By day, the protests swelled and cracked like firecrackers. By night, the streets were filled with soldiers, armored trucks, and shadows that carried guns. And in the middle of it all, the name Elara Bello was whispered like both a curse and a prayer.
The state news repeated one line again and again.
"Elara Bello drowned in the river. The nation mourns."
But Khalid would not accept it.
He sat in the corner of the safe house, his laptop glowing in the dark. NUMA had passed out on the floor with an empty soda can still in her hand. Fatima prayed quietly in the corner, her voice hoarse with exhaustion.
Khalid ignored them all. His fingers moved fast across the keys, breaking through firewalls, digging through fragments of surveillance feeds, GPS pings, and satellite scans.
"Come on," he whispered. "Where are you?"
The screen showed nothing but static and dead leads. It had been three days. Still, his jaw clenched with fury.
If Elara was dead, then the world deserved to burn with her.
NUMA stirred awake, groaning. "You are still at it?"
Khalid's eyes did not leave the screen. "She is alive."
NUMA rubbed her face. "Khalid. We saw the footage. We heard the reports. She fell, she drowned. The river does not give back what it takes."
Khalid's hands froze. Then he turned to her, his eyes dark. "Then maybe the river is kinder than men like you."
The bite in his words made her flinch. For a second, she saw something colder in him. Something Elara had always kept at bay.
Fatima rose from her prayer mat. "Even if she is alive, the Council has already won the narrative. They buried her with their lies. The streets are breaking apart. People fight in her name, but without her face, without her voice, it will collapse into chaos."
Khalid shut the laptop with a snap. "Then I will be her voice."
The room fell silent.
NUMA frowned. "You?"
Khalid stood, his shoulders straight. "She trusted me with everything. If she cannot speak, then I will. I will carry her fire."
Fatima's eyes narrowed. "Or burn everything with it."
Across the city, Ibrahim Bello sat in his study, sipping wine as reports filtered in.
"Elara's death has made her a martyr," one advisor said. "The protests are louder. The leaks still circulate, though public trust is divided."
Ibrahim leaned back, his smile thin. "Let them cry. Let them fight. Without her, their fury has no blade. They swing wild. I will sharpen order from their chaos."
His eyes glittered in the dim light. "And Khalid… the boy is unstable. He will break himself. Or I will break him first."
Back by the river, Elara stared into the flames of the fisherman's fire. Halima dozed behind her, still too weak to stand long.
The flash drive rested in her lap. She traced its edges with trembling fingers.
Her face was already on every news channel. Her obituary already written. She was no longer Elara the survivor. She was Elara the ghost.
And maybe, she thought, that was her greatest weapon.
Alive, she was a target.
Dead, she was untouchable.
Her lips curled into a thin smile. "If they think I drowned… then I will let them believe it. For now."
Back in the safe house, Khalid pulled out a small recorder and pressed the button. His voice was low, steady, dangerous.
"My name is Khalid Bello. My sister fought for truth. They silenced her. But they cannot silence me. Every lie they buried with her, I will dig up. Every hand stained by our blood, I will cut off."
He stopped, staring at the recorder as if he had just stepped past a line he could never return from.
NUMA watched him carefully. "That is not her voice, Khalid. That is yours. Be careful. The line between justice and vengeance is thin."
But Khalid only whispered, almost to himself, "Then let it break."
Outside, Lagos burned with rage.
Inside, alliances cracked.
And in the shadows, Elara—the ghost they had buried—began to plan her resurrection.