The Sound That Shattered Everything
"Bang. Bang."
The gunshots exploded through the silence of the night, sharp and final. My body locked in place before my mind could even process the horror unfolding before me. There, on the bed, my father jerked violently as the bullets tore into his chest. A scream clawed at my throat, but no sound came out. My limbs were leaden, my voice stolen by the sheer, suffocating weight of terror.
Time slowed. The world narrowed to the metallic stench of blood, the acrid tang of gunpowder, and the deafening thud of my own pulse. Somewhere in the chaos, my brain short-circuited—shutting down, retreating into a primal prayer: Don't let him shoot me. Please, don't let Dad die.
Then, like a lightning strike, a question cut through the fog: Who is this man? Who sent him?
The shooter turned toward me. His face was a void, hidden beneath a black mask, his entire body swathed in darkness. The weapon in his gloved hand gleamed under the dim bedroom light—a Magnum pistol. I recognized it instantly. Dad had taught me about guns when I was seven, his voice patient as he explained calibers and recoil. Now, that same knowledge mocked me.
The Approach of Death
He took a step forward. My instincts screamed: RUN. But my body betrayed me. Muscles refused to obey; my feet might as well have been bolted to the floor. It was as if my flesh had declared mutiny, leaving me stranded in the path of a storm.
Then—there. He loomed over me, a mountain of muscle and malice. Before I could blink, his fist crashed into my face. The impact sent me sprawling, my vision exploding into white-hot pain. I hit the ground hard, the taste of copper flooding my mouth as blood dribbled past my lips.
No respite. No mercy.
He yanked me up by the collar, his grip iron-tight, and drove his knee into my stomach with brutal force. The air fled my lungs. A wet, ragged gasp tore from my throat as I crumpled again, tears and blood mingling on the floor. I tried to scream, to summon help, but my voice was a ghost—gone before it could take shape.
The Voice in the Dark
The attacker didn't linger. With a final, dismissive shove, he vanished into the hallway, his footsteps fading like a nightmare receding at dawn. But the pain remained. Agony unlike anything I'd ever known radiated through my ribs, my abdomen, my face. Every breath was fire.
Then—a whisper.
Weak. Fragile. But unmistakable.
"David… David…"
My father's voice.
Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself up, one trembling hand pressed to my stomach. Each movement was a battle, but his call pulled me forward. I reached his bedside and collapsed onto the couch, my body shuddering.
When I looked at him, my heart shattered.
The man who'd carried me on his shoulders, who'd laughed as he taught me to throw a punch, was now pale and gasping, his life seeping into the sheets. Tears blurred my vision, hot and silent. Regret and fury twisted in my chest like twin serpents.
If only I'd listened to Mum. If only I'd trained harder, fought smarter. Maybe I could've saved him. Maybe I could've killed that bastard.
The weight of maybe was a knife twisting deeper.
The Final Breath
The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the ragged sound of my own whispered thoughts. I paced nervously, my mind a storm of fear and denial, when suddenly—his voice. Weak, trembling, but unmistakable. "David."
I froze. My head snapped up, and there he was: my father, His hand once so strong, now trembled as he reached for me. "David, come," he murmured, the words barely more than a sigh.
I didn't hesitate. In an instant, I was at his side, my fingers closing around his. His skin was cool, the warmth fading like embers in the wind. I pulled him into a desperate embrace, my tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. His arms—so thin now, so frail—wrapped around me with what little strength he had left.
When I pulled back, his eyes met mine. There was a quiet light in them, a flicker of the man he'd once been. He smiled, weak but tender, and my heart shattered all over again.
"David," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread. "Please… take care of your mom for me." A pause, a shuddering breath. "Take care of yourself. Become stronger. Don't… don't live like me." His grip tightened, just for a second. "And finally, my boy… I love you so much. I always have."
The words hung in the air, sacred and final. Then—silence. His chest stilled. His hand, still clasped in mine, grew stiff, the warmth leaching away like water into sand.
