THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION 17

Deji shed the silk robe, letting it pool at his feet like a discarded skin. He hastily pulled on a sleek black designer tracksuit — the quiet armor of a man who handled dirt without ever staining his hands. He was a practitioner of violence by proxy, a man who slept soundly while others bled on his behalf.

He didn't bother with the mirror this time. He didn’t need to see his reflection to know the expression he wore: the look of a man who could smell a trap before it snapped, who anticipated the noose before it even tightened.

"You don't just vanish, Tayo," he hissed, his voice low and vibrating with barely restrained fury. "Not when I’ve already spent the commission in my head and certainly not when the payment was about to hit."

---

He strode to a hidden mini-safe tucked into the corner of the walk-in closet. After keying in a quick sequence of codes, the door clicked open. Reaching past stacks of bundled cash, he retrieved the "burner"— a phone that existed only for transactions that didn't leave a trail, the phone number that never appeared on bank statements or polite conversations. He scrolled once and stopped at a contact saved only as Leke‑Ears.

In a past life, Deji and Leke had fought same battles in the shadows of Lagos. Deji had eventually clawed his way into the light, trading the darkness for a life of luxury, but he had never truly severed the chord to Leke. 

Leke was a creature of alleyways and dangerous shadows. A man who lived in the darkest, most sinister part of the city, the kind of man who knew which police vans were truly on patrol and which ones were out hunting for bodies to fill their quota. He knew every raid, every disappearance and where all the bodies swallowed by the night were hidden. He would know where boys disappeared to when they stopped answering their phones.

Deji hit dial.

"Talk to me," a deep gravelly voice answered in Yoruba, on the second ring.

“My asset is offline,” Deji said in fluent Yoruba. No introduction. No emotion. No explanation. “Dark blue suit. Dreadlocks. Looks like fresh money that hasn’t learned how to hide. He crossed to the mainland for a ‘quick errand’ about an hour ago.”

"The mainland is wide," Leke grunted. "And the wolves are hungry tonight. There was a sweep near the Yaba axis. A business centre brawl. Turned ugly."

Deji’s jaw tightened until it ached. 

A business centre? The mental image of Tayo—his polished, expensive, fragile creation, stepping his expensive shoes on dirty tiles, standing in a place that smelled of sweat and bad energy, was worse than a nightmare. It was a tactical error. A structural flaw indeed.

"Check the Yaba precinct." Deji said, voice clipped. "If he’s there, don't let them book him under his real name. I’m coming down. And Leke?"

"Yeah?"

"If a single hair on his head is touched, your 'kickback' for the month is gone."

Deji ended the call and grabbed his car keys. The burner stayed in his hand; the business phone was left behind on the counter. Tonight wasn’t about optics or the brand. It was about retrieval. 

Taking one last look at the laptop screen—the numbers were still climbing. Likes. Engagements. Applause from people who would never see the blood behind the screen.

He shut it down.

“I built you Tayo,” Deji muttered as he stepped toward the door. “I engineered you. And nobody takes or touches what's mine before I’m done with it.”

 CONTINUE