BENIN CITY, EDO STATE— 12 Years Ago
The boy stood in front of the door.
He was ten years old. Small for his age. His night clothes were too thin for the cold, but he didn't feel the cold. He felt something else. Something he didn't have words for yet.
The door was closed.
It had been closed for an hour.
Inside, he could hear sounds—soft, rhythmic, wrong. His mother's voice, but not the way she spoke to him. Not the way she spoke to anyone.
He stood there.
Waiting.
The door opened.
His mother stepped out first, her hair messy, her clothes not quite right. Behind her, a man—not his father—fastened his belt, not looking at the boy, not looking at anyone.
"Mom."
She stopped.
"Aren't you supposed to do this with Dad?"
She looked at him.
For a moment—just a moment—something flickered across her face. Guilt? Shame? He couldn't tell. He was ten.
Then it was gone.
She walked past him, the man behind her.
The door closed.
The boy stood there.
The next night, the same thing.
The night after that, the same.
The night after that—
The house burned.
The flames were beautiful—orange and gold and red, reaching toward the sky like hands begging for something they would never receive. The heat was immense. The screams were louder.
The boy stood outside, held by his father's firm grip on his shoulder.
His mother was inside. Her lover was inside.
The boy watched.
The boy smiled.
His father looked down at him. Didn't speak. Didn't ask. Just held him tighter.
The fire department came. The neighbors gathered. The screams stopped.
The boy didn't cry.
He had stopped crying years ago.
BENIN CITY , EDO STATE— 4 Years Ago
The church was quiet.
Central Baptist Church. Sunday morning. The pews were half-full, the air thick with incense and old wood and the murmured prayers of people who needed something to believe in.
Ruese sat alone.
He was eighteen now. Lean. Athletic. His afro was fuller, his jaw sharper, his eyes older than they should have been. He sat in the back row, as always, watching, waiting, burning.
Then she walked in.
She was beautiful. Not in the way girls in magazines were beautiful—in the way sunlight was beautiful. Unavoidable. Warm. She moved like she belonged everywhere she went.
She sat beside him.
Not next to him. Beside him. Same pew. Same row. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral, something soft.
He couldn't stop looking at her.
She caught him looking. Smiled. Turned back to the front.
He couldn't stop looking.
After the service, he found her outside.
She was talking to an older woman—her mother, maybe. Her laugh was light, easy, the kind of laugh that didn't know it was beautiful.
"Um."
She turned.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I'm—" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "What's your name?"
She tilted her head, curious, not suspicious.
"Jane. What's yours?"
"Ruese."
"Nice to meet you, Ruese."
She smiled again.
Then she left.
He stood there, watching her walk away, something cracking open in his chest that he thought had been sealed shut years ago.
The Next Sunday
He came prepared.
The iPhone was new—expensive, more than he could afford, but he had saved for months. It sat in his pocket like a heartbeat.
She was there again. Same pew. Same smile.
He walked up to her after the service, his hands shaking, his throat dry.
"Jane."
She turned.
He held out the phone.
"I got you something."
She looked at the phone. Looked at him. Her smile faded.
"Ruese... I can't take this."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
She was sixteen. She knew what the gift meant. He was eighteen. He knew what he was offering.
"I just—"
"Ruese." Her voice was kind. Firm. Final. "I'm not interested. I'm sorry."
She left.
He stood there, phone in his hand, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.
That night, the church burned.
He stood outside, watching the flames, a smirk on his face.
No one died. Everyone survived.
But the church was gone.
And he never saw Jane there again.
UNIBEN — Present Day
The campus was alive with the chaos of a new semester.
Ruese walked through the crowd, unnoticed, unseen—the way he liked it. He was twenty-two now. Lean, athletic, his afro catching the sunlight. His eyes scanned the students, the lecturers, the endless sea of people who had no idea who he was or what he had done.
Then he saw her.
Jane.
