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Son of thunder..ur papa sef dey watch whether him son go win the game or he will have to come to ur rescue....

EPISODE 29 - Game Of Sex-vival


Cynthia parted her p*ussy lips with two fingers and guided my raging boner straight into her warm and already dripping pu*ssy like a soldier stepping into the battleground.

Oh my God… you’re big...” she said, wearing that spaced-out smile you only see on people who just took their first drag of Colorado and finally understood why it’s banned.

For one scary second, I thought that warmness around my d*ick alone would finish me. My blood was rushing inside my body like it had lost direction. My heart was beating so fast I could almost hear it. I honestly thought I’d spill right there and say goodbye to my life, but somehow, I managed to hold on.

Then she started moving—slow at first, like she was testing me. Each rise and drop was a careful one. Teasing but deadly. But soon she picked up speed, finding a rhythm around my d*ck that could break even the strongest man’s self-control.

Her face looked calm, but her eyes were screaming trouble. Her ponytail swung behind her with every move, and her breasts bounced freely like they were cheering her on. Even time itself seemed to pause just to watch the ero*tic scene

The ropes dug into my wrists and ankles, and the cold air licked every part of me I could no longer control. This wasn’t romance; this was war disguised as pleasure.

"Oh my...! This d*ick is fvcking huge...it's shifting my womb!" She said, breathing very hard as her p*ussy walls tightened around my c*ock. I could feel her juices dripping down the veins of my konji straight onto my crotch. To be honest, this girl is good. She can ride evil spirit out of a possessed body.

Across the room, Aristotle and the albino twins were already in their own heaven — moans, grunts, and laughter mixing like some sick background music to my impending execution. The man was slamming hard against the soft buttocks of one of the albino girls while I was busy fighting for my life beneath a woman who looked like she’d been trained by Satan himself.

Cynthia continued her… movements — fast and steady, like she was testing her target.

My brain tried to focus, but my body was already betraying me. The tension climbed fast. She knew exactly what she was doing. Every motion was a calculated attack, every stare was a silent warning that says: I have to make you lose.

I clenched my jaw and tried to think of anything—today’s gas price, my past relationship heartbreaks, that El Clásico where Barcelona lost by a slim margin, even how Vinicius Junior somehow looks like Akpororo—but none of it worked.

My survival depended on not “c*mming before Aristotle” but Cynthia was hellbent on making sure I concede an early goal with each bounce she makes on my c*ock.

“CK, how long now?” Aristotle’s voice cut through the room but he didn't stop ramming his boner into the girl's pu*ssy from behind.

“Seven minutes, sir,” Chuka replied, phone in hand like a wicked referee.

“Let’s see if the boy can make it to halftime,” Aristotle chuckled.

.I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. My muscles trembled like a condemned man saying his last prayer. I wasn’t sure what hurt more—the ropes cutting into my skin, or the fact that I was losing control inch by inch, my chances of survival slipping away with every move Cynthia made.

Then I decided to think of something else—anything that could take my mind off what Cynthia was doing to my co*ck. My thoughts drifted to Jude. How would he feel if I survived this and he later found out I had slept with his girl? Girlfriend or ex, it still had the same pattern of betrayal.
What about Tiffany—my real girlfriend—still locked up in that dirty cell with that sneaky detective watching her like a hawk, ready to send her case to court once it's noon? How would she feel if, somehow, she found out that while she was suffering on that cold floor because of me, I was here… having sex?
If there’s a Hall of Fame for bad boyfriends, I just secured a front-row seat.

I stayed locked in that thought for a few minutes, my mind completely blocking off what was happening to my body. And strangely, it worked—because a few moments later, it happened.

Aristotle let out a deep grunt that could wake the dead, pouring out a large amount of semen on the wiggling buttocks of the albino twins, then collapsing over them like a king who had just conquered a village. He turned to me with that evil smirk of his, waiting to see if I had already failed.

But no—I was still holding on. I had won the game. My life still belonged to me. I didn’t care what happened to Cynthia after this, because like she said earlier, “nothing personal, it’s just a game.” I smiled as that line echoed in my head.

