The video opened with static, then cleared. A man in a dark grey suit sat at a long table, back turned to the camera. Only his voice came through—smooth, cold, polished.
"Elric is reckless," the voice said. "But he's useful. Let him run the streets. Let him think he's in control. When it's time, we'll remove him."
Dre leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
The man's tone shifted slightly.
"We control the violence. We control the chaos. Because when people are afraid, they don't ask questions. They obey."
He paused the video.
"That's not a gang leader," Dre muttered. "That's a politician."
Ghost crossed his arms. "Or a businessman. Either way, this ain't street level anymore."
Tomi stepped forward, his eyes wide. "Look at the name on the file. Underneath the metadata. It says... 'Project Market Dust.'"
"What the hell is that?" Dre asked.
Tomi's hands shook as he typed. "Give me a second."
A loading bar filled. Then a map appeared.
Lagos.
Highlighted zones in red. Slums. Schools. Police stations. Churches.
"They were planning something," Tomi said. "This wasn't about Elric's crew fighting for territory. This was engineered."
"By who?" Dre asked.
Another click. A blurry image loaded.
A name attached to a corporation.
Adisa Tembo. Chairman of a multinational security firm that had recently signed contracts to provide surveillance tech across West Africa.
Dre stared at the name.
"That's the sponsor."
Ghost took a breath. "A security company feeding weapons into the street so they can justify controlling it later. Classic war-for-profit."
"And Elric was just their puppet," Tomi added. "A tool."
Dre clenched his fists.
He had been fighting shadows, bleeding for vengeance, killing men who thought they were kings.
But the real devil wore a tie and sat behind a desk.
"No more middlemen," Dre said. "We go straight to the source."
Tomi shook his head. "This man's protected. He's got contracts with the military, private guards, international immunity. We can't just walk up and put a bullet in his head."
Dre stood.
"Watch me."
Ghost looked at him, serious. "If we take this route, we're not fighting gangsters anymore. This is power, Dre. The kind that disappears people in broad daylight. You sure you're ready?"
Dre picked up his mask from the table. The black one with the red handprint.
"I've been ready since I buried my mother."
Later that night, Dre stepped out onto a rooftop overlooking the city. The skyline shimmered, beautiful and corrupted. Every light below him was a lie. He watched the traffic, the buildings, the illusions of peace.
And then he saw it—a billboard flashing Adisa Tembo's face.
A smile. A message about "safety" and "rebuilding the future."
Dre took out a marker from his pocket and wrote on the wall beside him.
You started the fire.
Now watch it burn.
The wind picked up. Far below, the streets still whispered his name.
But Dre wasn't fighting for the streets anymore.
He was going after the man who thought he owned them.
And he was bringing war.