Chapter 26: The Unsent Message and the Silent Stalker

The dawn of Monday, July 14, 2025, broke over Yenagoa like a bruise healing slowly—muted purples bleeding into angry oranges. The sunrise should have promised clarity, but for Yuhan, it only deepened the weight of what had already been lost.

Chike's "containment"—the cold euphemism whispered across encrypted lines—clawed at Yuhan's chest. They hadn't even bothered to say dead. Just contained. The man had risked everything to pull the truth out of shadows. And now he was likely gone, swallowed by the very system he had tried to expose.

Yuhan didn't let himself grieve openly. There was no time. But the rage was there—quiet, simmering. The kind of anger that doesn't scream, but builds, slow and steady, like a storm with no horizon.

---

He returned to the envelope—the package prepared for Abubakar Alhaji, the man now known only as The Guardian. Inside:

Digitized land deeds.

The redacted police reports from Anya's investigation.

Meili's sanitized confession.

And that photograph—Mochen's grandfather glaring through time, the word "The Pact" scrawled behind it like a curse.

Atop it all, Yuhan laid a single handwritten note:

"Justice for Anya. Justice for The Librarian. The truth has a price. What is yours, Guardian?"

It wasn't just a message—it was an invitation. A gamble.

He handed the sealed packet to Zara, his most trusted operative. A woman who could pass through a city unseen, her presence so subtle she left no scent, no shadow. "Hand-deliver it to the woman at the old publishing house," Yuhan instructed. "No digital trace. No names."

Zara nodded once and vanished.

---

Left alone, Yuhan stood by the glass wall of his study, staring at the city that had raised him. The skyline glittered like shattered glass, each tower built on foundations soaked in secrets. His thoughts spiraled back to his father—the man whose hands might be clean, but whose silence might've made him an accomplice.

"What did you do, Baba?" he whispered, eyes clenched shut. "What did they make you carry?"

The truth was coming fast, and it didn't care whose memory it dragged through the mud.

---

Across town, Shen Mochen was losing his grip.

His office was a machine—screens flashing, phones ringing—but all the noise couldn't drown out the rising panic. Kola, his ever-calm lawyer, stood by with a tablet in hand. "We've confirmed sightings," he said. "Alhaji's son is back. And he's not alone."

Mochen's jaw twitched. "He's supposed to be dead."

Kola hesitated. "He's not."

Mochen slammed his fist into the table, his voice dropping. "Then kill the ghost. Before he burns down everything our fathers built."

---

Meanwhile, in a quiet corner of the city, Mama Biola, old and steady, sat behind the desk of the publishing house she'd kept alive for decades. When Zara arrived, her quiet presence barely disturbed the dust in the air.

"A delivery," Zara said. "From someone who remembers."

Mama Biola opened the envelope with hands that had typed history, hidden truths, and buried betrayals. When she saw the photo—The Pact, staring at her through faded ink—she didn't cry. She didn't tremble.

She simply whispered:

"Abubakar, you promised you'd return."

Then, turning to Zara, her eyes sharpened like flint.

"Tell your master," she said, "that some debts are older than blood. And The Guardian always collects."

---

Back at Yuhan's compound, the message reached him. Mama Biola's words, relayed by Zara, were short but powerful. It meant Abubakar had heard. The chain had been formed. Fragile. Dangerous. But real.

Yuhan allowed himself a breath—just one—before diving back into strategy. But something… shifted.

A strange unease prickled his skin.

He pulled up the security feed—routine now, ever since the threats began. Most cameras showed nothing but motionless fences and rustling leaves.

But one…

One flickered.

Just once.

A shape—small, quick—vanished into the trees. It was low to the ground. Precise. Not one of his men. Not a trespasser.

A stalker.

He leaned in closer.

There. A glint. Sunlight reflecting off metal. Not a weapon. Not entirely. Something meant to be seen. A warning.

Suddenly, his encrypted terminal buzzed.

The firewalls didn't detect it.

No origin.

No source.

Just one word:

"Librarian."

Yuhan's hands froze above the keyboard.

If this was what he thought it was, then someone—not Mochen, not Adekunle, but someone else entirely—was already inside the game.

Watching. Listening.

And ready to speak.

But on whose side?