Cynthia caught my smile and threw one back, but I saw through it. There was pain sitting right behind that smile, quiet but loud enough for me to feel it. Deep down, I think she already knew — this might just be her last action on earth.

“If this is my last sex in life,” she whispered, “I might as well enjoy it to the fullest.”

Then she leaned forward, pressing her chest against mine as her lips found mine again — slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. My body responded on its own, like it had a mind of its own. The air between us grew hotter than the AC could handle. Her hips moved in steady, maddening circles around my c*ock and before long, I felt that familiar tension building in my legs — the kind that warns you winter is coming. In simpler un-game-of-thronic terms, I could feel my sperm approaching very fast.

It felt like every muscle in my body reached its breaking point. Cynthia’s movements slowed, her eyes locked on mine—like she knew the storm that was about to hit. My breath stopped for that moment. The room faded, the noise of the twins and Aristotle disappeared, and for a moment, it was just the two of us—fire and passion wrapped in one emotional blanket.

Then everything inside me gave way. A heavy, shuddering release of sperm that left me drained, weak, and shaking beneath her. Cynthia’s body trembled too as my hot sperms flooded her womb. Her lips parted in a silent gasp as she collapsed onto my chest.

For a brief second, we just stayed there—breathing, but knowing something had changed forever between us.

“More than ten minutes,” Cynthia said softly as a tear rolled down her eyes.

Aristotle stood up, wiping his sweat, a cruel grin stretching across his masked face. “Not bad,” he said. “You lasted longer than I expected. Its a pity one of you needs to go... ”

Before I could catch my breath at that declaration, the door slammed open — BAM! — followed by a gunshot that shattered the whole room into panic.

“We’re under attack!” one of the guards yelled.

Continuation of episode 29th.





Detective Kalu had barely finished tightening his seatbelt at the filling station when that small voice in his head started again — that annoying, persistent one that never shuts up.

He exhaled long and slow. Every time that voice spoke, something always happened in the next chapter. But he’d learned to obey it. Instinct had saved him more times than his bulletproof vest ever could.

He turned the key, and the car purred like a well-fed cat. He drove out like he was leaving, then quickly made a U-turn and parked his car beside the road — just far enough to see Darous without being seen.

Ahead, Darous was already disappearing into the Mushin morning hustle. The boy walked like a man late for something deeper than a meeting. Kalu knew that walk — the walk of someone torn between love and loyalty.

“I'll get back to you by noon,” Darous had said earlier.

By noon? That statement alone smelled of conspiracy. How could a boy who claimed to love his girlfriend so deeply risk her safety with such strange timing? Something wasn’t right. Kalu could feel it, though he couldn’t yet tell what it was.

He watched as Darous clutched his phone to his ear, pacing very fast as if in a hurry to meet a target.

Kalu smirked. “Let’s see where your loyalty will lead you today, my boy.”

Darous stood by the roadside for several minutes, still on the call, eyes darting at every car that passed, like a man waiting for judgment day to arrive on four wheels.

Then, he saw it.

A black Pathfinder Jeep with tinted windows.

It rolled up beside Darous — quiet, confident, and expensive enough to make any ordinary person cross the road to take a peek at it.

Darous didn’t even blink. He slipped his phone into his pocket, opened the door, and entered.

Kalu’s hand tightened around the steering wheel. “Ah. That car again.”

That same Pathfinder from that night — the night he had rescued Kenny from Cobra and Saipon after they had gone after Cynthia. The Limping Man had come in that same Jeep, taking the girl away into the dark.

“Bingo,” Kalu muttered, pulling his cap low.

He started his car quietly and followed, keeping a good distance. No siren. No drama. Just shadowing them through the traffic like a cat following the smell of fish from a dark room corner. Every time the Jeep slowed, he slowed. When it turned, he turned.

Forty-five minutes later, they veered off the expressway into a lonely part of Festac. The kind of area that looked rich enough to buy silence. The road was tarred but lifeless — brown leaves scattered across the sides, like no one had swept there in months.

The Jeep began to slow down again.

That was Kalu’s cue.

If he continued following directly, he’d be noticed. So, he quickly pulled off the road, parking his Camry behind an old abandoned shed covered by thick bush. From there, he stepped out, locked the door quietly, and began following on foot.

