Detective Akintola's instincts had never failed him before, and he could feel them stirring once more. His suspicions of his superior, Agbaje, gnawed at him relentlessly. Something wasn't right, and he knew it. He knew Agbaje too well to miss the signs—the nervous ticks, the evasive answers, the way his eyes would shift at the mention of Chief Ajumobi's murder. There was something deeper, something his boss wasn't saying. And Akintola was certain that Agbaje's silence was a calculated move.
Chief Ajumobi's death was not the work of a human hand. That much was obvious. The wounds—deep, jagged slashes—were not just from a wild animal. No, the gashes bore a sinister precision, as if a creature both savage and intelligent had inflicted them. A new kind of predator had emerged in the shadows of their town, and Akintola needed Agbaje to acknowledge it. With his superior's cooperation, the investigation would be more than a wild chase; it would be a hunt with purpose. But Agbaje refused to engage, and his apathy left Akintola simmering with rage.
Time and again, Akintola brought his findings to Agbaje, spreading autopsy reports across the desk, pointing to the undeniable evidence—the hair found at the scene that defied classification, the inexplicable depth of the wounds. But Agbaje merely played ignorant