The rain passed quickly, leaving behind puddles that mirrored Lagos's gray sky and the blurry shimmer of neon lights blinking to life along the market's edge. Iyi stood beneath the frayed awning of his soap stall, wiping droplets from his hands as the scent of fresh rain mixed with the herbal oils rising from his soaps. The city was quieter now, lulled into a rare pause.
That was when he saw him.
A tall man, polished and deliberate, stepped into view as though conjured from the mist. He wore a dark, well-tailored suit, the kind not common in this part of the city, and gold-rimmed glasses that glinted even beneath the subdued sun. He walked without hurry, with the careful poise of someone who understood how power moved — not loudly, but inevitably.
Iyi's pulse quickened. The man didn't belong here. He didn't browse. He didn't glance at the roasted maize vendors or the bubbling pepper soup. His gaze was fixed — on Iyi.
When the man stopped in front of the stall, his smile was subtle. Controlled.
"I've heard whispers," the man said. His voice was smooth, precise, laced with the rhythm of wealth and confidence. "Whispers about a young man who left the game and started… a soap stall."
Iyi didn't answer immediately. His instincts stirred — not in panic, but in caution. This wasn't a confrontation. It was something deeper. A proposition.
"I'm not looking to return to the old ways," Iyi said evenly. "I've paid my price."
The man laughed — not mockingly, but softly, as if amused by a child's stubbornness.
"Everything has a price," he said, "even peace."
He reached into his coat and produced a slim card — black with gold edges. A logo embossed in the center: A.G. Enterprise.
"I represent a group that invests in… visionaries. Men who understand people. Hustlers who've tasted the mud and now want to build with gold."
"I'm not for sale," Iyi said, though his voice wavered slightly.
The man tilted his head. "You misunderstand. We're not offering to buy. We're offering to amplify."
He gestured to the stall. "This is noble. Healing soap, crafted by hand, told in stories. It's quaint. But limited. With the right backing, we could turn this into a national brand. You'd heal thousands. Your story would be on posters. Billboards. Maybe even television."
He leaned in. "Lagos eats the small. Don't let your light flicker out because you refused to scale."
Iyi felt the weight of the moment settle on him like a shroud. It would be so easy — so comfortable — to step back into a world of money, influence, strategy. But he also saw the trap woven into the offer: not chains of iron, but gold.
"I started this because I needed to heal," Iyi said slowly. "If I turn it into a spectacle, it stops being what it is. It becomes another mask."
The man straightened. "Or it becomes a platform. Think bigger, Iyi. This is Lagos. Vision means nothing if it stays small."
His eyes — sharp behind the gold-rimmed lenses — studied Iyi a final time. "The card has a number. If you change your mind, call. We don't usually make second offers."
With that, the man turned and disappeared into the market's thinning mist, leaving only the faint scent of cologne and a business card that seemed heavier than gold.
Iyi stared at the card in his palm. His reflection stared back at him from the glossy surface — not the boy he once was, but not yet the man he was becoming.
Temptation had returned. Not with threats, but with honeyed power.
He tucked the card into a small box beneath his stall — not accepting, but not discarding either.
Because he knew the city would test him again.
And the next time, the man in gold-rimmed glasses might return with a sharper offer — or a sharper knife.