"Some men build empires. Others become myths.
He did both...in silence."
I. The Mirage Called Morning.
New Makurdi didn't wake.
It shifted. Like an old god stretching in its
sleep—half light, half shadow. The streets were
wet with dew and silence. Above them, PlanetX
rose like a cathedral of rebellion: polished glass,
black marble, and light that pulsed like a living
thing.
Mr. Black stood at the highest floor, a
silhouette carved by morning. Shirtless, chiseled,
tattoos spread around his body in black ink—
scars like hieroglyphs across his back. A body
shaped by battles no man wrote about.
He wasn't admiring the view. He was
calculating it.
"Three seconds," he whispered.
A tiny beep confirmed the third knock at his
door. He smirked.
"Enter."
The door slid open to reveal a woman in a
matte navy suit—slim tablet in hand, nerves
barely hidden. Agent-shaped posture. Civilian
soul.
"Ms. Luna," he said, without looking.
"You predicted the betrayal," she said.
"I didn't predict. I counted on it."
She handed him the tablet. Blood-red auction
images flashed across the screen: a severed
finger, a painting in the background—his
painting, "Stillness of War."
"It's now official evidence in an ongoing
investigation," she murmured.
"They'll frame the art before they frame the
artist," he replied. "And I'm both."
She hesitated, watching him pour three
measured drops of honey into black coffee.
"We've traced the courier's route. He stopped
at an old church. Fifteen minutes unaccounted
for."
"Then those are the only minutes that
mattered."
II. The Other Life.
By 9 PM, New Makurdi shed its skin. Neon veins
lit slums denied on paper. A preacher shouted
into broken speakers about hell, while sinners
danced just a block away.
And beneath it all, Verde Nocturne bloomed in
the dark.
It wasn't a lab. It was a sanctuary—green-lit
tunnels, genetically stabilized strains, military
filtration. Each plant was monitored by code-
named XY. Dispensaries in the guise of spiritual
retreats, poetry houses, and puppet theaters.
Mr. Black walked among his empire with
elegance and dread.
"New strain?" he asked, touching a glowing
violet bud.
The botanist, shaking slightly, nodded. "Yes sir.
It's called Redemption. It slows time perception
and enhances memory."
Black smiled. "Perfect. The past is a drug…
people just need the right dosage."
He wasn't just running weed. He was cultivating
escape, revolution, clarity. His clients weren't
addicts—they were pilgrims. And he, the
heretic priest.
But that night, something tasted wrong.
He entered the lower sanctum. The lights
dimmed to scarlet. Music stopped. Only the
smell of blood remained.
A body lay on the floor—one of his couriers,
face down, back carved.
His niece's name, "Nicole", scrawled into flesh.
Not a warning.
A prophecy.
III. Gospel of a God in Hiding.
Mr. Black returned home before midnight. Not
to his penthouse—but to the one room he
never brought visitors.
The chapel.
Old wood. Melted wax. Cracked hymns.
He knelt before the altar, no longer asking
forgiveness—but listening.
"Father," he whispered. "I didn't fall from grace.
I walked away from it."
Behind him hung the portraits of his family—
mother, father, twin brother—all burned in the
fire that left him orphaned. The legacy he wore
now was forged from ashes.
"I gave them a city. They gave me enemies."
He lit three candles: one for his father's rage,
one for his mother's mercy, and one… for what
was coming.
IV. Zyna.
She stood by the doorway, wrapped in shadow
and silk. Her voice was a blade covered in velvet.
"You're slipping," she said.
"No. I'm remembering."
She walked to him barefoot, always barefoot. A
reminder she walked unarmed around a man
who could kill gods.
Zyna wasn't a lover. She was a storm he let in.
"You're about to do something," she said.
"Something unholy."
He met her eyes—dark, ancient, unshaken.
"They took Nicole."
Zyna inhaled, slow. "Then make them regret
breath."
V. The Promise of Fire.
The sun hadn't risen yet, but New Makurdi was
already burning.
He stood on his rooftop again, in full suit. Cigar
between his fingers. Watching the skyline blink
like an SOS.
His phone buzzed.
1 Message.
"FOUND HER."
Attached: a photo feed. Nicole, unconscious,
her small wrist tied with copper wire. Blood on
her face. The Governor's insignia on the wall
behind her.
The Governor. The same man Mr. Black helped
get elected. The same man who'd once sworn,
"We owe you this city."
He crushed the cigar between his fingers. Fire.
Ash. Purpose.
Zyna stepped beside him. "Are you going to
war?"
"No," he said. "I'm going to correct history".