The hospital lights flickered again.
Amaka stood motionless in her office, staring at the bloodstained note left on her desk. The message had been typed on an old typewriter, the kind no one used anymore. It read:
"The saints never slept. But the sinners never died. – Site 08"
Site 08. Her heart thudded. That wasn't on any official map.
She opened her encrypted folder, bypassing the firewalls she helped build. It was there, barely a whisper in the records. A decommissioned chapel under the Eko Atlantic seawalls. Listed simply as: Sanctuary.
And the Circle had once used it as an extraction point.
She picked up her phone.
"They're moving something," she told Adesuwa. "Or someone."
Underneath the chaos of Lagos, in the tunnels beyond Marina, Damilola's fingers trembled as she held a vial taken from Malachy's robe. It was labeled "Vox Dei, the Voice of God."
"What is it?" Efe asked.
"I think… It's synthetic memory," she said. "Something harvested. Weaponized."
Adesuwa leaned over. "Memories of who?"
Damilola looked up, eyes wide. "Not who. What. Lagos."
Efe frowned. "You're saying the city has a memory?"
"More than memory," she whispered. "It has ghosts."
Across town, in a penthouse overlooking the ruins of Cathedral Site 17, Ajayi watched an old projector reel flicker to life. Footage played: priests praying over bodies wired with electrodes. Chanting in sync with machines. The Cathedral wasn't just a crypt; it was a lab. And the martyrs?
Subjects.
He turned to the man in the shadows.
"She's close," Ajayi said. "The girl. Damilola."
The man stepped forward, identical to Father Malachy.
"You were right to resurrect me," the clone said. "The original was flawed. Weak."
Ajayi handed him a key.
"Go to the Sanctuary. The experiment must be preserved."
Later that night, Adesuwa, Efe, and Damilola stood at the edge of Eko Atlantic, the tide slapping at the concrete.
Below them, buried in forgotten blueprints, was Site 08.
They breached it through an old storm drain, cutting past rusted fences and corroded steel. Inside, candles still burned, automated, flickering from motion sensors.
The smell of salt and old blood hung in the air.
At the center: an altar made of data drives, surrounded by pews filled with mannequins dressed as clergy.
But one of them moved.
Not a mannequin.
A man.
The clone of Malachy stepped forward.
"Welcome," he said. "You found your faith again."
Adesuwa raised her gun. "You're not him."
"No," he said. "I'm what he aspired to be."
The sanctuary came alive with motion, hidden drones activating and broadcasting their every move.
"You think Lagos won't see this?" Efe said.
"I want them to," the clone smiled. "Let them witness the rebirth of belief. In surveillance. In control."
"You're not a god," Damilola said.
"I'm better," he replied. "I'm remembered."
The trio launched into action.
Bullets tore through marble.
Adesuwa tackled the clone, slamming him into the altar.
Data drives spilled across the floor, glowing, sparking, hissing with encoded confessions.
The clone gasped. "This is a holy place…"
Adesuwa shoved a drive into his mouth. "Then choke on it."
Electricity surged. The clone spasmed, then stilled.
But behind them, a hum.
Ajayi's face appeared on a massive screen. "You think this was our end?"
"No," Adesuwa said. "It's your beginning. In fire."
She pressed the detonator.
They fled as Site 08 imploded behind them.
On the mainland, Lagos shook.
But its people stood watching.
Not in fear.
In fury.