The air hung thick with the humid Lagos evening, a symphony of distant traffic and the rhythmic chatter of street vendors. Roxanne, oblivious to the usual hustle, walked with an unhurried grace down the bustling street. Her light skin glowed faintly under the streetlights, drawing glances she long ago learned to ignore. She was late, as usual, for the youth group meeting—a habit shared by most attendees, a comfortable understanding.

Her thoughts drifted, not to the meeting, but to the sprawling narrative forming in her mind, the one that would one day make her the best fiction writer. She envisioned a life of wealth and quiet happiness, far removed from the mundane.

As she neared the venue, the familiar sleek car of Pastor Victor pulled up. A faint frown touched her lips; his presence was unexpected, a disruption to the usual rhythm. He was, to her, a man of unpredictable movements. Inside, a small circle of youths were already gathered, a sense of relief washing over her. She settled into a vacant seat, the low hum of conversation a backdrop to her quiet observations.