Agbaje's house stood still, draped in silence and cloaked with dust, a testament to his relentless routine—chasing criminals by day, prowling as a werewolf by night. It was a life that left no room for sentiment, no time for reflection. He hadn't stepped through the front door before the stars claimed the sky in months.
But that Monday was different. He'd left work early—a rare luxury. As he pushed open the heavy front door, daylight flooded the rooms, revealing the true state of neglect. Dust hung in the air, settling on every surface, every forgotten corner. Agbaje barely recognized the home he'd once shared with his family, now faded and dulled, like a relic from another lifetime.
He set to work, every sweep of the broom a reminder of the life he'd lost, every rag wiping away grime that had gathered like regret. The hours crawled by, but finally, the house breathed again, polished and clean. He moved to his office, unlocking a drawer he hadn't touched in years, and pulled out a picture frame. Carefully, he placed it on the center table, it of him his children and wife that is there, he had filled a cup of wine and sat before the TV screen, when his eyes suddenly caught the picture frame, he remembered them and there is need for him to reunite them, flash back of how the separation began came back to him.
Ajoke's kitchen smelled of frying eggs and freshly baked pastries, a comforting scent that wrapped itself around the house like a warm embrace. The sizzling oil and the rich aroma of the golden-brown meat pies spoke of home, of family, of simple joys, but there was tension in the air—an undercurrent that only Agbaje seemed to sense. It was Christmas Eve, and Ajoke was preparing the family's favorite meal, her way of marking the holiday season with a taste of tradition. She hummed softly, the song mingling with the crackle of oil, but paused when she heard the unexpected sound of the gate creaking open.
Visitors, on this day of all days. Her heart lifted with a mix of curiosity and delight. Ajoke loved having guests—especially on holidays—when the warmth of laughter and conversation could blend with the festive glow of lights. She wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and peeked out of the kitchen window, half-expecting to see a familiar face. Instead, three men, dressed sharply in identical black suits, had entered the house. They sat in the living room, silent and severe, like shadows come to life. She blinked, then looked again. Suddenly, the men were gone, replaced by Agbaje's tense, solitary figure. They had moved outside to the small garden.
Ajoke's brow furrowed, a flicker of worry crossing her mind, but she pushed it aside. This was her moment to shine as hostess, and she cracked more eggs with a determined smile, mixing flour with a practiced hand. Whatever was happening outside, she trusted Agbaje to handle it. The sound of her whisk was the only thing cutting through the stillness.
---
OUT IN THE GARDEN
The garden, once a place of serenity with its fragrant hibiscus and twinkling fairy lights, felt different now—darker. The men were there, seated in the garden chairs, their eyes locked onto Agbaje who remained standing. He didn't dare sit. They were from his past, and seeing them again felt like a cold knife twisting in his gut. Everything in him screamed to turn away, but he couldn't. Not now.
One of the men—the oldest, with gray just beginning to streak his hair—leaned forward, his eyes calculating and cold. Agbaje's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a war drum.
"I thought it was over," Agbaje said, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "I thought you were done with me. After the last task, you promised—gave me my freedom. You said I was free. So why are you here? Why now? I have nothing left to give, nothing of value for the table. What more could you possibly want?"
The oldest man's smile was thin, a curve of lips that held no warmth. "No one is ever truly done with the table, Agbaje," he replied, each word sharp as broken glass. "The table decides when it's finished. And it seems... the table still finds you valuable."
The air in the garden grew colder, or maybe it was just the weight of those words. Agbaje's hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he held the man's gaze. He wanted to fight, to rage, but what would be the point? These men were not here for negotiation. They were here for something else—something he wasn't ready to face.
In the kitchen, Ajoke's laughter rang out, light and carefree, unaware of the danger that loomed just outside. The house was bright with the colors of Christmas—red and gold decorations hung along the mantle, a pine wreath adorned the front door, and the small, twinkling tree in the corner was a beacon of joy. But in the garden, the shadows seemed to grow longer, and Agbaje's world began to close in around him.
---
A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST
The oldest of the three men, the one who had spoken, was known as Malomo. His eyes, once friendly, now carried the weight of promises unkept and debts unpaid. Years ago, Agbaje had walked away from a world that thrived on secrets and whispers—had built a new life with Ajoke, hoping to bury his past in the soft embrace of normalcy. But Malomo's presence brought it all crashing back: the late-night meetings, the dangerous assignments, the feeling of being trapped like a pawn on a chessboard.
Agbaje's throat tightened. "I have a family now," he said, his voice low, desperate. "A life. You can't just waltz back in and—"
"Family," Malomo interrupted, almost amused. "You think a family changes anything? The table doesn't care about sentiment or new beginnings. It only cares about what you owe. And, Agbaje, there's still a debt."
Behind him, the other two men shifted, their movements fluid and practiced, like wolves waiting to pounce. Agbaje's eyes darted between them, his muscles tensing. He knew them, knew their ways, and felt the weight of years pressing down. A part of him longed to run, to pull Ajoke into his arms and leave everything behind. But he couldn't. Not yet.
---
THE MEAL THAT NEVER CAME
Inside the house, Ajoke carried a tray laden with meat pies and eggs, her face flushed with the warmth of the kitchen. She glanced out the window again and saw them—Agbaje's stiff back, the men leaning in with predatory smiles. A shiver danced down her spine. Something was wrong.
"Agbaje!" she called softly, stepping out onto the porch, the cold night air biting at her skin. He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge her presence. It was as if an invisible wall separated them, as if he were already being pulled back into a world she couldn't follow.
The men's eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, the garden was deathly still. Malomo's smile widened, and he rose to his feet, his gaze never leaving Agbaje. "We'll be back," he said, his voice a promise and a threat. "We're not finished here."
They walked past Ajoke without a word, the scent of her freshly cooked food hanging in the air between them, ignored. She watched them go, confusion and fear bubbling in her chest. She didn't understand what had just happened, but she felt it—like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Agbaje stood alone in the garden, staring at the ground, and she knew in that moment that something had changed. Something dark had returned. She set the tray down and went to him, wrapping her arms around his trembling frame. He pulled her close, holding her as if she were the only solid thing in a world gone mad.
But neither of them noticed the small, white card that Malomo had left on the garden table, half-hidden beneath the edge of a pot. A card with a symbol that only Agbaje would recognize—an invitation, a command.
The table had called. And this time, it would not be denied.