Cyprian's Pov
The wheels caught something—maybe a rock, maybe a ditch—I don't know. The van lurched, the ground vanished beneath us. The whole world tipped over on itself. The windows shattered. Metal screamed.
We flipped.
Once.
Twice.
And then—
Silence.
Crash.
My head smashed into the window. Blood ran hot down the side of my face. My left arm throbbed—pain sharp, stabbing, alive.
But I was still breathing.
I kicked open the door and stumbled out, bumping into the two girls on the way. We crawled out coughing, the air thick with smoke, dust, and petrol.
Then—we ran.
We didn't look back.
We didn't scream.
We just ran.
Like animals torn loose from a cage.
Only when the smoke behind us faded into sky did we stop, our legs trembling, lungs heaving.
The road stretched ahead, dry and lonely, like it hadn't seen help in years. There were no houses, no people—just a skeletal path and a broken sky.
The girl who'd sat beside me was bleeding badly from her arm. She pressed her left hand against it, trying to stop the blood. Her breathing was ragged, but her voice was steady when she asked, "So what do we do now?"
I turned to her, panting, my lungs burning.
"We run," I said. "And we don't look back. Because if they find us again…" I paused. "Let's just pray they don't."
She nodded once, then offered me a name.
"Nina."
I gave her a half-smile. "Cyprian. But most people call me Cy."
The other girl, tall and broad-shouldered, had blood on her lip. She wiped it with the back of her hand.
"Rukky," she said.
The three of us nodded. Strangers made family by desperation, fear, and blood.
Then we ran.
The road was a skeleton—a ribbon of silence cutting through nowhere. We were deep in the outskirts, somewhere between bush and oblivion. So we dashed through the tall trees, through the wet grass that smelled like piss and something rotten. We ran until we reached the clearing. Then our feet hit gravel.
Our lungs heaved. Our hearts thundered. But we didn't stop.
And slowly—very slowly—the road began to change. Bush gave way to houses. A lonely kiosk appeared in the distance, then the faint whisper of generators.
Hope stirred in my chest, hot and dizzying.
"Any of you get phone?" I asked, glancing around.
Rukky reached into her pocket, about to respond—
Then a Hilux screamed around the bend, engine howling like a beast.
Before any of us could blink, we were grabbed. Shoved into the back of the truck. Bound like animals. My throat burned from shouting, but no one heard us.
The town, as always, had learned to look away.
We drove for what felt like forever. No words. Just the sound of rope tightening and the throb of fresh bruises.
Then the truck stopped.
We were dragged out, our faces covered with thick, black polythene bags. The smell of oil, blood, and damp wood invaded my nostrils.
I was pushed through corridors, led like cattle. Somewhere far off, a man shouted orders in Pidgin. A door creaked. Then the bag was ripped off my face, and I blinked hard against the dim yellow light.
But my arms were still bound behind me. My body ached. There would be no escape this time.
A man stepped forward, seizing me by the collar and lifting me like I weighed nothing.
"Open your eyes," he said.
And I did.
What I saw knocked the air from my lungs.
A man stood before me—taller than anyone I had ever seen in real life. His skin was dark—deep, unflinching brown like polished mahogany. His face was sharp, his jawline clean, his mouth set in a line of quiet command. His teeth—white, straight, and canine—flashed faintly beneath full lips that looked like they could smile or kill.
His eyes were dark. Quiet. Dangerous. They didn't burn. They consumed.