No. No, no, no.
I refused to believe it. With frantic hands, I pushed him onto his back and began pumping his chest, counting under my breath like a prayer. One, two, three, four. I tilted his head back, sealed my lips over his, and forced air into his lungs. Again. Again. "Breathe, damn it!" I screamed, my voice raw.
But nothing. No gasp. No flutter of his eyelids. Only stillness.
A wail tore from my throat, guttural and broken. The sound echoed through the room, a beacon of grief. And then—footsteps. Hurried, chaotic. The door burst open, and there stood my mother, her face a mask of terror. Behind her, the guards and doctors hovered, their expressions grim.
Mom's eyes locked onto Dad's body, onto the blood staining his shirt, onto the cruel truth she already knew. A sound escaped her—half scream, half sob—before her legs gave way. She collapsed beside us, her hands clutching at Dad's shoulders, shaking him as if she could rouse him from this cruel slumber.
"Honey, please," she begged, her voice cracking. "Come back. You—you said no one could kill you. You said you were unstoppable. You promised! You promised to protect us!" Her fists pounded against his chest, each blow weaker than the last. "Don't you dare die now. Don't you dare leave us. Please… please…"
Her voice was raw, broken, a sound I had never heard before and hoped never to hear again.
"No, no, no—please, wake up! Look at me!"
She clutched at my father's lifeless hand, her fingers trembling, her entire body shaking with the force of her sobs. His skin was already pale, the warmth fading, the strong man I had known reduced to stillness. The machines around him had flat lined, their relentless beeping now replaced by a deafening silence.
The guards—men who had served my father for years, their faces hardened by duty—couldn't bear it any longer. One of them, a towering figure with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, his voice gruff but gentle.
"Ma'am… we have to go."
She didn't respond. Didn't even seem to hear him. Her screams turned into whispers, desperate pleas to a man who could no longer answer. The guards exchanged glances before finally, with firm but careful hands, they pulled her away. She fought them weakly, her strength gone, her voice hoarse from crying.
And then, the doctors came.
Their expressions were grim, their words clinical. "Time of death…"
I didn't hear the rest.
I sat on the stiff hospital couch, my body numb, my mind racing yet blank all at once. The room blurred around me, voices fading into a distant hum. It was as if time had sped up—people moved in flashes, shadows darting in and out, while I remained trapped in a single moment.
My tears had dried up. There was nothing left inside me but a hollow ache, a fracture in my chest where my heart had once been. And then, like a spark igniting in the dark, a new feeling took hold.
Rage.
Cold, unrelenting, all-consuming.
I will kill them.
The thought settled into my bones, a vow etched in fire. Every person who had a hand in this—every traitor, every conspirator—would pay.
The Ride Home
Hours passed in a haze. The guards returned, their faces unreadable, their movements efficient. They didn't speak as they guided me out of the hospital, their hands firm on my shoulders as if afraid I might collapse.
The car ride was silent. The city outside the window was alive with noise—honking cars, shouting vendors, laughter—but inside the vehicle, it was a tomb. My mother sat beside me, her eyes vacant, her fingers clutching a crumpled tissue.
We arrived at my father's home—no, our home—though it no longer felt like one. The grand gates, the manicured gardens, the towering mansion that had once been a symbol of his power… now it was just a shell.
The Secret Buried With Him
Two days later, my father's body was sent back to his hometown for burial.
But we didn't go.
"They can't know about us," my mother whispered, her voice brittle. "Your father… he married me in secret. His family never approved. To them, I was just a maid. If they find out he had a wife… if they find out about you…"
She didn't need to finish.
My father was the richest man in Nigeria. His fortune was a prize, a throne countless people would kill for. And now, they had.
A Son's Vengeance
I stood in front of his portrait, my refection overlapping his stern, proud face.
"Dad," I whispered, my voice steady, my hands clenched into fists. "I promise you. I will kill every last one of them."
The words hung in the air, a vow written in blood.
To be continued.