Morning arrived, bathing the world in gentle, warm sunlight.
The wind carried grit across the crumbling concrete of Nokoré—a rundown town in northern Nigeria long abandoned by officials and overtaken by rogue factions.
Cracked buildings leaned like drunks against rusted light poles, while outdated satellite dishes hung like broken ornaments.
Tonight, the ruins were alive.
Over two dozen armed men gathered in the open yard of an old train depot, weapons cradled in arms, conversation low and tense.
They were terrorists, but not the ragtag, desperate sort.
Their rifles were military-grade, their comms encrypted, their armor custom-fit with kinetic dampeners.
These were the upgraded ghosts of war—mercenaries reengineered.
And at the center of them all stood Doctor Kayari, clad in a pristine white coat over combat pants.
He looked like a surgeon pulled straight from a nightmare.
His glasses glinted under the dusty floodlights as he raised a hand, commanding silence.
