They hit back on a Tuesday.
Not with a bomb.
Not with an arrest.
But with a body.
The co-working space was quiet that morning. Too quiet.
Elara had just logged into the admin dashboard when her phone vibrated. No caller ID.
She answered, expecting static or another veiled threat.
What she got instead was a voice she hadn't heard in weeks.
NUMA.
"They're sending a message," she said.
"I tried to stop it."
Then the line went dead.
Elara froze.
Khalid turned from the whiteboard. "What is it?"
Before she could answer, her second burner buzzed.
Text. One word.
"Window."
Elara moved to the glass.
Below, on the sidewalk, lay a man in a grey suit.
Face down.
A pool of red beneath his temple.
People had gathered, murmuring, phones out.
Someone was crying.
Elara's breath hitched. She knew that suit.
His name was Baba Gidado.
An old family driver.
Quiet. Loyal. Too loyal.
He had once driven Amara to the hospital after the first time. Had once slipped Elara a burner phone and whispered, "Save yourself."
And now he was dead.
Khalid read the coroner's summary two hours later.
Self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Found with a "note" in his jacket pocket:
"I lied for them.
I can't live with it."
Elara tore the report in half.
"This wasn't suicide."
"They staged it," Khalid muttered. "They're covering blood with ink."
She nodded. "And daring us to speak."
The safehouse didn't feel safe anymore.
Elara paced, pacing like she used to in boarding school barefoot, calculating, cornered.
Khalid stood by the map, arms crossed. "We're making dents."
"And they're reminding us they can bury us."
"They made a mistake."
Elara looked up. "Which?"
"They killed a witness."
She exhaled. "And gave us a martyr."
That night, she opened her encrypted video diary.
It had started as insurance ,a way to document everything in case she disappeared.
Now, it was her rage vault.
She stared into the camera.
Her voice was low.
"Today, they killed a man who drove in silence.
Who risked his job to protect the daughters they discarded."
"He didn't have a title. He didn't make press.
But he mattered."
"And because he mattered we won't let them forget."
The next drop was different.
No leaks. No files. No PDFs.
Just a single video.
A photo of Baba Gidado. A voiceover.
Elara's.
"He kept our secrets.
They buried his truth."
"But we are not silent anymore."
The caption read:
#BodyCount
Within hours, the story broke into mainstream news.
"Driver Found Dead Near Ethics Council Building."
"Suspicious Death Raises Questions Amid Bello Family Leak Scandal."
"Was Baba Gidado Silenced?"
And beneath the headlines?
A new conversation.
One that asked, for the first time:
"Who else have they buried?"
The Council pushed back, of course.
A press statement. A priest's blessing. A burial with cameras.
But the internet didn't forget.
The photo of Baba's grey suit spread.
His name became a chant at protest rallies.
And Elara?
She added a new name to the Ashlist.
Not a target.
A memorial.
GIDADO.
Khalid watched her write it in gold.
"Doesn't fix anything," he said quietly.
"No," she replied. "But it honors everything."
At midnight, her burner buzzed again.
Unknown number.
No message.
Just a file.
A blurry screenshot of a man in a hospital bed.
He looked beaten. Barely conscious. But alive.
Halima.
Elara stared.
Khalid leaned over her shoulder.
"Where is she?"
Elara's eyes narrowed.
"They've been keeping her. Hiding her."
Khalid stepped back.
"This changes everything."
Elara didn't respond.
She was already reaching for her jacket.