Chapter 02

Chapter 02

The Ring That Would Not Let Go

Baba Jallow woke up screaming.

His body jerked upright with a force that sent broken glass and scraps of metal scattering across the ground. His chest heaved as air tore into his lungs, hot and painful, like he had been buried alive and clawed his way out.

The rubbish dump stretched endlessly around him—mountains of decay under the rising sun. Smoke curled from slow-burning piles. The stench was unbearable, yet Baba breathed it in greedily, just grateful to be breathing at all.

He looked down at his hands.

They were steady.

Strong.

Too strong.

Moments ago—moments or hours?—he couldn’t move a finger. Now his muscles felt tight, coiled, alive in a way they had never been before. His skin tingled, as if electricity slept just beneath it.

“What… happened to me?” he whispered.

His voice sounded wrong—deeper, steadier.

Then he noticed it.

On his right hand.

A ring.

It was thick and dark, forged from a metal he couldn’t recognize. Ancient symbols curled around its surface, etched so finely they seemed to move when he stared too long. At its center sat a dull black stone, faintly warm, faintly pulsing—like a heartbeat.

Baba frowned and tried to pull it off.

It didn’t move.

He twisted harder, panic rising as the ring refused to budge. His skin wasn’t swollen. The ring simply… belonged there.

“Hey! Come off,” he snapped, yanking again.

The ring responded by tightening.

Pain shot through his hand, sharp and warning. Baba yelped and released it immediately. The pain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only a low vibration in his bones.

The ring had a temper.

Baba stood slowly, legs wobbling but functional. He scanned the dump, half-expecting masked men or more birds. The dead crow lay nearby, its neck twisted unnaturally, its blood dark against the dirt.

His stomach turned.

I drank that.

The memory hit him all at once—the hunger, the blood, the green fire behind his eyes. Baba staggered backward, bile rising in his throat.

“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered. “This is what happens when you drink cheap alcohol.”

But the ring was real.

The dump was real.

And the strength coursing through his body was terrifyingly real.

Days passed in a blur.

Baba didn’t tell anyone what happened—not at first. He cleaned himself up, returned to his small rented room, and pretended life had reset itself. But nothing was normal anymore.

He slept too deeply.
Dreamed too vividly.

In his dreams, he walked.

Through alleys he had never visited.
Across rooftops he had never climbed.
He saw his reflection in dark windows—eyes glowing faint green, shadows moving like wings behind him.

He woke up in places that made no sense.

Once, he opened his eyes beneath a bridge on the edge of town, hands bruised, clothes torn, the ring warm and humming.

Another time, he woke up standing.

Standing.

Fast asleep.

That was when fear truly settled in.

The investigator found him two weeks later.

Her name was Inspector Mariama Sowe, and she did not believe in coincidences. She sat across from Baba at Kairo’s Bar, notebook closed, eyes sharp.

“You were reported missing for three days,” she said calmly. “Then you reappeared with injuries you can’t explain.”

“I fell,” Baba replied. “A lot.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You fell into a dump?”

Baba shrugged. “I’m talented.”

Mariama didn’t smile.

“Your blood work,” she continued, lowering her voice, “doesn’t make sense. The hospital says you should be dead.”

Baba’s fingers curled instinctively around his drink. The ring warmed, almost in response.

“I don’t like complicated conversations,” Baba said. “They stress me.”

Mariama leaned in. “Then you picked the wrong mystery.”

She slid a photo across the table.

A grainy image—security footage. Baba watched himself collapse in the street, dragged into a van with no plates.

Cold crept up his spine.

“You’re part of something,” Mariama said. “And whatever it is… it’s still watching you.”

As if summoned by her words, the lights flickered.

The air shifted.

Baba felt it before he saw him.

A man stood across the street, untouched by the crowd, wearing a long coat despite the heat. His face was calm, eyes bright with intelligence—and amusement.

The ring burned.

The man tipped an imaginary hat.

And vanished.

That night, Baba dreamed of crows circling a blueprint of the city.

And somewhere within the dream, a voice whispered:

Soon.