Chapter 5: BOYS NIGHT OUT

The day began like so many others had. Karim woke with dark circles shadowing his eyes, a heaviness in his chest that sleep never seemed to lift. He lingered under the shower longer than usual, letting the hot water beat down on his back as though it could wash away the weight pressing on him. When he finally stepped out, the mirror gave him no mercy. His reflection stared back: tired eyes, a jawline that had tightened with stress, the faint suggestion of weariness etched into the corners of his mouth. He ran a hand across the stubble on his chin and sighed.

Clothes lay scattered across his room like a battlefield. He scooped a few into the laundry basket, though he knew he’d likely ignore them later, and pulled on a shirt with mechanical precision. His tie hung loosely around his neck, unknotted. He

couldn’t be bothered.

Driving out, he made a detour into a café near his street. The familiar aroma of roasted beans hit him as soon as he walked in, sharp and comforting in equal measure. People filled the small space—students hunched over laptops, couples whispering across tables, an old man sipping slowly as if savoring the only luxury left to him. Karim envied them, the ordinariness of their lives, their freedom from blood

and bodies and unanswered questions.

He ordered a black coffee and sat by the window. His mind, however, refused him peace. It circled back, again and again, to the vent.

The vent had been too small for a man of average

build. It led from the commissioner’s study to the air- conditioning outlet by the southwestern fence of the compound. Only a slender person could have squeezed through—perhaps a woman, perhaps a small man. Karim tried to picture it: an elegant lady, her perfume lingering, slipping through the vent like a thief in the night.

But what gnawed at him was the brutality of it. Could a woman of such poise—someone who

laughed easily, who carried herself like a model or actress, as Aisha described—really strap a grown man to a chair, then bludgeon and butcher him with such violence? It felt unnatural, incongruous, like oil refusing to mix with water. The elegance Aisha painted and the savagery of the murder simply did not fit in the same frame.

He sipped his coffee slowly, but the bitterness only deepened the knot in his chest.

—

The precinct buzzed with its usual discordant chorus. Civilians giving statements murmured in corners, detainees grumbled from the cells about food and phone calls, and the steady shuffle of paperwork punctuated everything. Yet beneath the noise, there was an intensity in the air, like static before a storm. Karim felt the eyes of his colleagues trailing him as he walked through the hall—expectant, demanding, as though each gaze whispered the same unspoken question: Have you found the answer yet?

He ignored it as best he could and made his way to his office.

Salako was already there, hunched over the files like a man trying to mine gold from dirt. Karim dropped into the chair opposite him, loosened his tie further, and rubbed his temples.

“The vent,” he said simply.

Salako looked up, his brows furrowing. “You think that’s the escape route?”

“It fits,” Karim replied. “Too small for most men. Which narrows it. But it doesn’t sit right with me. Whoever did this wasn’t just desperate—they were strong, deliberate. You don’t tie a man like the

commissioner, not without force. You don’t bludgeon a skull like that unless you mean it.”

Salako leaned back, exhaling. “So what are you saying? That there’s more than one person?”

“Maybe.” Karim’s voice was low, thoughtful. “Or maybe we’re looking at someone whose face doesn’t match the violence they carry.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unanswered questions thick between them. Then, wordlessly, they returned to the files.

The hours dragged. One case file after another, notes scribbled in margins, cross-references made. The day dissolved into monotony, and yet the unease never left Karim. He felt like he was chasing shadows, stretching threads that only frayed at the edges.

By nightfall, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. He packed up slowly, the precinct lights dimming behind him as he walked out.

—

The bar was dimly lit, filled with the warm glow of bulbs strung across wooden beams. It was their spot, a place Karim and his old friends had frequented since university days. The laughter of patrons, the clink of glasses, the low hum of music—all of it wrapped around him like a balm.

His friends were already there, waving him over with wide smiles and open arms. They teased him about

his lateness, ribbed him about his workaholic ways,

and ordered him a drink before he could refuse. For a while, Karim let himself sink into the moment. Their jokes, their stories, the sound of laughter—it felt like stepping back into a life he had almost forgotten he once lived.

But the peace didn’t last.

On the television mounted above the bar, the news flickered. The anchor’s voice was calm, too calm, and Karim caught the commissioner’s face on screen again. His friends noticed too.

“Ah, see this life,” one said, shaking his head. “That commissioner. You know who’s handling that case?

Any progress?”

Another leaned in, curiosity gleaming. “Kai, Karim, you sabi the guy na. Tell us—who’s the officer in charge? Don’t tell me it’s you.”

Karim forced a smile, waved them off. “Leave matter. Abeg.”

But the nausea crept up anyway. He had run from these questions all day, buried himself in files, and here they were again, bubbling up in laughter and curiosity. He excused himself, muttering something about needing fresh air, and pushed through the bar.

And then—he saw her.

The collision was soft, accidental. He turned quickly, an apology already on his lips. But the words stalled as his eyes met hers.

She was beautiful in a way that defied words, the kind of beauty that silenced rooms. Her skin glowed in the dim light, smooth as silk, her eyes deep and arresting, framed by lashes that fluttered like whispers. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, and Karim’s chest tightened.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice unsteady.

She smiled faintly, and the world tilted. It wasn’t just her face, it was the aura she carried—the grace, the warmth, the quiet power. For a moment, the bar, the laughter, the news—all of it fell away. There was only her.

Karim fumbled, desperate to anchor himself in words. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shook her head gently, her earrings catching the light. The perfume she wore—delicate, floral, intoxicating—wrapped around him. He felt pulled into her orbit, helpless and willing.

He wanted to say more, to hold the moment, to make her stay. A question perched on his tongue, but before it could leave, a voice cut across the bar.

“Karim! Look at the news!”

He turned, torn, his eyes darting to the screen.

The anchor’s voice was grave now. The image showed a stretcher being wheeled into an ambulance, a body covered in white cloth. The headline blared in bold letters: COMMISSIONER FOR AGRICULTURE FOUND DEAD.

Karim’s breath caught as the details rolled in. Another commissioner. Another killing. This time, the victim bore a gruesome mark carved into his chest: the number 4, inscribed with a knife or stake.

The room seemed to spin. His mind reeled at the implications—two high-ranking officials, two brutal murders, both tied by cryptic numbers. The pattern was undeniable now. There was a serial killer on the loose.

He spun back around, desperate to catch the woman’s gaze again. But she was gone. Vanished into the crowd, leaving only the faint trace of her perfume lingering in the air.

Karim’s heart pounded. Love had brushed against him, fleeting and fragile. But duty, relentless and unforgiving, had seized him once more.

Work was calling.