THE GALA OF GLASS AND THREAD

They didn't arrive in a convoy.

They didn't dress in black.

They wore smiles, silk, and secrets.

The National Women's Guild Gala was a spectacle—the kind the press loved and the poor ignored. The Bureau sponsored it yearly to soften its public image. Ministers, socialites, tycoons, wives of power—all gathered under one chandeliered roof in Victoria Island.

And tonight, they wore Zainab's dresses.

Elegant.

Custom-fit.

Deadly.

Zainab and Obi stood across the street on the rooftop of a law firm, watching the event unfold through a tactical lens. Fatiha was stationed near the valet entrance, posing as one of the ushers. The dresses—twenty in total—were seeded into the room like landmines wrapped in beauty.

Each gown carried a whisper chip.

Each chip was linked to a stream.

And at exactly 9:36 PM, the stream would go live to the public.

Nationwide.

Inside the gala, the atmosphere hummed with vanity.

The First Lady's gown shimmered with royal blue velvet—the same gown that carried audio proof of her lobbying a court judge to bury a rape scandal.

The Minister of Aviation's mistress, seated three tables away, sipped wine in a crimson off-shoulder gown—stitched with video of his offshore transactions and ghost project budgets.

A popular influencer, oblivious, danced in a lemon sequin dress—its lining encoded with the tape that proved The Jackal was still active, not dead, and had assassinated a whistleblower two months ago.

But it wasn't just the guests who were targets.

It was the nation watching.

Zainab whispered into her mic. "Status?"

Fatiha responded. "All channels green. Audio is syncing."

Obi checked his tablet. "Server heat rising. We have 12 million pings waiting on the darkfeed. Ten seconds till floodgate."

Zainab closed her eyes.

For a moment, she remembered the first blouse she ever stitched as a child—her mother's funeral cloth.

Threaded with grief.

Tonight's stitching?

Threaded with truth.

"Light it," she said.

At 9:36 PM sharp, everyone's phones buzzed.

First one screen. Then ten. Then thousands.

The livestream hijacked social media feeds, news tickers, and group chats.

A soft piano intro.

Then:

"This is not just fashion.This is confession."

Then came the recordings.

Conversations, crimes, contracts, curses.

Voices of men drunk with power.

Laughing over bodies buried. Joking about election fraud. Plotting arrests. Swapping mistresses like office memos.

Inside the gala, phones lit up with horror. Wives froze. Ministers dashed out. Someone pulled a fire alarm. Cameras fell. Glasses shattered.

One woman fainted.

Another screamed, "This is fake! It's AI!"

But the shame was too loud.

Too raw.

Too specific.

And too many people already believed.

Obi's voice crackled. "They're panicking. Half of the high table's gone underground. Police vans are arriving. We need to move."

Fatiha: "We've got eyes on Raven's bodyguard. He's making a call. Coordinates match his safehouse in Gbagada."

Zainab stood still for a moment. "Let them scatter."

Obi frowned. "You sure?"

Zainab stared at the skyline.

"No one hides from the tailor anymore."

By morning, hashtags burned through the internet.

#ThreadedTruth#BureauLeaks#TailorTakedown#WhispersOfTheSeam

The president ordered a panel.

The Bureau's offices were sealed.

Raven went silent. Jackal disappeared.

But Zainab knew better.

This wasn't the end.

Power never truly dies.

It just changes its outfit.

But now—thanks to her—it wore guilt like a stain.

And guilt… doesn't wash off.