It was a humid Lagos evening when the first sign of trouble arrived a sealed envelope dropped at the door of Detective Ayo Daramola's one-bedroom apartment. No return address, no stamp, just a hastily scrawled "Urgent" across the front. Ayo bent down to pick it up, his instincts prickling with unease. He hadn't been on the force for ten years without learning that small, seemingly innocuous things often carried the most danger.
Inside, the apartment was dimly lit. A ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead, barely making a dent in the oppressive heat. Ayo dropped the envelope on the kitchen counter and stared at it, his brow furrowed. He was no stranger to threats or anonymous tips, but something about this felt different. Personal.
The kettle on the stove began to whistle, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned off the gas and poured himself a mug of tea before sitting down to address the mystery. With deliberate precision, he slit open the envelope using a knife from his drying rack. A single sheet of paper slid out, folded neatly in half. The message was written in bold, blocky letters:
"MEET ME AT OJU IRIN BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. OR MORE WILL DIE."
Ayo's jaw tightened. He read the message twice, then a third time, committing every detail to memory. His mind raced to the recent string of unsolved murders plaguing the city. Four bodies in as many weeks, each victim left with a single red ribbon tied to their wrist. The media had dubbed the killer "The Ribbon Reaper." The name grated on Ayo; it was too theatrical for the cold, brutal reality of the crimes.
Reaching for his phone, Ayo hesitated. The message had explicitly said to come alone. Was it a trap? Almost certainly. But ignoring it wasn't an option. If there was even a chance this could lead him to the killer, he had to take it.
The clock on the wall read 10:43 PM. The bridge was a 45-minute drive without traffic, leaving him little time to prepare. He grabbed his coat and slid his service pistol into its holster, checking the chamber with practiced ease. His badge and a flashlight followed, tucked into his pockets. He paused at the door, glancing back at the apartment as if seeing it for the last time. Then he stepped into the night.
The drive to Oju Irin Bridge was uneventful, but Ayo's mind was anything but calm. The streets of Lagos, usually bustling with life even at this hour, seemed eerily quiet. He navigated through narrow lanes and wide highways, the city's neon glow reflecting off his windshield. As he approached the bridge, the familiar weight of dread settled in his chest.
Ayo parked his car a short distance away, choosing a spot hidden by overgrown bushes. He exited the vehicle, his movements deliberate and quiet. The bridge loomed ahead, its iron beams casting eerie shadows under the faint glow of the streetlights. A warm breeze carried the faint scent of brackish water from the lagoon below.
He scanned the area, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The bridge appeared deserted, but Ayo knew better than to trust appearances. His right hand hovered near his holster as he stepped onto the concrete expanse, the sound of his polished boots muffled by the humid air.
"Detective Daramola," a voice called from the shadows.
Ayo froze, his heart raced in his chest. The voice was calm, almost conversational, but it carried an edge that set his nerves on high alert. He squinted into the darkness, searching for its source.
"Step into the light," he demanded, his voice steady.
A figure emerged from the shadows on the far side of the bridge. The man was dressed in dark clothing, his face obscured by a hood. He held a smartphone in one gloved hand, its screen glowing faintly.
"I didn't come here for games," Ayo said, taking a cautious step forward. "Who are you, and what do you know about the murders?"
The man chuckled, a low, unsettling sound that echoed across the bridge. "I know you're chasing a ghost, Detective. But what if the ghost is closer than you think?"
Before Ayo could respond, the man tossed the phone toward him. It landed at his feet with a soft thud. Ayo crouched to pick it up, his eyes never leaving the stranger. But when he looked up, the figure was gone, swallowed by the darkness.
The phone's screen flickered to life as Ayo swiped at it. A video began to play, and his stomach churned at what he saw. A terrified woman sat bound to a chair in a dimly lit room, her muffled cries filling the air. Around her wrist was a red ribbon, identical to the ones found on the previous victims.
The camera angle shifted, revealing a clock on the wall behind her. It read 11:57 PM. Ayo's pulse quickened as he did the math. If the timestamp was accurate, the woman had less than three minutes.
Ayo bolted back to his car, his mind racing. He replayed the video, scanning for clues. The room's walls were bare concrete, and the dim lighting cast harsh shadows that obscured the details. But in the corner of the frame, he noticed something faint, a flickering neon sign visible through a grime-covered window. He paused the video and squinted at the blurry letters: "KOMFORT LOUNGE."
He recognized the name. It was a rundown bar near the Apapa docks, a 20-minute drive from his current location. Ayo slammed the car into gear and sped off, his tires screeching against the pavement. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he weaved through the sparse late-night traffic, his mind focused on the ticking clock.
The docks were a maze of narrow streets and abandoned warehouses, their silhouettes looking like sentinels in the night. Ayo killed his headlights as he approached the bar, parking a block away. The establishment's neon sign flickers weakly, casting an eerie red glow over the entrance.
Ayo approached cautiously, his hand on his pistol. The bar's windows were boarded up, but faint light seeped through the cracks. He tried the door; it creaked open with a groan. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of alcohol and decay. Empty bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor, and the faint hum of a generator buzzed in the background.
He followed the sound of muffled cries, his steps deliberate and silent. The back room door was slightly ajar, revealing a makeshift recording setup. The woman from the video sat bound to the chair, her eyes wide with terror as she struggled against her restraints. Ayo burst into the room, his weapon drawn.
"Lagos Police! Don't move!" he barked, scanning the room for the captor. But it was empty, save for the woman and the blinking red light of the camera recording her.
Ayo holstered his gun and rushed to untie her. "You're safe now," he said, his voice firm but reassuring. The woman sobbed, collapsing into his arms once freed. He glanced around, his instincts on high alert. This was too easy.
A faint beeping sound caught his attention. Ayo's eyes darted to the corner of the room, where a small device blinked ominously. His blood ran cold. It was a timer, counting down from 00:10... 00:09...
"We need to move! Now!" Ayo yelled, grabbing the woman and pulling her toward the exit. They sprinted through the bar and out into the night, barely making it across the street when the explosion ripped through the building. The force of the blast threw them to the ground, debris raining around them.
Ayo shielded the woman with his body as the dust settled. His ears rang, and his vision blurred, but he forced himself to focus. The Ribbon Reaper had just sent a clear message.
The hunt had only just begun.