The cracks didn't start in government buildings.
They started in whispers.
A journalist dropped a thread about a "spiritual advisor" laundering millions.
A former maid at the Bello estate uploaded an anonymous voice note.
A junior staffer from the Council leaked a list of secret flights taken in the week Amara died.
It spread like sickness.
The truth wasn't just crawling, it was sprinting.
And Elara watched every second of it.
She moved headquarters again. Too much heat on the last safehouse. Too many eyes in places that used to be blind.
The new space was smaller. A backroom behind a defunct bookshop. Dusty, quiet, windowless. But it would do.
Khalid was already there, pinning new photos to the wall.
"This is what a government looks like when it forgets how to lie," he said.
Elara smirked. "You sound almost hopeful."
"Not hope," Khalid replied. "Satisfaction."
NUMA was still missing.
No trace.
Not even a ping.
But Elara didn't waste energy chasing ghosts.
She was building something new.
She called it the Ashlist.
Every name burned. Every official that fell. Every mask unpeeled. It was handwritten, posted to a growing timeline on the wall. One name added each morning. Some names crossed off in red. Some in black.
Every one of them earned.
And today?
Today was a red day.
"New drop," Khalid said, holding up a flash drive.
"What's on it?"
"Council accounting logs. Offshore transfers. Shell companies. Guess who signed most of them?"
Elara took it.
"Diri."
He nodded.
Elara plugged it into a burner laptop and watched numbers pour like rain — names, dates, amounts. Clean enough to send a government into a spiral.
"It's time," she said.
The video went live that evening.
A voice distorted.
Screens filled with black-and-white proof. Receipts. Transfers. Council seals.
And a message:
"You silenced Amara. You erased daughters.
But we are not gone.
We are the fire you buried.
And we remember everything."
No names were attached.
No credits given.
It didn't matter.
The world knew exactly who it was.
By morning, chaos.
Senator Diri announced a "temporary withdrawal" from the Council.
Chief Odenigbo resigned "for health reasons."
Reverend Musa canceled his televised Sunday broadcast.
And on the third day?
Ibrahim Bello released a statement:
"My daughter has been manipulated.
These attacks are attempts to destroy what's left of our unity."
Elara watched him on the screen.
Perfect suit. Perfect tone.
The same calm venom that had destroyed her sister.
"He's scared," Khalid said.
"No," Elara said, watching the gleam in her father's eye.
"He's preparing to strike."
That night, the bookshop safehouse lost power.
Just for a second.
A flicker.
But it was enough to freeze them.
Elara reached for her gun.
Khalid pulled the server cables.
Silence.
Then her burner phone buzzed.
One message:
"You've made your move.
My turn."
Elara stared at the screen.
Her pulse slowed.
Then steadied.
She turned to Khalid.
"Backup everything. Twice."
"Already on it."
"We're not leaking anymore," she said. "No more drops. No more warnings."
Khalid frowned. "Then what?"
Elara walked to the map. Pulled off the next name.
She stared at it. Folded it once.
Then lit it.
"We go direct."