The Jeep’s tire marks were still visible on the dusty road. He followed the trail for about five minutes, until the path curved sharply and ended right in front of a tall iron sliding gate.

And then he saw it.

The mansion.

It stood like a secret trying to hide in plain sight — massive black sliding gate, electric fence humming faintly on top, and a row of flowers leading to the driveway like decoration for a gala night. The air itself smelled expensive.

He crouched behind a tall mahogany tree near the gate, careful to stay out of view of the two cameras mounted on the fence pillars.

From that distance, he could see just enough to know — this wasn’t an ordinary house.

He exhaled quietly, his eyes scanning everything — the cameras, the flowerbeds, the shadows under the fence. He thought about calling for back up and going in. But he quickly wade off the thought.

On what grounds would he call for backup or even breach a house like this? There was no visible crime happening that he could report.

But his heart wasn’t listening to logic at that moment.

His wife’s face flashed through his mind. The ultrasound picture of her new pregnancy after years of trying. The baby they had been waiting for after Naomi. He had promised her that this child would be born into a safer world — a world without the Circle.

He clenched his jaw.
He couldn’t risk bringing another child into a world where these demons still breathed free.

So, rules or not, warrant or not — he was going in.

He brought out his phone and began taking pictures — the mansion, the gate, the cameras, the faint tracks of the Jeep that had entered minutes ago. Each picture was a silent statement of war.

Then the spiritual coordinators of the match between him and The Circle decided to bring in a substitute. Name of the player — Luck.
And for once, Kalu was glad to have him on his team.

He had been hiding behind that tree for about seven minutes when he heard it — the sound of another engine, deep and smooth, approaching slowly.

He peeked.

A black G-Wagon with tinted glass. A woman with dark shades on was behind the wheel.

Kalu’s instincts woke up fully. “Now or never,” he muttered.

He crouched low as the G-Wagon rolled up to the gate. The metal gate began to slide open with that rich, quiet authority.

The moment it opened halfway, Kalu dashed forward — swift, low, and silent. He slipped in behind the G-Wagon’s rear bumper, just before the gate closed again.

He moved quickly, ducking behind a large Mikano generator close to the fence. The soft hum of the generator masked his movement. He crouched there, breathing shallowly.

From that spot, he had a clear view of the compound.

Eight cars. All luxury brands. Their polished bodies glinted under the late morning sun.

He could count at least four men standing guard, all dressed in black suits, clean shades, and faces that screamed — “we kill anything that moves.”

The G-Wagon stopped in-between the other cars. Two guards hurried to open the door.

The woman stepped out — elegant, early fifties, the kind of woman whose perfume could buy at least ten Jacksons for chelsea. The guards bowed slightly and escorted her toward the mansion’s main entrance, leaving two men in the compound.

Kalu pulled out his phone again and snapped quick photos. The compound, the woman, the cars, the guards — everything. The CCTV cameras were everywhere, but he knew how to avoid them. Years of detective training and experience had taught him where blind spots hide.

He needed to get inside. He had to find something—anything—that could lead him closer. Opportunities like this don’t come twice when you’re hunting monsters like the Circle.

He waited for the right moment.

The two remaining guards were distracted, both staring into their phones, laughing at something on TikTok.

That was his opening.

Kalu slipped out from behind the generator and crept along the wall, keeping his movements steady and low.

Then he saw it — a small maintenance door at the far corner of the house, half-covered by creeping vines. Looked old, maybe forgotten.

He checked again. The guards were still laughing.

He dashed forward, slipped through the door, and found himself inside.

The air inside the mansion was cold. Marble floors stretched endlessly. Chandeliers glittered above him. Gold picture frames lined the wall, holding portraits of people whose faces had been deliberately blurred — or painted over.

He walked carefully, footsteps light as air.

From a distance came faint sounds — laughter, voices, footsteps echoing from somewhere upstairs. The kind of quiet noise that reminded you how rich people sound when they’re doing something hideous.

He turned into a bright corridor — and froze.

Sounds of heavy footsteps. Two men. Approaching fast.

He looked around quickly and ducked behind a tall decorative vase beside a glass partition — barely enough room to hide a rat, but it would do.

