The photo was grainy, pixelated, probably taken in secret.
But it was enough.
Halima was alive.
Bruised, barely conscious, hooked to a monitor in what looked like a private clinic. Tubes in her arm. Swollen lip. Eyes barely open.
Elara stared at the image for nearly a full minute before she spoke.
"Track the source."
Khalid was already scanning the metadata. "The file's been bounced through three VPNs. Whoever sent it wanted to help but stay hidden."
"Can you trace it?"
"Eventually. But we don't have time."
Elara nodded. "Then we find the clinic."
NUMA's old medical database paid off.
One clinic in Lagos matched the monitor layout, tile pattern, and wall art in the background.
St. Nkem's Restoration Centre — a discreet, high-security facility known for "handling" delicate reputations. Mostly used by politicians' wives, addicted heirs, and "problem" daughters.
Elara stared at the listing.
"This is where they put people they want forgotten."
Khalid looked up. "Or reprogrammed."
They scoped the clinic for two days.
High fences. Armed guards. Discreet staff in crisp uniforms.
Windows with black-out tinting.
Every visitor had to be pre-approved. Cameras at every gate.
They weren't just protecting patients.
They were hiding them.
Elara went in disguised as a visiting therapist.
Khalid forged the credentials. A background in trauma care. A last-minute clearance form "approved" by a fake government health rep.
She wore her hair up, glasses on, fake ID clipped to her coat.
She smiled.
And walked in.
Inside, the clinic smelled of citrus and ammonia.
A nurse handed her a clipboard. "You'll be observing Patient 43 today."
Elara nodded politely.
They led her through a quiet corridor, past patients who moved like ghosts.
Sedated. Hollow.
They reached Room 12.
"Here she is," the nurse said.
Elara stepped inside and froze.
It was her.
Halima.
She looked nothing like the girl who used to steal cafeteria bread to give to street kids.
Her hair was shaved unevenly.
Her wrists bandaged.
Her mouth—dry, trembling.
Her eyes met Elara's. At first, blank.
Then... flicker.
Recognition.
Terror.
"Don't scream," Elara whispered.
Halima didn't.
She just shook her head slowly.
Tears welled up but didn't fall.
Elara moved closer. Sat at the edge of the bed.
"They told me you were gone."
Halima's lips parted.
"No..." she rasped. "They... took me. After Kayra."
"Why?"
"I knew too much."
Halima's voice was weak. Slurred from medication.
"They tried to wipe me. Make me doubt everything."
She paused. Blinked hard.
"But I remembered you. And Amara. The night in the courtyard. She said—"
Her breath caught.
"She said you'd come back. That you always come back."
Elara's throat tightened.
"They said I was crazy," Halima continued. "Said I imagined the threats. The files. Even Kayra."
"You didn't imagine anything," Elara said. "You survived it."
Halima looked up.
Barely a whisper: "Amara?"
Elara swallowed. "She didn't make it."
The room went quiet.
Then Halima said something Elara didn't expect:
"Then it's your turn now."
They didn't stay long.
Elara faked an emergency call to exit the session early.
On her way out, she passed a nurse whispering into a phone.
The security team had been alerted.
Khalid picked her up at the service exit five minutes later.
"She's alive," Elara said, climbing in. "But they've been drugging her. Gaslighting her. Slowly trying to erase her."
"She know who did it?"
"She remembers enough."
That night, Elara played Halima's recorded testimony back in pieces.
Slurred, broken, but powerful.
Names. Events. Faces.
Everything matched.
She was proof.
Real, living, undeniable proof.
And if they were willing to do that to her... what else had they done?
Elara lit another candle. Added another name to the Ashlist.
But she didn't burn it.
Not this one.
This name would be handled... personally.
The next morning, news broke of an anonymous insider confirming that St. Nkem's was "rehabilitating" political dissenters.
The clinic denied everything.
The government deflected.
But the public wasn't buying it anymore.
Too many whispers.
Too much blood.
Too many daughters missing.
Halima stayed hidden in a private recovery room Elara rented under NUMA's old aliases.
Khalid posted two guards outside.
Elara sat with her most nights. Holding her hand. Letting silence do what words couldn't.
One night, Halima whispered, "They thought I was weak."
Elara looked at her.
"They forgot who raised me," Halima said.
Elara smiled.
"They're going to remember."