they nearly lost Fatiha at the border checkpoint.

But most of all…

She remembered the vow she made before everything began.

"I'll carry this to the end, even if I carry it alone."

A key turned in the lock.

She didn't flinch.

Two figures entered. One wore Bureau grey. The other, a deep navy suit with a crimson lapel pin.

He smiled.

"Zainab Abdulraheem. Seamstress. Saboteur. Saint, depending on who's telling the story."

She stared.

He continued, "You've caused quite a mess. The Bureau's in chaos. Protests in three states. Even the President is pretending he doesn't know your name."

Zainab's voice was calm. "Good."

"Good?" the man chuckled. "You've lit a match. Now the house is watching."

He leaned in.

"You know what I think?"

She said nothing.

"I think you don't want to be a martyr. I think you want to win."

Zainab's eyes narrowed. "What are you offering?"

"A deal," he said. "One that lets you walk out of here. One that stops the arrests. One that puts your little tailoring school in the news for all the right reasons."

Zainab tilted her head. "In exchange for what?"

"You disappear," he said simply. "No more tapes. No more drops. You vanish into the fabric of the world and let the system clean up its own blood quietly."

Zainab laughed—soft, bitter.

"You want me to cut the thread right before the final stitch?"

He smirked. "Better that… than watch the needle break."

She leaned forward now.

And whispered, "You think the thread is in my hand. But you forget…"

"I taught ten others to sew it too."

Before he could reply, the siren blared.

An alarm.

The guard stepped outside to check.

Chaos erupted in the hallway.

Then—BOOM.

Smoke.

Shouting.

Obi's voice.

Zainab yanked her wrist forward—the chain snapped, cut by a razor-thin metal file Obi had sewn into the hem of her blouse three days before.

He always planned the rescue.

She ran into the smoke. Boots pounded. Doors swung open. Screams echoed from the end of the corridor.

And there—Obi, with Fatiha beside him, covered in dust but smiling.

"You always leave the best part for the end," he said, tossing her a phone.

Zainab caught it.

The message was sent.

The last file.

The final leak.

Across Nigeria, across WhatsApp groups and encrypted Telegram channels, across UN desks and student circles and newsrooms…

The truth bloomed.

And Zainab?

She disappeared again.

Like smoke.

Like silk through the fingers of the powerful.

But the country would remember what she left behind:

A pattern stitched in justice.A seam that could no longer be unpicked.