War wasn't good for everyone.
Just kidding—it was perfect for Michael.
While much of the world staggered under the weight of conflict, Pharm Dr. Michael Ogunlade, Nigeria's Chief of Station in Tel Aviv and head of its Middle East Intelligence Division, stood at the center of a whirlwind he had engineered. His tools were blackmail, subterfuge, double-crosses, and whispered promises. And now the Middle East burned in slow motion.
Israel had survived—but at what cost?
Mossad operatives spoke of "resilience," but the cost was visible in every funeral, every green sapling planted over the grave of a seasoned commander. They had killed many of their enemies—but bled for every inch. The public had rallied, but the war left a hollowed-out intelligence service and a military frayed at the edges. Their victories were Pyrrhic. They were now more reliant than ever on foreign partners—especially Michael's IIS apparatus, which they believed was still "aligned" with them.
Iran and its proxies? Gutted.
Hezbollah, the Houthis, Shi'a militias in Iraq—all devastated in a storm of targeted strikes, sabotage, and betrayal. But they hadn't gone down alone. Iranian drones had breached Israeli airspace. Their sleeper cells in the West had activated, striking embassies, terminals, and oil pipelines. The Islamic Republic was bleeding, its military weakened—but its enemies bore the marks of every lunge.
The West fumbled like fools.
The Americans had committed themselves to half-solutions. Billions of dollars spent arming proxies that vanished. Aircraft lost. Intel leaks everywhere. Oil prices spiked; riots bloomed in Paris, Berlin, and even the American Midwest. The UK's foreign secretary barely survived a scandal tied to a "friendly nation" double-crossing them. That nation? Nigeria. They just didn't know yet.
The Middle East was cracked open.
Governments held on by fingernails. Jordan's monarchy suppressed a coup attempt. Iraq's parliament descended into chaos. Yemen was a graveyard of shifting allegiances. Kuwait and Qatar clamped down on dissent while pretending to back the right side. Dissidents grew bolder. Gulf rulers more paranoid. And through it all, Michael watched, adjusted, and fed the fire.
He had played every side.
The Saudis got carefully curated hits on Iranian cells.
Iran got whispers on Israeli agents operating in Cairo and Cyprus—just enough to sting.
The West got just enough access to "joint IIS ops" to feel useful.
And while they all tried to come out on top, they destroyed each other.
But not Nigeria.
Nigeria remained untouched. Distant. Neutral. Profiting from rising oil prices and the void left by broken Middle Eastern alliances. The only African power with influence in every intelligence war room from Amman to Baghdad.
Now, the others came to him.
A secure compound outside Almaty, Kazakhstan. Neutral ground.
Michael met with senior Chinese and Russian intelligence figures under the guise of "energy diplomacy."
No formal titles. No translators. Just eyes sharp with calculation.
The Chinese proposed a long game—Nigeria's help in creating an alternative oil corridor through Africa, cutting out OPEC and Western interference.
The Russians offered military tech in exchange for IIS cooperation against NATO proxies in Libya and the Red Sea.
Michael said little.
He was here to listen, not pledge.
Nigeria's strength was its distance—and its ability to whisper into every ear.
He offered the same message he had left scrawled in blood beside the corpses of jihadist leaders, but this time, he spoke it aloud:
> "We are the sand. We swallow empires."
The room fell silent.
Neither China nor Russia flinched—but they heard him.
They understood.
And Michael knew—this was just the beginning.
The war had cracked the world. The flood was coming.
And Nigeria, silent and smiling, would be the dam that chose who drowned—and who ruled the tide.