The two men walked past. One had a pistol tucked under his arm. The other held a glass of wine, talking and laughing as if he owned the place.

Kalu held his breath. Sweat trickled down his face.

Then — pim-pim!

His phone lit up. MTN message. “You have 2690.57MB of Data left. To access your data when you exhaust it, dial *312*1# or click on http://engage2 to buy a new plan.”

"Damn it..."

His heart stopped.

“God punish this network people,” he whispered.

The men froze mid-step.

“What was that?” one of them said.

Kalu’s hand slammed on the phone, killing the light. But the damage was done. The men turned around slowly, their eyes scanning the hallway.

Kalu’s pulse thumped so loud he could hear it in his ears. He reached into his pocket—empty. Then it hit him: his gun was still in the car.

“What kind of village mistake is this?” he muttered.

The two men came closer. Ten steps. Five. Two.

They turned the corner — and saw him.

For one heartbeat, everyone froze.

Then Kalu moved first.

He lunged forward, grabbed the unarmed man, and slammed him hard into the wall. The man’s wine glass shattered, red liquid splashing across the marble like blood.

The second man raised his pistol — too slow.

Kalu twisted the first man’s arm, dragging him in front as a shield. The gun fired — POW! The bullet tore into the man’s back.

Kalu rammed his elbow into the shooter’s jaw, then dropped low and swung his leg, tripping him hard. The man hit the floor. Kalu snatched a heavy metal flower vase from a nearby stand and smashed it across the man’s face.

The gunman went down like a sack of cement.

The unarmed one tried to crawl away, groaning, but Kalu kicked him sharply in the ribs.

Then, silence.

Kalu stood there, chest rising and falling like a man who’d just wrestled death and won. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked down at the two unconscious bodies.

“Next time,” he whispered under his breath, “don’t mix wine with stupidity.”




To be continued.

To be continued ke😁😁😁😁

After our long waiting 😁😁😁

Baba stop this play na.

Damilgodwin:
To be continued ke😁😁😁😁

After our long waiting 😁😁😁

Baba stop this play na.

😂are we not supporting to be continued?

Explosive! The heat his hon!!!

This is crackingly suspensive! I can't wait for the next update. Bring it on, TheBlessedMAN!

Ohibenemma:
Explosive! The heat his hon!!!

This is crackingly suspensive! I can't wait for the next update. Bring it on, TheBlessedMAN!

we gather dey. Next update cooking

Kalu is in the lion den

Next episode is ready ooooo😂😂😂

EPISODE 30 — Justice With A Limp.

Aristotle, who had been laughing a minute ago like a man too comfortable with evil, suddenly went silent after the guard barged in panting heavily.
The calmness in his eyes vanished.

He turned sharply to Chuka.
“Who’s breaching my house?”

"I can’t say for now, sir... but we need to move fast..." Chuka answered. He was already halfway to the door, pistol drawn and breathing fast.

Then Aristotle moved — quick and precise. Straight to one corner of the room that looked too plain to be noticed.

The twins, still naked and shivering in their corner, gasped as the wall let out a faint beep.
A small silver panel slid open.

Aristotle stood before it, his bare skin glistening under the dim light.

Chuka grabbed a plain shirt and jeans from the wardrobe and handed them to him.


“Wear this, sir.”

Aristotle didn’t reply. He wore it quickly — his movements clean and trained, like a man used to escaping chaos.

Then he leaned forward to the wall panel.
And right there — that was when everything inside me froze.

Still facing the wall panel, he removed his mask.
Not by accident — not carelessly. He took it off with purpose.

The silver surface of the panel reflected him faintly, blurred by light — but my eyes saw through it.
That’s my curse… or my gift. Anyhow you want to put it.
While everyone else only saw a man standing in front of a wall, I saw him — clearly, despite that I was still tied to the bed.

The lines of his face. The sharp jaw. The eyes of a man who smiles on television beside the president, talking about national safety while holding the country by the throat.

The same man who signs security contracts that never reach the soldiers they’re meant for.
The government’s quiet shadow.

The Special Adviser on National Security.

My blood froze on the spot.
Dr. Ayodele Adeleke… is Aristotle?

