Two weeks later.
In a vault beneath the wreckage of the old IIS complex, a silent room pulsed with data. New servers. New eyes. A new war.
They had called it the Iron Requiem Project. A lie born from fire and vengeance. Michael sat at its heart, in the command chamber of Obsidian Station—a mobile black-site built into a decommissioned Nigerian navy substructure. Off-grid. Untouchable.
On the screen before him: the faces of men who ruled empires without thrones—bankers in Luxembourg, oil magnates in Riyadh, mercenary chiefs in the Sahel.
And they were all connected.
Not by nationality. Not by loyalty.
By profit.
Syren stepped into the room, tossing a flash drive onto the table.
"Intercept from Vienna. The defector's clean. He wasn't running—he was warning."
Michael raised a brow. "Warning who?"
"Us."
She tapped the screen, bringing up a black sigil: two intersecting snakes around a globe.
The Ouroboros Collective.
A private alliance of biotech conglomerates, arms syndicates, and digital black market traders. Hidden behind layers of shell companies and diplomatic immunity. They didn't just profit from war—they engineered it.
"They've gone fully operational," Syren said. "The virus has mutated. The Madagascar strain is air-stable. Selective. Region-specific."
Michael's fingers clenched. "They're planning a demonstration?"
"Already begun," she said. "Port of Cotonou. Twenty-three dead. All opposition politicians."
He stared at the map. The virus wasn't just a weapon—it was a scalpel. A tool for political surgery.
"Where are the samples?" he asked.
"Underground base. Eastern Madagascar. Buried beneath a copper mine. Former French colonial site."
Michael stood. "We're going in. No satellites. No drone support. Just ghosts."
Antananarivo, Madagascar.
A rainstorm slashed through the jungle like shrapnel. The IIS infiltration unit—codenamed Phantom Cell—moved in silence, wrapped in thermal-suppressing cloaks. Thirty hours by sea. Ten by foot. Now, meters from the compound.
Michael crouched beside a moss-covered stone. His breath was measured. Calculated.
Syren was watching the perimeter. Her voice crackled in his ear. "Two guards. IR goggles. Patterned patrol. You've got ten seconds after they cross."
Michael signaled. The team moved.
Three seconds. Two suppressed shots. Two bodies down.
They breached the compound.
Inside, the air was chilled and clean. Too clean.
Biosafety Level 4.
Tubes of glowing fluid lined the walls. Cryogenic storage. Experimental vials labeled in French, Arabic, and Mandarin.
They found the scientist—scarred, trembling, chained to a desk.
Michael's voice was flat. "You survived Cameroon."
The man's eyes widened. "I was supposed to. They left me behind on purpose. So I'd tell the story."
"What story?"
"That the IIS failed. That Nigeria's weapon burned itself out. They wanted the world to lower its guard. To think the fire was out."
Syren's eyes narrowed. "And then strike from the smoke."
The scientist nodded. "But it's not just Africa. Look closer. Your own agents—some are compromised. Your own generals. They're not Nigerians anymore. They're shareholders."
Michael stepped forward. "You have proof?"
The man held up a neural drive. "Names. Locations. Codes."
Michael took it, then placed a small charge against the cold wall.
"Let's finish this."
Ten minutes later.
The jungle lit up like Judgment Day. Fire roared from the mountain. Gas tanks erupted. The virus burned.
But the war wasn't over.
Back in Obsidian Station, the drive was decrypted. It named names. Men in power. Men in Michael's government. Ministers. Governors. Generals.
They had sold their loyalty to Ouroboros.
Nigeria wasn't infected by a virus.
It was infected by greed.
Michael summoned Syren and the Phantom Cell.
"We purge them all. No arrests. No trials. Only fire."
One by one, over the next six days, the names fell.
A convoy 'ambushed' in Bauchi.
A helicopter 'malfunction' over Lokoja.
A suicide note forged in London.
The world called it coincidence. The news called it tragedy.
Michael called it justice.
Washington D.C. – Weeks Later.
In a penthouse overlooking the Capitol, a senator reviewed a dossier. It contained a photo of Michael Ogunlade.
A voice from the dark asked, "Is he contained?"
The senator hesitated. "No. He's... ascended. The Directive's gone dark. Nigeria is off-script."
The voice said, "Then we have a new variable. A ghost we didn't plan for."
Back in Obsidian Station, Michael watched encrypted footage of the Pentagon briefing.
He turned to Syren.
"They're preparing countermeasures."
She nodded. "And you?"
"I'm building something worse."
She raised an eyebrow. "Worse than you already are?"
Michael stared into the glass.
"I was a shadow. Then I became a weapon. Now... I'll be the storm."
Outside, war drums thundered from the Sahel.
The next phase had begun.
And the world had no idea what was coming.