Chapter 08

Chapter 08

The Theatre of Fate

Night wrapped Iganmu in restless energy.

The National Theatre loomed like a forgotten monument—massive, symbolic, cracked by time yet still standing. Vendors packed up for the night. Security guards yawned, unaware that the air around them vibrated with invisible tension.

Tunde Adebayo stood across the road, stomach twisting.

“This place was built to tell stories,” he murmured. “Now it’s going to decide one.”

Inspector Kunle Ogunleye adjusted his radio. Plainclothes officers were scattered through the area, blending in, waiting for instructions that might never come.

“We evacuate?” Kunle asked.

Tunde shook his head slowly. “Too late. If we push too hard, the cubes will react. Panic feeds distortion.”

Kunle cursed under his breath. “So we wait?”

“We observe,” Tunde said. “And intervene only when necessary.”

The cube in his hands pulsed blue—steady, restrained.

Sadiq Bello arrived first.

He stepped onto the open concrete plaza like a child entering a playground, red cube spinning effortlessly between his fingers. His eyes glowed with feverish excitement as he felt the pressure in the air.

“Oh,” he breathed. “This place is loud.”

Every footstep echoed too deeply. Every light flickered.

“Perfect.”

Dr. Morayo Kalejaiye watched from the upper balcony, hidden in shadow. Her ludo board rested on a portable stand before her, pieces arranged neatly, patiently.

She smiled faintly.

“Children love theaters,” she said to no one. “They never notice who is pulling the strings.”

Tunde felt both of them the instant Sadiq stepped into the plaza.

His vision fractured.

Three outcomes bled into each other:

A stampede

A collapse

Silence, followed by screams

He gasped and dropped to one knee.

Kunle caught him. “Talk to me!”

“They’re here,” Tunde whispered. “Both of them.”

Sadiq spotted Morayo first.

She didn’t move. Didn’t hide. She simply waited.

“You’re the one blocking me,” Sadiq said, pointing his cube at her.

Morayo tilted her head. “No. I’m the one cleaning up after you.”

Sadiq laughed. “You play with boards. I play with the city.”

Morayo slid a ludo piece forward.

The hum changed pitch.

Tunde screamed.

“DON’T—!”

A security guard mid-step collapsed, lifeless, inches from Sadiq.

The plaza froze.

Sadiq stared at the body, shocked—then furious.

“You didn’t ask permission!”

Morayo’s voice was cold. “The board doesn’t ask.”

Tunde forced himself to stand.

He turned his cube once.

The air thickened.

People stumbled, confused but alive. The panic that should have exploded instead slowed, dulled, redirected.

Sadiq spun on him. “You!”

Tunde met his gaze.

“This isn’t a game,” Tunde said. “And you’re not ready for it.”

Sadiq snarled. “Neither were the kings you stole this from.”

The ground trembled.

Morayo’s eyes widened for the first time.

“Careful,” she warned. “If you overreach—”

Too late.

Sadiq twisted the cube hard.

The Theatre groaned.

Concrete cracked like bone.

Tunde screamed as the future split violently.

He felt something else awaken—something deeper.

Not just his cube.

All of them.

Above the National Theatre, unseen lines of energy aligned—ancient geometry echoing the pyramids of Egypt, briefly recreating a lost design.

The convergence was no longer theoretical.

It was happening.

And Lagos stood directly beneath it.