THE SPYGLASS IN THE SEAM

The return to Lagos wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

They moved through backstreets, slept in places with no check-ins, and spoke to no one but the trusted. Zainab had seen what happened when truth wasn't ready for daylight—it got buried.

But now she held the light.

And the thread.

Inside Obi's duffel bag was the blueprint. The one they found beneath her father's old workshop. It detailed how the Bureau had once tracked dissenters through everyday objects—phones, clothes, even fabric dyes. It was espionage woven into normal life.

And Zainab saw the irony.

She had once stitched buttons onto school uniforms.

Now, she'd stitch chaos into power.

The plan began at midnight.

Her first stop was to visit an old enemy—Aunty Dupe, the fabric trader in Balogun who once snitched on her to Dapo.

Obi wanted to stop her.

"She nearly got you killed."

Zainab smiled faintly. "I need her network, not her apology."

Aunty Dupe's eyes widened the moment she saw her. Fear flickered.

"You're supposed to be dead."

Zainab sat calmly across from her. "I got better."

Dupe's shop hadn't changed—still smelled of starch, still layered in fake lace from China.

"I need fabric," Zainab said. "Special kind."

"What kind?"

"The kind that reaches State House. Ministers' wives. Bureau events."

Dupe laughed nervously. "You think I—?"

Zainab slid the diary across the table.

The names. The proof. The pressure.

Dupe stopped laughing.

"What do you want?"

"Silk. Premium. You'll ship it in bulk, under your brand. I'll handle the stitching."

Dupe stared. "What's the catch?"

Zainab's voice was ice.

"The catch is… if you say no, your retirement comes early."

Silence.

Then a slow nod.

"Fine," Dupe whispered. "But I want out after this."

"No one's ever really out," Zainab replied. "You just become a story."

Three weeks later, the fabric began circulating.

Elegant gowns.

Political wives.

High society.

And inside each thread? Tiny chips. Spyglass tech encoded with sensors and microphones—harmless to the wearer, but powerful in what they captured.

Obi called it "whisperwear."

Zainab called it revenge with rhythm.

Each dress was stitched in a hidden workshop in Surulere. Fatiha managed logistics. Obi handled delivery. Zainab led design.

They moved like shadows.

In one month, they had surveillance on three ministers, two special advisers, and the new head of the Bureau himself.

Conversations.

Corruption deals.

Election rigging schemes.

The kind of dirt that could destroy dynasties.

But with each win… came closer danger.

One night, Obi returned to base, bleeding from the shoulder.

"They're getting smarter," he said. "Our driver was tailed from Ikeja."

Fatiha patched him in silence.

Zainab stared at the board of faces on the wall.

The Raven. The Jackal. Others.

"We're not ghosts anymore," she said. "We're targets."

"But we're also bait," Obi replied. "And the fish are biting."

Then came the tape.

From one of the gowns worn by the Minister of Communications' wife.

A recorded phone call—dated last week.

"That girl. Zainab. She's alive. And she's the one pushing this campaign."

"How do you know?"

"We traced a package sent to the Bureau HQ—it used a stitching code from her father's old shop."

Zainab's blood ran cold.

"They know."

Obi stepped forward. "Then it's time we finish it."

"No," Zainab said slowly. "It's time we make them finish it—for us."

The plan was simple.

They would leak pieces of the spyglass recordings anonymously. Not all at once—but in waves. Each release would spark outrage. Cause panic. Force politicians to betray one another.

She would use the system to eat itself.

And as for the final blow?

It would happen live.

At the National Women's Guild Gala, sponsored by the Bureau.

Their wives would wear the gowns.

Their sins would speak for them.

The needle was ready.

The thread was true.

And the tailor… was done running.