The rain began just as Dre stepped into the old compound, steady and cold like it carried a message from the sky. His boots slapped against the wet concrete, soaked, but unfazed. There was a storm brewing inside him that made the weather feel like a whisper. He had not slept. He had barely eaten. His bones ached from the constant movement, but he wouldn't stop. Not when they were this close. Not with enemies regrouping in the dark, sharpening knives while smiling for the cameras.
Inside the room, Kemi sat cross-legged on the ground, maps and digital feeds laid out like war relics. She didn't look up when Dre entered, but her voice was tight and sharp.
They've started regrouping in Badagry. Private militias, ex-soldiers. Paid. Silent. Dangerous. We spotted them doing drills. They're preparing for something heavy. Civilian zones are going to be caught in the crossfire if we don't move first.
Dre wiped water from his face, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in. Who's funding them
No clear trail yet, but Malik's tracing a shell company linked to a certain senator. Same one who vanished from the city two nights ago.
Cowards running for cover Dre muttered. Which means they know something big is coming. We give them something bigger.
He pulled the map closer, his fingers drawing circles around key regions. We hit their storage units. Cut off weapons before they can even load a truck. Make them feel naked again. We do it fast. Loud. Let the streets know we're still in control.
But Kemi wasn't smiling. She looked up, her face drained.
And then what Dre? We hit. We scatter. Then regroup. Rinse and repeat? We've been doing this for weeks. The people are tired. They love you, but they're tired of bleeding. They want this to end.
So do I he said. But endings don't just arrive. They're made. One fight at a time.
She stared at him, and for a second he saw the pain in her eyes. The lines under her cheeks. The sleepless nights. The ache of being a freedom fighter in a land where hope came with a price tag. He wanted to hug her, to promise her peace. But he couldn't offer what he hadn't earned.
We move tonight he said quietly.
Later that evening, the team gathered in the rain. Dre stood before them, water dripping from his coat, the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. It wasn't a speech day. It was a war night.
The weapons depot was in a walled yard on the outskirts of Badagry. Guarded by twenty armed men, with two watchtowers and surveillance drones above. Getting in would take precision. Getting out would take fire.
Dre led the charge, crawling through trenches, soaked to the bone. Malik took out the cameras with a short-range jammer while Kemi covered the northern gate with a sniper scope. They moved like shadows. No one spoke.
One by one, they breached the outer perimeter. The guards didn't know what hit them. Silenced weapons. Hand-to-hand takedowns. No alarms. No chance.
Inside the depot, Dre stared at crates stacked to the ceiling. AKs. RPGs. Grenades. Enough to arm a small war. This was the real reason the enemies hadn't stopped. They were ready to torch the country just to take it back.
He set the first explosives himself.
By the time the last charge was set, Kemi was breathing hard behind him.
Are we sure about this she asked. These weapons could be repurposed. Used for defense.
Dre shook his head. Defense isn't firepower. It's people. And right now, the only message we can afford is flame.
They exited in silence. A minute later, the sky behind them exploded. Fire swallowed the yard. Crates cracked. Metal twisted. The earth roared. The clouds above wept, but even the rain couldn't silence the fury.
News spread instantly. Citizens cheered. The streets danced. The enemy panicked. Whoever was backing the militia now knew their operations weren't hidden anymore. Dre's message had been heard — again.
But not everyone was cheering.
The next morning, an emergency transmission played on every major screen. A general from the old regime. Stoic. Cold.
You call this peace? he growled. You blow up weapons while putting women and children in harm's way? You are not a leader. You are a plague. And this nation will cleanse itself of you soon enough.
Kemi watched it and cursed under her breath. They're framing us. Making it look like we're escalating things. Like we're the ones keeping the war alive.
We respond Dre said. But not with words. With proof. We expose every deal. Every name. Every senator, general, foreign ally who backed this movement just to flip it. We burn the entire rot to the surface.
And so began the next mission.
This time, not weapons. Not marches. But information. Secrets. Documents. The hard truth that even the bravest politicians refused to touch. Kemi called it The Archive Storm.
They hacked into cloud storages, bribed insiders, and collected audio recordings of meetings that stank of betrayal. Evidence of military contracts signed with stolen funds. Videos of child labor camps hidden in the north. A senator caught laughing while describing his plan to let two ethnic groups clash just to distract the press.
They compiled everything. Labeled it. Created digital drops. Each package set to release every two hours for an entire week.
And then, with one click, Dre made the first drop public.
The country lost its mind.
Newspapers exploded. Twitter raged. International observers called for full investigations. Some enemies ran. Others tried to silence the truth with more lies, but it was too late.
And in the middle of it all, Dre stood firm.
No more darkness he said. No more filters. If we burn, let it be by sunlight
Then came the final challenge.
The new transitional council requested Dre's presence. Not as a rebel. Not as a suspect. But as a voice of the people. A live televised meeting. Neutral ground. Full press coverage.
You sure about this Malik asked. Could be a trap. Could be your funeral.
I'm not walking in as a rebel Dre said. I'm walking in as a witness. And if they try anything, the world will see who they really are.
Kemi held his hand that night. Long and silent. She didn't say goodbye. Just pressed her forehead to his.
Come back alive she whispered. Or I'll come drag your stubborn ghost back myself.
The next day, Dre walked into the council hall. Alone. Clean shirt. Scars still fresh. Eyes burning.
The room was cold. Ministers on one side. Journalists on the other. Cameras overhead. But he didn't flinch.
He looked into the lens and said,
This nation isn't broken. It's bruised. And it's healing. But you, the ones who wear suits while silencing cries, you are the disease. And we, the people, we are the cure.
Some ministers got up and left. Others clapped. One wept.
When Dre walked out of that hall, he knew something had shifted.
The rain had stopped.
And for the first time in years, the streets smelled not of blood, but of something new.
Hope.