t stretched through his chest like the echo of something long buried and returning to life, because this wasn't just a buildin

h indifference as men in tailored suits and women in pencil skirts marched past him. Everyone's

in a grey suit too sharp for his age was a ghost in their machine, the bastard

ciency and AI integration, but Zayn knew it wasn't luck, it was war strategy and within months, his startup, SwiftPath AI, had secured pilot contracts with logistics subsidiaries quietly ow

22nd floor, Zayn kept his expression neutral, his hands were folded and his eyes devoured every detail, the security protocols, the office layouts, the framed photos of Alaric with presidents and oil kings, and the mi

om miles away, and when Zayn finished speaking and silence fell like a judge's gavel, it was Chika who leaned forward, he steepled his fingers under his chin, and asked, "Who are you really?", not aggressively, but with a curiosity that felt more dangerous than a threat, and Zayn was unfazed. He smiled and said, "Just someone who understands systems, sir," letting the ambiguity simmer while Kelechi laughed and steered the conversation back to funding, but Zayn saw it, the flicker of suspicion in Chika's eyes, the way his jaw tightened, the recognition that there was something familiar about the boy who

rd her like broken glass, and then he whispered, so soft only he c

ing delivery times and data analytics no one else could match, and yet Zayn kept his face off the headlines, allowing Kelechi to be the public face while he remained th

nding, her Ankara blazer bold and royal, and Zayn, who had spent years mastering how not to feel, felt something in his chest shift. The sudden awareness that someone had entered the room who did not orbit anyone else. Adanna, daughter of Chief Ojukwu, chairman of a rival conglomerate with traditionalist roots, was known for her discipline, be

y your family's future like a coffin and then she was called away by an aide in a black suit, but before she left, she said, "If you're trying to disappear, you're doing a terrible job at it," and walked away, leaving him standing there with a drink he hadn't touched and a heartbeat he didn't recognize as his own. He told himself it was nothing but a distraction, a glitch in the algorithm of his vengeance, but her voice stayed with him, a thread tug

lechi for a private lunch and asked, "Who is this boy running your operations?" and Kelechi, unaware of the truth, replied, "Some genius from the slums. His name is Zayn. I don't know much else, but he's the fut