The air smelled like jollof rice, roasted chicken, and peace. Pure, unbothered, Friday-evening peace.
Mr. Zuberi stepped into the house with his usual quiet grace, his voice low and commanding over the phone.
"If they don't send the figures by Monday, we're not continuing. This isn't a charity—it's business."
He paused, listening, then gave a short, amused chuckle.
"Then tell him to grow a spine."
He toed off his polished shoes at the entryway, sliding them into their perfect spot before heading into the living room, loosening his tie with practiced ease. The caramel glow of his skin caught the last rays of the setting sun filtering through the windows. His tapered-fro curls were still neatly defined, defiant against the chaos of Lagos traffic and corporate stress.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Zikora peeked through the doorway.
She leaned against the frame for a second, watching him. Admiring him.
Her hand instinctively cradled her protruding belly. A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she breathed in the moment. Her husband—tired but still effortlessly magnetic. Her home—still intact. Her child—safe and warm inside her.
She turned back into the kitchen, humming as she placed the last spoon on the table. Dinner was ready.
Moments later, she padded across the living room floor in soft slippers, coming up behind him just as he ended the call.
Zikora pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Welcome home, my heart."
Zuberi exhaled, the tension from work melting with the simple magic of her touch. He turned to her, eyes softening, placing his palm lightly on her belly.
"And how are my two favorite people?" he asked, voice low and teasing.
Zikora giggled. "Hungry. One of us more than the other."
She took his coat and suitcase without waiting for him to argue, knowing he would. He always did.
But tonight, he just sank into the sofa with a sigh, letting the day roll off him like rain off an umbrella.
He watched her as she moved toward the dining room—radiant, glowing, and carrying the most precious creation they'd ever made.
"I don't deserve you," he muttered, almost to himself.
Zikora turned back with a smirk. "Damn right you don't."
And for a moment—just a moment—the world was perfect.
Too perfect.
Zuberi offered his wife a tired smile, one of those soft, practiced ones that didn't quite reach his eyes. She kissed his cheek again, lingering just a second longer this time, then turned back to the table.
He made his way toward the bathroom with a quiet exhale, loosening his tie as he walked. The door shut behind him with a gentle click.
The moment he twisted the cold tap, the icy water burst out like a cleansing flood. He didn't flinch. He welcomed it. As it cascaded over his caramel skin, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
A deep, ragged sigh slipped from his lips. Not the sigh of a man relieved to be home. No—this was the exhale of a man who'd held something in all day. Pain. Rage. Something darker.
The water that flowed from his body wasn't clear.
It was red.
Thick streaks of crimson ran down his arms, legs, chest—pooling at his feet like the aftermath of a slaughter. The blood had dried into the seams of his button-down shirt and soaked into his slacks, but it hadn't bled through. His clothes had hidden it well. Too well.
Now, stripped bare, the truth was visible.
Deep gashes lined his torso—jagged claw marks across his ribs, a puncture wound high on his shoulder, and a fresh laceration along his hip that still pulsed faintly. He didn't wince. Didn't tremble. He just stood there, breathing as the water carried the blood away.
And slowly… the wounds began to vanish.
Muscle knit together with unnatural speed, skin pulling tight like clay reshaping itself. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm, as if syncing with some unholy force. The blood on the floor thinned and disappeared down the drain, vanishing like it had never existed.
When it was done, he checked the mirror. No evidence. No scars. No trace of the battle he'd barely survived.
He scrubbed the floor, careful and thorough, before dressing in a plain black T-shirt and loose cotton pants—the kind a regular man would wear for dinner with his wife.
Zuberi glanced once at the showerhead, still dripping faintly.
Then he left the bathroom like nothing had happened.
Descending the stairs, he caught the scent of jollof rice and roasted chicken, with just the right amount of pepper—Zikora never missed. She was seated at the dining table, gently rubbing her swollen belly with one hand and scrolling her phone with the other.
"Finally," she teased without looking up. "I was about to start without you."
Zuberi leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I wouldn't blame you."
He sat down. Picked up his fork. Smiled.
The dining room was bathed in warm amber light, the overhead chandelier casting soft glows across the polished table. Zuberi's curls, still damp from his shower, shimmered under the glow like stardust woven into strands of night. He sat across from Zikora, the steam rising from their plates wrapping the space in a comforting haze of spice, warmth, and peace.
She watched him with a soft smile as he spooned rice into his mouth, then immediately let out a breath, waving his hand in front of his lips. "You're trying to assassinate me with pepper again," he coughed dramatically.
Zikora cackled. "You say that every time. But you finish the plate every time too, hmm?"
He pointed a fork at her. "Because I love you, not because I want to die."
"You'd survive the apocalypse but jollof with scotch bonnet makes you weak?" she teased, raising a brow.
He chuckled, head tilting back as a bead of water slid down his temple. "I have slain beasts. I have conquered pain. But your cooking?" He thumped his chest twice. "Unbeatable."