She was laughing, her head tilted back, her hand resting on the arm of a guy he didn't recognize. Dark skin. Taller than her. Wearing a Barcelona jersey, of all things.
They hugged.
They left.
Ruese watched them go.
Something inside him—something he had thought was dead—cracked open again.
The pharmacy department lab burned first.
He waited until night, until the building was empty—or so he thought. He didn't know about Jane's project. He didn't know about the students who stayed late, working, hoping. He just knew she was in that faculty. He just knew he wanted her to feel what he felt.
Loss.
The engineering mathematics hall burned next.
He followed David. Watched him. Learned his schedule. The morning lecture. The crowded hall. The perfect target.
Fire.
The Tetfund Hostel—he thought it was hers. It wasn't. But the building burned anyway.
Fire.
The medicine faculty night class—he knew she would be there. He didn't care about the others.
Fire.
After all that he was running away.
Gallon in one hand. Bag in the other. The flames behind him were beautiful—orange and gold and red, reaching toward the sky like hands begging for something they would never receive.
Then something hit him.
Not something. Someone.
He was on the ground. The gallon spilled. The bag tore. A fist—impossibly fast, impossibly strong—crashed into his face.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He tasted blood. Felt his nose break. Heard his own skull crack against the pavement.
The fist raised again—
"Oga Stop! You wan kill am!"
The fist hovered.
Ruese looked up through blurred vision.
David. The boy in the Barcelona jersey. Jane's boy.
"He's the onesetting fires," David said. His voice was raw. "He hurt innocents."
"Then let the university handle it."
Security came. Hands pulled him up. Cuffed him. Dragged him away.
He didn't fight.
He just looked at David—really looked—and for a moment, something passed between them.
Not understanding.
Not forgiveness.
Recognition.
They were the same.
Both burning.
Both unable to stop.
The room was small. Cold. The walls were grey, the floor was concrete, the door was steel. Ruese sat on a bench, his wrists cuffed, his face bandaged, his eyes fixed on nothing.
He had been here for hours. Maybe days. He couldn't tell.
Then the door opened.
A woman stepped in first. Young. Dark hair. Long dress. She moved like she owned every room she entered.
Behind her, a man. Tall. Sharp features. Red glasses. A suit that cost more than Ruese's entire existence.
"Ruese Ame," the woman said. Her voice was soft, almost tender. "We've been watching you."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who understands."
She stepped closer. The man stayed by the door, silent, watching.
"You've been trying to destroy something you can't reach," she continued. "David. The boy who took everything from you. You've burned buildings. Hurt people. And still, he walks free."
Ruese's jaw tightened.
"What do you want?"
"To offer you a second chance."
She smiled.
"You can't beat him. Not like this. He's... special. Protected. But there's another way."
"What way?"
"A contract. With something one with fire. Something that will give you the power to finally take what you deserve."
Ruese stared at her.
"What's the catch?"
"There's always a catch." She laughed—soft, musical, almost kind. "But we'll explain that later. For now... do you want revenge, Ruese? Or do you want to keep burning alone?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
The man by the door—Destiny—removed his red glasses and looked at Ruese for the first time.
"Good."
Ruese's vision blurred. His head spun. His body went limp.
He collapsed on the bench, unconscious.
Angel and Destiny watched him for a moment.
"He'll do," Angel said.
"Typical."
Destiny put his glasses back on.
They left.
The door closed.
The cell was silent.
DANJUMA HOSTEL
David sat in Jane's room, his burns bandaged, his eyes heavy.
His phone buzzed.
Eloghosa: You caught the arsonist.
Eloghosa: Good.
Eloghosa: Now rest.
Eloghosa: I think I'll just leave you then goodnight.
David stared at the message.
Then he put the phone down and closed his eyes.
Behind his lids, he saw fire.
Behind the fire, he saw a man with an afro and dark skin and eyes that looked just like his.
The same.
Both burning.
Both unable to stop.