Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Shadows Of The Past

Baba Jallow woke to the sound of rain tapping on the corrugated roof of his small room in Bakau. The night had been restless—memories of the hospital, the attack, the screaming, and the green fire in his eyes all tangled together. He felt the weight of the ring on his finger as though it were a reminder of everything he had become.

He had survived. Barely. But survival had a taste—metallic, bitter, unrelenting. It clung to him like a shadow, a reminder that he could no longer return to laziness, even if he wanted to.

Mariama entered without knocking, as usual.

“They’re coming,” she said bluntly. Baba looked at her over the rim of his cup of bitter tea. “Who?”

“The Architect’s network,” she replied. “You know, the ones you fought yesterday. Phase Two, apparently. He’s escalating.”

Baba closed his eyes, running his fingers over the ring. The crow-head seemed to stir under his touch.

“I thought I was done playing,” he muttered. “I told him I don’t want to be his hero, his villain… nothing.”

Mariama sat across from him, her gaze steady. “He doesn’t care what you want. That’s why you have to learn faster than he expects.”

Baba laughed—a humourless, bitter sound. “I hate complicated things, Mariama. Everything about him is… complicated.”

She leaned forward. “Then maybe it’s time you face the past he’s built. You need to understand why he did this, before he makes the next move.”

The clues came slowly at first—a burnt diary in a warehouse, old photographs hidden in abandoned homes, whispers from survivors who had vanished years ago.

Baba learned the truth.

The Architect had orchestrated the death of his parents years ago. Not as an accident. Not as collateral damage. But as the first step in crafting the boy he had laughed at on career day—the boy who wanted to be a hero, only to have the dream crushed by ridicule.

“Everything I ever was,” Baba muttered, “was a setup.”

Mariama placed a hand on his shoulder. “You survived it. And now, you’re stronger because of it.”

Baba looked at the ring. The crow-shaped shield pulsed faintly, almost in understanding.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I didn’t ask to be part of some insane game.”

The crow, somehow, seemed to answer: You survived worse. You’re ready.

He left the room and headed toward the city, darkness hiding his path. The streets of Banjul were quiet, almost as if waiting. He had spent months learning, watching, surviving—and yet he knew the Architect’s plan was far from over.

Baba perched on the edge of a rooftop, the ring cold and heavy on his finger, the crow-shield whispering promises of power he barely understood.

“I’m Lazy Crow,” he muttered. “Not hero, not villain. Just… me.”

Somewhere below, crows gathered, their black wings blotting out the stars. Baba’s green eyes flared.

He had one question left:

How far would he go to control the city that had birthed him, and the man who had taken everything from him?

The rain fell harder. The wind carried the scent of the ocean. The city waited.

And Lazy Crow spread his wings.