She laughed, one hand on her belly. "You're such a drama king."
"And seriously, you have slain beasts?. You that faints at the sight of blood", she laughed heartily.
Their conversation swirled from gossip about his grumpy business partner, to Zikora's encounter with a woman at the store who tried to convince her that papaya juice could make the baby grow a full set of teeth before birth.
"That's disturbing," Zuberi muttered, eyes wide in mock horror.
"She had charts, babe."
"I'm not letting our baby be born with braces."
"Imagine the dental bills."
Then came the topic.
"Okay. We've been dancing around it. Name time," Zikora said, leaning in with a grin.
Zuberi groaned. "We've got time."
"You say that every week."
"Because we do," he insisted.
"I'm the one carrying this kid. If I say we don't, then we don't."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Hit me."
"Alright. Top three today: Ikenna, for a boy. Adaobi, if it's a girl."
"Hmm." He squinted at her. "Ikenna sounds like a man that wins fights in marketplaces with his bare hands."
She smirked. "Exactly."
"Adaobi, though… That's pretty."
He softened, watching her. "They'd be lucky to have your name sense. I was thinking… Zion?"
Zikora squinted. "You and these movie-sounding names."
"What? It's strong!"
They went back and forth, playful banter and giggles slipping between bites. It felt safe. Like they had all the time in the world.
Until her hand froze on the edge of the table.
And her breath hitched.
Zuberi's head snapped up instantly, fork clattering to his plate. "Zikora?"
She let out a sharp, strained inhale. "It… it's nothing, I think—ah—!"
She doubled forward, gripping the edge of the table. The smile vanished from his face like someone had wiped it clean.
"Okay. That's not nothing."
He was on his feet in an instant, pulling her chair back gently but quickly, slipping an arm under her legs and the other behind her back.
"Breathe, love. I've got you."
"Zuberi… it's early—"
"Early or not, I'm not waiting to find out."
She clenched her jaw, another wave of pain washing over her as he rushed toward the door. He didn't bother grabbing the coats. Didn't stop to lock up.
He placed her carefully in the front seat, buckled her in, and started the car like a man trained for war.
Because he was.
He wasn't ready to lose his child because of anything, he drove as fast as he could to the hospital hopeful that there won't be a wrong turn.
The hospital lights were too bright.
Zuberi's shoes echoed against the sterile white tiles as he half-ran, half-carried Zikora through the sliding doors, shouting for help before his voice even reached reception.
"Please! My wife—she's in labor—something's wrong!"
Nurses swarmed immediately. The scent of antiseptic hit like a slap. Gloves snapped on. A gurney rolled in. One nurse gently took Zikora's hand while the others helped her onto the gurney.
"You're doing great, ma'am. We've got you."
Zuberi tried to follow, but a firm hand caught his chest. "Sir, we'll take care of her. Please head to reception—we need some details."
He didn't want to let go. He really didn't. But Zikora gave him a squeeze, through the haze of her pain, and said with strained breath, "Go. I'll be okay."
He watched her disappear behind the swinging doors like they were the gates of judgment.
At the front desk, he could barely write. His hand was shaking. Name, insurance, next of kin. Blood type. His pen scratched the paper with force that nearly ripped through.
Then came the waiting.
He paced like a madman in the waiting room, hands behind his head, muttering prayers in languages both mortal and ancient. Words his soul remembered. His heart was racing, thumping like a war drum.
Minutes crawled. He checked the hallway every ten seconds.
Then he saw the doctor approaching—his face grim.
Zuberi's breath caught in his throat.
"Mr. Zuberi," the doctor said, gently pulling him aside into a quieter corner of the hallway.
"Just tell me," Zuberi rasped. "Please. Don't ease me into it."
The doctor hesitated, eyes flickering with a kind of practiced sorrow. "There's… a complication. A serious one."
Zuberi froze.
"The child is—there's something… unusual about the pregnancy. Something we can't explain."
Zuberi's mind blanked for a moment. Then his voice turned sharp. "Unusual how?"
"We don't know if it's affecting the mother or the baby—or both—but her vitals are unstable. Her body is rejecting the labor process entirely. It's like—"
He stopped himself. As if what he wanted to say didn't make sense. As if it would sound insane out loud.
"We may have to make a decision soon. One that could mean saving the child… or saving the mother. Or…"
"Or neither," Zuberi finished, quietly.
The weight of it pressed on his chest like a tombstone.
The doctor nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry."
Zuberi stood still. Completely still. A storm behind his eyes.
Unusual.
Something we can't explain.
He had fought creatures that devoured stars. He had buried secrets beneath cities that never should've existed.
He knew what "unusual" meant.
This wasn't medical.
This was divine.
Or worse.
Zuberi's hands clenched into fists. He looked down the hallway where his wife was fighting for her life—and maybe something else entirely was being born.
And something told him this… this was only the beginning.