For a long time, the only sound in the flat was the soft glug of water being poured from one container into a cup. It was a holy sound, a sacrament. Adekunle held the cup for his aunt, his hands steady now, and watched her drink. She took small, slow sips, her eyes closed, as if savoring not just the taste of the water, but the taste of life itself. The rain he had brought home was washing away the dust of the tomb from the inside out.
When she had drunk her fill, he helped her with her medicine, the familiar ritual now imbued with a renewed sense of hope. The antibiotics were no longer a desperate, final prayer; they were part of a real battle now, reinforced with hydration and a fighting chance. He cleaned and re-dressed her leg, his movements gentle and practiced. The wound was still a grim, ugly landscape of bruised flesh, but it looked less angry, the swelling slightly reduced. The faint, foul smell of infection had lessened. She was getting better. The thought was a fragile, beautiful thing, and he held it carefully, afraid it might break.
After he had tended to her, he re-braced the front door, wedging the heavy tyre iron back into place, sealing them into their castle once more. He went to the kitchen and drank deeply himself, the cool, clean water a blessed shock to his system. He could feel it rehydrating him, chasing away the headache that had been a constant companion for days, clearing the fuzzy edges from his thoughts.
He returned to the living room to find his aunt sitting up on the sofa, her back propped against the cushions. The water and the hope had worked a small miracle. The feverish, vacant look in her eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar, sharp intelligence he knew so well. She was looking at him, not with fear or pity, but with an intense, penetrating gaze that seemed to peel back the layers of grime and exhaustion and see straight into his soul.
"Come," she said, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. She patted the spot on the sofa next to her. "Sit with me, Kunle."
He hesitated. The quiet intimacy felt more dangerous than the open street. He had been running on pure, unthinking instinct for so long that the prospect of a simple conversation felt daunting. But he obeyed, sinking into the worn cushions, the silence between them now filled with unspoken questions.
"Tell me," she said finally, her gaze unwavering. "Tell me everything that happened. From the beginning."
And so he did. He spoke in a low, flat monotone, recounting the events of the past few hours as if they had happened to someone else. He described his terror on the roof, the impossible jump across the alley, the silent, ghost-filled tailor's shop, and the final, heart-stopping sprint home. He told her about the new gang, about Jago and his machete. He laid the story out between them, a map of his journey through hell.
But he left one thing out. He did not speak of the impossible strength. He did not describe the feeling of bending solid steel or the terrifying, exhilarating sensation of flying across a fifteen-foot gap. He edited the miracle out of the story, because he was still trying to edit it out of his own mind.
When he finished, she was silent for a long time. She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool now, her skin no longer burning with fever. She turned his hand over and gently traced the raw, bleeding scrapes and the deep, angry groove the electrical cable had cut into his palm.
"And the hatch," she said softly. "The big iron one on the roof. You left that part out. How did you open the lock, Kunle?"
His breath caught in his throat. He tried to pull his hand away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. "I… I used the tyre iron," he lied, the words feeling clumsy and false.
"No," she said, her voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for denial. "I know what your uncle's tools sound like. I have heard them my whole life. The sound of a tyre iron breaking a lock is a scream. The sound I heard when you were up there was a snap. Short. Brutal. Like a bone breaking." Her eyes held his, and in them, he saw not judgment, but a deep, sorrowful understanding. "I saw what you did to the demon in the shop. I saw what you are capable of. Do not lie to me. Not now."
The lie died in his throat. The wall of denial he had so carefully constructed crumbled into dust. He couldn't hide from her. He couldn't hide from himself. A single, hot tear escaped his eye and tracked a path through the grime on his cheek.
"I don't know what it is, Auntie," he whispered, his voice breaking. "It's not me. It feels… like a fire. Like it will burn me up from the inside if I let it out."
"Fire can be used to forge a tool, or to burn down a house," she replied, her voice still quiet, still calm. She squeezed his hand. "It depends on the hand that wields it. Kunle, listen to me. Your uncle Ben was the wisest man I ever knew. But he was wise in the ways of the old world. He built a shelter to hide from the end. But the end came, and it was not what he expected. Hiding is not enough. Surviving is not enough."
She paused, gathering her strength. "When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me stories. Stories of the old gods, the Orisha. She said that when the world is out of balance, they sometimes reach down and touch a person. They put a piece of their power, their ashe, into a mortal soul. Not to make them a god, but to make them an agent of change. A fulcrum upon which the world can be tilted back."
"This is not an old story," Adekunle protested weakly. "This is real."
"And you think the old stories were not real to the people who told them?" she countered. "God, the Orisha, angels, demons… these are just names we give to the great powers. The powers that have now torn our world apart and left us in the ruins. But they left something behind. They left you."
She leaned forward, her eyes blazing with a conviction that was almost frightening. "This power is not a curse. It is a burden. And it is a responsibility. Look at us, Kunle. We are trapped on the third floor of a dying building, in a dead city, on a forgotten planet. We have water for a few weeks. Food for a little longer. And then what? We wait for Jago and his men to finally break down our door? We wait to starve? That is not living. That is just a slow death."
She released his hand and gestured around the dark, silent room. "This is not our world anymore. It is just a cage. But you… you have the key. That strength is the key. Not just to survive, but to fight back. To take back a piece of this world for ourselves. To build something new. To find other survivors." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "That is what your uncle would want. He would not want us to die in the castle he built. He would want us to use it as a fortress from which to launch a new beginning."
Her words settled into the quiet room, rearranging the very architecture of Adekunle's thoughts. He had been so focused on the fear, on the monstrous nature of his power, that he had never considered its purpose. He had been thinking like a survivor, a hider. His aunt was thinking like a builder. A queen.
He looked at his hands again. They were still his hands. But the question had changed. It was no longer, What is this thing inside me? It was now, What do I do with it?
The fear was still there, a cold, heavy knot in his stomach. But for the first time, it was joined by something else. A flicker of something that felt terrifyingly like purpose. The weight of his power was still a crushing burden. But for the first time, he wondered if it was a burden he was meant to carry.
"Rest now, Auntie," he said softly, helping her lie back down on the sofa. "You need your strength."
"No, Kunle," she corrected him, her eyes fluttering closed, a faint, tired smile on her lips. "You need yours."
He sat in the armchair through the night, the weight of the tyre iron across his lap. He listened to the city's dead silence and the soft, steady breathing of his aunt. He was no closer to understanding the miracle that had awoken inside him. But the questions were no longer about what he had lost. They were about what he had to build. The castle on the third floor was not the end of the story. It was just the beginning. And he was its reluctant, terrified, and monstrously powerful king.