Chapter 19: The Waiting Game
Philip disappeared.
No calls. No messages. Not even a glimpse of his black SUV near the museum gates.
Tolulope waited—at first. She checked her phone every hour, lingered by the ticket booth a few minutes longer each evening, hoping he'd return with that calm, quiet smile and another envelope of crisp notes.
But the days stretched. Weeks passed. Silence.
No word. No hint.
Eventually, she gave up.
What Tolulope didn't know was that Philip hadn't forgotten her—or the artifact.
He was just being careful.
Too careful to be reckless.
He knew he'd already drawn attention. Repeated visits. Late-night walk-throughs. A little too much friendliness with security staff. His name had slipped into the museum's whispers.
If anything strange happened now, there'd be a short list of suspects.
And he'd be the only one literally glowing.
So, he vanished.
For the next three months, Philip played the long game.
He launched an investment company—quiet, selective, and profitable. He poured money into promising startups across Lagos, building a digital portfolio that didn't require his face or presence. He sold a few of the jewels and gold he had taken from the pyramid realm. The rest he secured with meticulous precision.
One portion went into a vault he had installed in his parents' basement—a six-foot-wide, seven-foot-high steel box tucked behind reinforced concrete. Another stash was scattered across safety deposit boxes in cities like Abuja, Kaduna, and Port Harcourt. And then there was the land—a lonely plot in the middle of nowhere, with a single, solar-powered house built atop a second vault.
He trusted no one.
And in the silence of those months, he trained.
Every evening, he drove to an abandoned steel factory on the edge of Lagos. The place was forgotten—half-collapsed hangars, rusted machines, dust-coated pipes and girders. But to him, it was perfect. Remote. Silent. Private.
There, behind the rusted gates, he tested his limits.
His telekinesis had grown stronger. What once lifted a cup now lifted a motorcycle tire. A 3kg dumbbell danced around him with ease. With enough focus, he could manipulate tools mid-air, unscrew bolts without touching them, and bend steel rods—not without effort, but enough to bruise the laws of physics.
Fire came easier.
It now poured from his hands like liquid rage. He learned to channel it through his palms and fingers, creating narrow beams of concentrated heat—hot enough to melt steel, though it took time and energy. Ten minutes of fury could reduce a hinge to soup. But when he finished, he'd be drenched in sweat, and his skin would steam with leftover heat.
He burned through three sets of gloves before going barehanded.
Still, he wasn't satisfied.
So he tried other elements.
Earth was stubborn. Resistant. It didn't move with finesse—it cracked, crumbled, pushed back. But he kept at it. With time, he learned to create hairline fractures in concrete and send subtle vibrations through solid stone. It was crude, exhausting, but promising. Enough to suggest he could one day split a foundation—if the circumstances were right.
The goal wasn't to destroy the museum.
It was to get in.
Take the relic.
And disappear.
No alarms. No violence. No headlines.
Just a whisper through the dark.
He gave himself three months.
Three long, calculated, quiet months.
He kept his profile low. Donated to orphanages. Sponsored tech scholarships. Made his name look clean, generous, forgettable. He ran his company from the shadows, let his brother be the public face. Smiled in family photos. Attended weddings. Blended in.
But every so often, he drove past the museum.
He never went in.
Just parked. Watched.
And felt.
Because every time he drew close, the gem on his forehead pulsed.
Not with urgency.
With patience.
With purpose.
As if the relic hidden beneath concrete and steel had not forgotten him either.
As if it, too, was waiting.