The persistent hum of the city was a dull backdrop to the frantic beat of my own heart. A year had passed since the President’s address, a speech I had eagerly awaited, sitting in my large office chair, coffee cooling in my hand. The memory was sharp, the scent of fresh brew, the morning sun glaring through the blinds. I had adjusted them, a small act of control in a world spiraling.

My radio, a relic of my youth, crackled to life, 92.8fm. It was a comfort, a link to simpler times—sitting on the porch with my father, my mother singing in the kitchen. But those days were gone. My home, filled with awards and photographs, was a monument to a life defined by sacrifice, and by a past that called me a monster.

Now, the present demanded attention. The President's apology, his vows against the Jama’tu Haram, were hollow words. The twin bombings, the abducted schoolgirls—it was all a stark reminder of the terror that stalked our dreams. We needed a hero. I worked for the ICS, a third eye summoned only in emergencies, and this was one.

The clock neared ten. I strapped on my Glock 42, the familiar weight a cold comfort beneath my black trench coat. The Jama’tu Haram was a web, stubborn and dangerous. But I was stronger, my mind sharper. Releasing a long breath, I masked my features into the cold, inaccessible look of a law officer. The door clicked shut behind me. My journey began.