Chapter 08

Chapter 08

Blueprints Burn Slowly

Baba Jallow did not move for two days.

He lay on the thin mattress in his room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city breathe through open windows—car horns, distant laughter, the call to prayer drifting like smoke. Every muscle in his body ached. The ring sat cold and heavy on his finger, silent for once.

Laziness had always been his shield.

Now even rest felt earned.

Mariama checked on him twice a day. She brought food he barely touched and news he pretended not to hear.

“They’re calling Iron Palm a terrorist,” she said one afternoon. “But they’re also calling you something else.”

Baba closed his eyes. “Don’t tell me.”

“Protector of the streets.”

He groaned. “That’s worse.”

She smiled despite herself.

On the third night, the ring woke him.

Not with heat.

With memory.

Baba sat up as visions poured into his mind—sand, sun, chanting voices. Stone temples under construction. Blood spilled deliberately onto carved metal. The image of a ring being forged—not as jewelry, but as a contract.

A shield meant to remember.

To carry the will of creatures sacrificed in desperation.

The crow.

A watcher between worlds.
A scavenger of death.
A survivor.

Baba clutched his head. “Why me?”

The vision shifted.

A younger version of himself stood in a classroom, laughter echoing. The moment his dream died.

Then another memory—one that wasn’t his.

The Architect, younger, watching from the back of the room.

Taking notes.

Baba’s eyes snapped open, glowing green.

“He’s been shaping this since then,” Baba whispered.

They found the lab the next morning.

Mariama’s contacts traced old shipping records tied to the warehouse Baba had raided. The trail led to an abandoned colonial hospital near Farafenni, sealed off after a mysterious fire years ago.

“Looks empty,” Mariama said, gripping her flashlight.

Baba felt the pull immediately. The ring vibrated, low and angry.

“Nothing he touches is empty,” Baba replied.

Inside, the air smelled of chemicals and rust. Broken equipment lay scattered—but some of it was new. Active. Monitors hummed faintly.

They weren’t alone.

A figure stepped out of the shadows—then another. And another.

Three enhanced individuals.

One crackled with electricity.
One’s skin shimmered like glass.
The last smiled too widely, veins pulsing black.

Mariama raised her gun.

Baba lowered her hand gently. “This one’s on me.”

The ring unfolded.

The crow-shield spread wide, wings scraping the walls. Baba stepped forward, exhaustion fading into focus.

“Tell the Architect,” Baba said calmly, “that I’m done reacting.”

The electric one laughed. “We were told you’d say that.”

They attacked.

The hallway exploded into chaos—lightning tearing through metal, glass-shards slicing the air. Baba moved defensively, shield absorbing, wings deflecting.

But there were too many angles.

Baba took a hit—hard. He slammed into a wall, coughing blood.

The ring flickered.

For the first time, it hesitated.

Mariama screamed his name.

Baba forced himself up, vision blurring.

“This is why,” he muttered, “I avoid complicated things.”

The crow-shield darkened, feathers sharpening.

Baba spread the wings fully.

“No more.”

The lights went out.

Far away, the Architect leaned forward, eyes alight.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Burn the blueprint.”

And in the darkness of the old hospital, Lazy Crow finally stopped holding back.