Oh bloody god of thunder! The whole country knows him as Double A — the clean, brilliant, untouchable genius.
But down here, in the underworld, he's Aristotle.

He leaned closer to the biometric scanner. The safe unlocked with a soft click.
He picked a pistol, a black folder, and a few files, then put his mask back on — all in one swift motion.

No one knew I’d seen his face.
Not even Chuka. By the time they turned to look, I had already shifted my eyes away, pretending I saw nothing.
They all knew about my “gift,” and if anyone even caught me glancing in that direction, it could mean my death.
That was one mistake I couldn’t afford to make — not at that moment.

He zipped the small leather bag and said coldly, “Secure the files. Move me through the west corridor. Tell Ozone to cover the lower floor.”

Chuka nodded, but before he could leave, he asked, “Sir… what about Spicy? Where should we move her?”

Aristotle stopped. Turned slowly.
“Spicy is here?”

Chuka hesitated. “Yes, sir. She arrived some minutes ago.”

Aristotle’s jaw tightened. “Move her to the red suite. And make sure to keep her safe.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Aristotle looked at the guard standing near the door — his tone dropping into ice.
“Listen carefully, Keep my twins safe." He then shifted his gaze to me and Cynthia. " Don't touch these ones too but if they try anything stupid… shoot the woman first." He then pointed at me " And this one, make him fvck her corpse for one hour before you put a bullet in his skull.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was the kind of tone that told you he meant every word.

The guard nodded immediately.

Aristotle and Chuka left the room.
The lock clicked.

And silence returned.

The twins were still huddled together in the corner of the bed, naked and trembling, their bodies shaking each time another gunshot echoed through the house.

Cynthia sat beside me, the bedsheet clutched to her chest, her breathing shallow.

She turned slowly, eyes glossy, voice trembling.
“If we make it out of here alive,” she whispered, “no one must ever know what happened between us.”

I gave a small nod. “Deal. But let’s stay alive first.”

“Quiet!" The guard barked. "One more word and I’ll blow both your heads off!”

The sound of his voice slapped the air.
Cynthia flinched. I didn’t move.

The twins whimpered softly. The smaller one buried her face in the other’s chest. It was impossible to tell who was trying to protect who anymore.

Outside, the gunfire had stopped.

The air turned still — too still. The kind of quiet that makes you realize you might already be inside death’s waiting room.

The guard’s hand tightened on his gun. Sweat ran down his neck. His eyes kept darting between us and the door.

Then came the noise that froze everyone.


A loud, heavy bang hit the wall outside.

The chandelier above us swayed, scattering dust from the ceiling.

Then the door handle twitched — once, slowly.

The guard froze, his gun shaking in his hands. “Who’s there?” he barked, voice cracking just a little.

Silence.

He paused and trembled for some seconds before he took one cautious step forward—then it happened.

PRAA!

A bullet tore through the wooden door, hitting him straight in the left eye. His body jerked once and collapsed like a sack of beans. Blood splashed across the floor, spreading fast.

The echo of the shot hung in the air, heavy and deadly.



Remaining parts dropping later... Let's have your comments first

On Aristotle’s part….. it shows that na who sabi person dey do am….. na life irony be dat my man

Too sweet too short .
Thanks for the update man .
More ink to Ur elbows

whalesbanks:
On Aristotle’s part….. it shows that na who sabi person dey do am….. na life irony be dat my man

how do you figure my bro

Abdulreheem:
Too sweet too short .
Thanks for the update man .
More ink to Ur elbows

that's just first part of episode 30. Remaining parts will drop soon

I can't just wait for the concluding part,🤔cos this detective wan put san San for Darous garri🥺and discovering the true identity of "Aristotle"

Omo, it's getting dangerous (in Micheal Jackson's voice)
TBM no disappoint on next update abeg you ooo😕😕😕😕

dawno2008:
I can't just wait for the concluding part,🤔cos this detective wan put san San for Darous garri🥺and discovering the true identity of "Aristotle"

Omo, it's getting dangerous (in Micheal Jackson's voice)
TBM no disappoint on next update abeg you ooo😕😕😕😕

I will drop it right very early tomorrow morning

TheBlessedMAN:
I will drop it right very early tomorrow morning

Osheeeee🍻

Wow.... Three days and I've finally catch up... This is opium at its best😂❤️ be like person dey watch netflix film... 😂😂😂😂This man.

