Michael's apartment smelled faintly of gun oil and expensive cologne. He sat at his desk, lit only by a single lamp, typing up a secure report to the Imperial Intelligence Service. The decrypted contents of the ledger pulsed on the screen—names, routes, payment records. But it was the last piece of information from Mbali that had his blood humming: a scheduled shipment moving through Beitbridge in forty-eight hours, protected by a private militia with ties to international cartels.
He hit send, encrypted the line, and leaned back. He'd crossed a threshold. The operation was no longer reconnaissance. It was war.
Mbali had unknowingly handed him the first thread. Now, it was time to unravel the entire web.
The next night, Michael returned to The Pulse — not as a spy, but as a king among shadows. Word of his rising status had spread fast. Dealers offered respect, mid-level enforcers sought his advice, and even the DJ gave him a nod when he stepped in.
Mbali awaited him in a private suite upstairs — a room reserved for Johannesburg's most untouchable criminals.
Tonight, she was alone.
Her hair was braided with gold clips that glittered under dim lights. Her silk robe slid open just enough to suggest danger — or invitation. She didn't rise when he entered. Instead, she studied him like a queen choosing whether to knight or execute.
"You impressed me," she said simply. "Most men who rise too fast in this world end up with bullets in their throats. But you… you know how to move."
Michael poured himself a drink without asking. "I move because I don't intend to die in someone else's game."
Mbali rose. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet. She came close — so close that he could feel her heat, her scent.
"You and I," she whispered, fingers trailing along his chest, "we're too alike. We don't just want money. We want leverage. Legacy. Empire."
He caught her wrist, gently but firmly.
"I want something bigger than an empire built on powder and paranoia," he murmured. "I want a legacy that outlives me. A nation carved out of chaos. Order born from fire."
Their lips met before either of them spoke again — a kiss not of love, but of ambition. Of power. Of conquest. It was wild, laced with control and defiance. She bit his lip; he didn't flinch. She pushed him; he pulled her closer. When they fell back onto the velvet couch, there were no lies between them — just two predators pretending to trust.
Later, as she lay draped across him, half-asleep from the rush of sex and whiskey, Michael slid his hand beneath the couch. A hidden compartment clicked open — a place she'd assumed no one else knew.
Inside: a burner phone, a keycard, and a flash drive.
He took the drive. Slipped it into his pocket without a sound.
If the ledger was the map, this drive was the compass — encrypted communications between Mbali and a man known only as "The Jackal." An international trafficker with operations spanning Nairobi, Lagos, Tripoli, and even parts of Europe. If Michael could bring him down, it wouldn't just be a win for the IIS. It would make him untouchable.
He kissed her neck softly. She smiled, unaware.
By dawn, Michael was back in his apartment, cracking the drive open on his laptop. Firewalls fell. Ciphers unraveled. Names emerged — politicians, bankers, even an IIS double agent.
He sent the report to James Effiong with a single line of text:
> "Target acquired. Ready for Phase Two."
His phone buzzed seconds later.
James Effiong:
"Excellent. You've just earned your first kill order. Details en route. Also… Abuja wants a meeting."
Michael smiled grimly. He'd made it out of pharmacy school dreaming of revolutionizing medicine. Now, he would poison the arteries of corruption from within, using science, sex, and steel.
He poured a drink, watching the sunrise through bulletproof glass.
This was no longer about Mbali. Or Johannesburg.
This was about empire.
And Michael Ogunlade would build it — one corpse at a time.