The flickering lights of the underground supermarket hummed above Dre's head like dying fireflies. He moved past abandoned shelves, his steps silent, precise, like a predator stalking prey. His eyes scanned every corner — this wasn't just a recon mission. It was war preparation.
Somewhere beneath Alagbado, Lagos, a network of tunnels had been built by Elric's gang — known in hushed tones as The Syndicate. Dre had uncovered whispers of it after weeks of digging through street contacts, burner chats, and hidden CCTV glitches that pointed to one place: beneath this supermarket.
Dre paused near a rusted freezer door with faded Igbo inscriptions — "Onye zere a, ya zere nsogbu" — He who avoids here, avoids trouble.
He grinned slightly.
"Too late for that."
He placed his hand against the freezer's back panel, tapping lightly until he heard the hollow echo. A hidden panel. Just as he suspected.
Dre pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket and pried it open. A gust of cold air escaped, not from refrigeration — it was deeper. Damp. Moldy. Underground.
The panel creaked as it revealed a descending iron staircase swallowed in darkness.
He stepped in.
---
Down the steps, his breathing slowed. Not out of fear, but control. Dre had learned one thing since leaving his soft life behind — emotions are weapons, and when you're at war, you don't show the enemy your blade until it's inside their ribs.
As his boots touched the tunnel floor, he heard it: the distant rhythm of generators and faint voices.
He turned a corner. Then froze.
A camera.
Old, but functional. He stepped back into the shadow, checking his angles. This wasn't the kind of camera connected to a cloud or internet — it was offline, storing footage on local servers. Meaning Elric would review it manually. And if he spotted Dre's face?
Game on.
But maybe… that's what he wanted.
He turned slightly, showing only half his face under the light. Just enough. A calculated risk.
Then he walked forward boldly, past the camera. A gift for Elric. A silent message.
I'm here. And I'm not hiding anymore.
---
Deeper inside, Dre reached a junction where the path split. Left echoed with machine noise. Right smelled of burnt metal and oil. He crouched, placing a matchstick on the floor — one of his old tricks. If someone followed, the wind of their step would tilt it slightly. Street science.
He turned left.
And the nightmare began.
Two guards. Hidden behind crates.
One stepped out, cocking a small shotgun. "You lost, boy?"
Dre raised his hands slightly. "Just looking for something sweet. Maybe a little... revenge."
The guard laughed. "This area is restricted. You got five seconds before I repaint this place with your blood."
Dre tilted his head. "I suggest you check your friend's pocket first."
The other guard blinked. He patted his vest. Nothing unusual—until he reached his lower pocket. A blinking red light.
"Is that—?"
BOOM!
Smoke exploded outward. Dre dove into the shadows as chaos erupted. The flashbang was enough to blind and deafen them momentarily. He didn't wait. He struck.
A punch to the first guard's throat. Elbow to the jaw. He snatched the shotgun, flipped it, and struck the second man's ribs with the stock. One tried to draw a blade — Dre kicked it out of his hand and slammed his forehead against the man's nose.
Blood spattered.
He stood alone again.
Shaking off the adrenaline, he looked up — a new door. Steel-reinforced, with fingerprints and voice lock.
"Elric... you paranoid bastard."
But Dre was always two steps ahead.
From his jacket, he pulled a small recorder.
He pressed play.
Elric's voice — pulled from an earlier voice call Dre had intercepted.
"Only I open the vault. If anyonetouches it, shoot them twice."
The scanner blinked, then—
ACCESS GRANTED
Dre smirked. "Checkmate."
---
Inside, the room was different.
A digital board covered the wall. Names. Pictures. Gang routes. Bank accounts. Police officers — some circled in red. Some crossed out.
He stepped closer. A single folder lay open. And on it, his name.
"Dre Okafor" – Threat level-"Red."
Beside his photo was a note in red marker:
"If he finds this room, activate Plan Echo."
"What the hell is Plan Echo?" he muttered.
A printer behind him came to life — suddenly, on its own. A sheet rolled out.
One sentence:
"You're not the only one who plays the game, Dre."
He froze.
Someone else was here. Watching.
And then the lights cut off.
---
For a moment, nothing.
Then a slow clap echoed from the darkness.
"Welcome back to the real streets, Dre."
A voice. Smooth. Cold. Familiar.
Zino.
Once Dre's ally. Now… Elric's top tactician.
"You really think you're hunting Elric? You're just a piece on the board. And we already predicted your next five moves."
Dre reached for his blade.
Zino chuckled. "Oh no, don't bother. That gas you're breathing in? It's already slowing your reflexes."
Dre's limbs trembled slightly.
Poison.
A test.
A warning.
"You've started something, Dre," Zino's voice echoed. "But you don't even know what the real war is about. We're not just criminals anymore."
Then silence.
The lights flicked back on.
Zino was gone.
---
Dre stumbled back out of the vault, eyes burning, brain racing.
He thought he was playing the hunter.
But now he knew.
He was a piece in a bigger, darker game.
And if Elric had already seen five moves ahead...
Dre had to make a move no one could predict.Not even himself