Well, Aristotle don forget say na him carry demon enter house when he say make dem bring Darous. 😂😂😂😂 Now the man don turn wahala for him.

Ride on theblessedman. You be legend man

Continuation of Episode 30. - Justice With A Limp.

Detective Kalu wishes all the readers of this story a happy new month. Stay blessed and stay away from the Circle... 😂😂😂😂.

Now let's continue to the story. Like and share. No carry that bad manner of reading and ghosting enter this new month abeg. It's not easy to write. Oya
..let's do this.

******

Detective Kalu stood there scanning the whole space. The mansion around him was a masterpiece of wealth and arrogance.
White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath his boots.
Gold-trimmed pillars lined the lobby.
A chandelier the size of a small car hung above, still trembling from the echo of the gunfire.
The air reeked of money — and danger.
For a few seconds, the only sound was his own breathing — fast and shallow.
His ears rang; the air was thick with smoke and the scent of gunpowder.
Then came the sound he had been trying to avoid since he stepped through that gate.

Boots pounding the marble floor above.
Voices barking commands.
The unmistakable metallic clicks of rifles being cocked.

He clenched his jaw. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. "MTN, you did this..."

Still, he hadn’t forgotten why he entered the building in the first place — to find clues that could finally bring down this criminal organisation. Besides, Kalu wasn’t the kind of man who backed out of a fight that easily.

Kalu looked down at one of the men he’d just taken down — eyes wide open, mouth frozen in shock.
He exhaled once, crouched, and grabbed the fallen guard’s pistol.
He checked the chamber.
Five bullets rested inside.
That was all he had between himself and death.

He straightened his shirt, blood pounding in his temples, and began to move — one cautious step at a time through the wide hallway up onto the stairs.

He reached a corner on the first floor and began to hear voices closing in from both sides.
Then, without warning, bullets tore through the wall beside him.

POW! POW! POW!

The force blew dust into his face.
He dove behind a column and returned fire — two precise shots.

POW! POW!

One man screamed. Another hit the ground with a dull thud.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to.
This house was a hornet’s nest, and he had just kicked it open.

Kalu sprinted across the corridor, sliding behind a sofa as more bullets shattered a glass table nearby.
Shards rained like ice.
He rolled on the floor and fired — one more guard fell down.

Then his gun jammed.
He cursed quietly, yanked the slide back, but it refused to click.
Before he could fix it, another guard charged at him.
Kalu dropped the gun and met him halfway.

The two men clashed hard.
Fists flew.
Kalu dodged a punch and slammed his elbow into the man’s jaw.
The guard retaliated with a knee to his ribs.
Pain exploded through Kalu’s side, but he didn’t stop.
He countered, twisting the man’s arm, forcing him to the ground.

That was when he saw it — through the corner of his eye.

A masked man dressed in a plain shirt and three-quarter jeans being escorted down the hallway by two guards.
The man’s movements were calm, deliberate — like someone who didn’t need to run.
Something about his build, his posture, the way the guards handled him — it all screamed importance.

Kalu froze for a split second.
His instincts whispered one thing — that’s him.
The man responsible for Thomas’s death.
The ghost he’d been chasing all these years.

But he couldn’t move. Not yet. Not with this guard still on him.

With a grunt, Kalu smashed the man’s head against the wall beside the room door the masked man had just come out from — once, twice — until he collapsed.

Kalu exhaled sharply, his eyes darting to the hallway where the masked man had disappeared moments ago.

He ran to the door they came out from, hoping to find a clue.
But the moment he reached for the handle and twitched it —

POW!

A bullet sliced through the wood, missing his face by an inch.
He ducked instinctively, heart racing.

He turned around then saw
a gunman emerged from the corridor, rifle raised and ready to shoot again.

POW!

The bullet shattered the mirror beside Kalu.

He rolled sideways, grabbed a pistol lying on the floor — probably the one belonging to the man he’d just slammed against the wall — and returned fire.

POW!

The gunman staggered.

POW!

The second shot caught him clean in the chest. He went down instantly.

Silence again. Just the echo of death and adrenaline pounding in Kalu’s ears.

He quickly checked the pistol — only three bullets left.
He cursed under his breath.

He knew it was time to leave. No more detours. No more risks. Whoever that masked man was could wait — now wasn’t the time to chase ghosts or play hero. His body was tired, his gun almost empty, and backup wasn’t coming. If he stayed one more minute, he’d be signing his own death note. He needed to get out first, breathe again, and live to fight another day.

Kalu took a deep breath, adjusted his grip, and moved out of the first floor, heading down the stairs to the ground floor. He didn’t stop until he reached the rear exit and pushed his way outside.

The sunlight hit him hard as he stepped outside.
The compound stretched before him, luxury cars gleaming under the late-morning sun.
A black G-Wagon. Two Bentleys. A Lexus LX. A Porsche Cayenne.
And at the far end — a Rolls-Royce Phantom that looked like it hadn’t been driven in years.

Then a voice came from behind him that nearly froze his blood.

“Going somewhere, Detective?”

The voice was smooth. Calm. Cold.

Kalu turned sharply.

Standing near the marble steps of the veranda was a man in a tailored black suit.
No tie. Shirt sleeves rolled slightly up.
One hand rested casually on a silver pistol.
And that limp — that slow, dragging movement — brought a memory screaming back to life.

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, time folded into itself — seven years collapsing into this single second.
The night he first encountered the limping man.
The rain that night fell like heaven had forgotten to turn off the tap — a full-blown repeat of the Noah days, just without the ark.

Then came the glorious shot — the man crawling across the floor, blood spreading like ink under him.

The same man now stood before him, with a face so dangerous it could easily pass for the devil’s clown.

“It’s been a while,” Kalu said, voice low, steady.

“Seven years,” the man replied, smiling faintly. “Give or take a few months of learning how to walk again.”

Kalu’s hand tightened around the pistol. “You should’ve stayed down that night.”

The man’s smile widened — thin and cruel.
“And you should’ve finished the job, Detective.”

He took a slow step forward. The limp was unmistakable — the left leg dragging slightly behind, every motion deliberate, almost theatrical.

“You left me in the dirt, bleeding like an animal,” he continued. “You thought I’d die. But I didn’t. I watched my own blood soak into the ground and swore that if I ever walked again, I’d return the favor.”

Kalu’s expression didn’t change. “You’ve killed too many men to call yourself a victim.”

“And you’ve broken too many rules to call yourself clean. Not to talk of wearing a badge.”

They stared at each other — like two opponents at El Clásico.

The limping man raised his gun slightly.

“You know what hurts more than the limp? The fact that I still respect you, Detective. You were the only one who ever came close to taking me down.”

“Respect is irrelevant,” Kalu said. “Justice doesn’t need it.”

“Justice?” The man laughed softly, shaking his head. “That word died the day you shot me.”

The laugh faded.
Then the first shot came — POW!

Kalu dove behind the G-Wagon. Glass shattered. Metal bent.
He returned fire quickly — POW!
He missed.

The limping man fired again — POW!
The bullet tore past Kalu’s ear and embedded in the car door.

Kalu rolled to the ground, using the front wheel as cover. He exhaled slowly. He had only two bullets left.

The limping man was circling now, moving with surprising speed despite the limp, gun steady in his hand.

“You’re not the man you used to be,” he said. “You’ve lost your edge.”

“Try me,” Kalu replied, calm but deadly.

Another shot came — POW! Missed him by inches.
Kalu countered — POW! The bullet grazed the man’s ear.
The smell of gunpowder thickened between them.

The limping man smirked.
“You know what I learned in recovery, Detective?” He paused, scanning the car. “Pain teaches patience.”

He fired again.
The bullet grazed Kalu’s arm — heat and pain flaring instantly.

Kalu grimaced but didn’t flinch. “And I learned something else,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Old wounds open easier the second time.”

Kalu reached down, grabbed a rusted metal rod lying near the garden hose, and hurled it with precise force.
It struck the limping man’s left wrist. His gun tilted. The shot went wild.

Kalu fired his last bullet.

BANG!

The limping man staggered. The bullet tore into his belly.
He dropped to his knees, clutching the wound, gasping.

You just can’t let me walk, can you?” he murmured, his tone too calm for a man bleeding out, while blood quietly filled his lungs.

Kalu stepped closer, gun still raised — though empty.
“Some men don’t deserve to walk free in this world,” he said quietly.

For a moment, their eyes met — two hunters, neither willing to blink first.
Blood filled the limping man’s mouth as he struggled to breathe.

Kalu’s eyes dropped to the man’s pistol lying a few inches away. He bent down, grabbed it, and tried to fire.
Click.
Nothing.

The limping man let out a weak, broken laugh, coughing as blood dripped from his mouth and the wound on his stomach.

He tried again — still nothing. The gun had jammed, just like the one he used earlier inside the house.

Kalu hissed. “What the hell is wrong with your guns in this bloody organisation?”

He tried to fix it, his fingers working fast, but before he could pull the trigger again, he heard loud voices from inside — the surviving guards, shouting and charging toward the entrance door.

He froze for half a second, then turned and ran. He hated running. But sometimes survival was the smartest kind of victory.

He charged toward the sliding gate, opened it, and vanished into the bush.
Branches tore his sleeves. Leaves slapped his face.
Behind him, the mansion erupted — shouts and gunfire blending with panic.

He crawled, then ran. The sound of pursuit grew faint behind him, swallowed by the hum of the late-morning air.
By the time he reached the lonely road, his shirt was soaked in sweat and blood.

His car was still there, tucked behind the old shed.
He staggered in, dropped into the driver’s seat, heart racing.

He reached for his pocket — but froze.

His phone was gone.

He checked again. Every pocket. Nothing.
It must have fallen off during one of the fights inside the house.

"Damn it..."
He cursed quietly.

He couldn’t go back.
Not after all that gunfire. Not with that limp bastard still probably breathing somewhere inside.

He could already imagine the danger — all his contacts, messages, records… now lying somewhere in that mansion.
In the hands of The Circle.

Kalu’s hands shook as he held the steering wheel. His shirt was soaked — not just with sweat, but with his own blood.
A thin line of red ran down his arm where the bullet had scraped him. His ribs hurt badly every time he tried to breathe.
He spat blood into a tissue, wiped his mouth, and groaned as sharp pain ran through his side.
His knuckles were bruised, his face swollen, and one eye was already turning black.
His whole body ached like he had just fought death and barely escaped.
But he was still alive — and that was all that mattered.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, eyes on the lonely road ahead.
“My phone.” he muttered. "Damn it."

The engine started. The tires rolled slowly, crushing gravel as the mansion faded away in his rear mirror.

To be continued. .Happy new month guys. Let's share and like and comment.

Happy new month my Boss

Thanks for the update.

Kalu abi laku na real man😁😁

I waited for this last part before commenting.

This is how you know a gifted writer. Every scene is highly unpredictable. No one can say they have successfully predicted the outcome of any of the episode once they start reading from the beginning.

This man is the lord of twist. Hahah. I even thought Kalu would die, but now that the Circle has his phone... Ehehehehhe... It's the end for him.

TBM happy new month boss.

Give us more update abeg. You be baddest🙏🙏🙏

Damilgodwin:
Happy new month my Boss

Thanks for the update.

Kalu abi laku na real man😁😁

me sef shock say the man fit fight like this... 😂😂😂😂

Happy new month son of songo .
I always knows how to make more juicy all the time .
Thanks for the update man

MTN with their unnecessary messages

Abdulreheem:
Happy new month son of songo .
I always knows how to make more juicy all the time .
Thanks for the update man

same to you my brother man...

Meedon:
MTN with their unnecessary messages

na so we see am oooo😂😂😂😂

This November go good ooo,

Update go surplus 😁😁


Update na water 😁😁

Happy Sunday tbm

Abdulreheem:
Happy Sunday tbm

happy Sunday boss man... Wishing you a very happy one

My favorite name from this blockbuster “the limping man” na wetin I go name my first born child if na male child

MhiztaRange:
My favorite name from this blockbuster “the limping man” na wetin I go name my first born child if na male child

😂😂😂😂😂 the limping man? That's creepy... 😂😂😂