Chapter 20: The Edge

Makun looked around the bar, searching for something amiss.

However nothing. He could not see anything.

Pressuring his frontal lobe to such an extent was just gonna hurt him. However, just before letting it be, he saw Joe slump on Shane.

The eerie energy leaving his body.

As if the thing that had control over Joe vanished.

Makun stayed seated.

It seems he still had not realized the power of mysticism. He was severely underestimating what all this new stuff was about.

Should he leave?

Makun wanted to leave and have nothing to do with this. However if he left, if he left would he not be suspicious?

It seems he was the only one in the bar that noticed something was amiss. Leaving now was just gonna show whoever did this, if there was someone, that he was aware. That he could see.

He couldn’t afford that.

Not now.

Not when he was this vulnerable.

The noise pulled him from his thoughts.

People were moving. Shouting. Chairs scraped across the floor.

Three men rushed toward Joe and Shane. One of them, a broad shouldered guy in a stained apron, grabbed Joe under the arms and hauled him off Shane’s body.

“Get him up! Someone get water!”

Another man, older, balding, knelt beside Shane. Blood covered Shane’s face. His nose was crooked. One eye swollen shut.

“He’s breathing. Barely.”

A woman pushed through the crowd, phone in hand. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No cops,” someone muttered from the back.

“Screw that, he needs a hospital.”

The broad shouldered guy dragged Joe to a chair near the wall. Joe’s head lolled forward. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. Like he’d just woken from a dream he couldn’t remember.

“Joe, you hear me? Joe!”

Joe blinked. Slow. Confused.

“What… what happened?”

“You beat the hell out of Shane, that’s what happened.”

Joe looked down at his hands. Knuckles split. Blood, not his own, smeared across his fingers.

“I… I didn’t…” His voice cracked. “I don’t remember.”

The crowd murmured. Some angry. Some unsettled.

Makun watched from his seat.

Joe didn’t remember.

Of course he didn’t.

Because it wasn’t him.

Shane groaned. The older man helped him sit up, propped him against the bar. Someone handed him a towel. Shane pressed it to his face, wincing.

“Why’d you do it, Joe?” Shane’s voice was thick, slurred. “What’d I do?”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t know. I swear only remember you calling me a liar”

The woman with the phone was still arguing with someone about whether to call the cops. The bartender was trying to calm everyone down. The music had stopped. The bar felt smaller now. Tighter.

Makun leaned back in his chair.

Distracted by the noise of people attending to Joe and Shane, Makun decided against leaving. He was gonna leave once the situation got calmer.

Where am I even going that I am pressing myself to go?

He questioned himself.

He had nowhere to be. No job to wake up for. No apartment to return to.

Just a sports bag with a book that drained his energy and a pendant from a mystic who wanted payment he couldn’t afford.

He sat in the bar and took a look at the news playing on the TV mounted above the bar.

The screen flickered. A news anchor in a pressed suit, expression serious.

“UAP Phenomenon: April 10, 2032.”

The date appeared in bold letters at the bottom of the screen.

“New sighting today, Saturday. Unexplained aerial phenomena reported globally. Governments refuse to confirm or deny.”

Footage played. Shaky phone camera. Night sky. Lights moving in patterns that didn’t make sense. Too fast. Too coordinated.

Not planes. Not drones.

The anchor continued. “Witnesses describe objects defying known physics. Military officials decline comment. Scientists urge caution against speculation.”

Makun stared at the screen.

While listening to the news, Makun wondered if any of those events were true. And how were they related to mystics?

Were those things up there mystic too? Or something else entirely?

The book had mentioned entities. Primordial beings. Hollow dwellers. Spirits.

Did they live up there? In the sky?

Or were they down here, hidden behind the Veil, pulling strings like whoever controlled Joe tonight?

He didn’t know.

And that ignorance felt heavier than the bag on his shoulder.

The bar was starting to settle. The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet. Joe sat slumped in his chair, staring at his hands. Shane was being helped to his feet, still bleeding but conscious.

Makun finished the last sip of his beer. Warm. Flat. It didn’t matter.

He stood quietly.

No one noticed.

They never did.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the exit.

The streets were dark.

Naija City at night looked like a place that had given up. Broken streetlights. Cracked pavement. Graffiti on every wall that wasn’t already falling apart.

Makun walked slowly, hands in his pockets. The cold bit through his jacket but he barely felt it.

His mind was elsewhere.

Maybe I should go far away to the edges of this city.

The thought came sudden but clear.

Staying in the center, where mystics like Zuri and whoever controlled Joe could operate freely, felt dangerous. Exposed.

He needed distance. Space to think. To read. To figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.

He pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked but it still worked. Barely.

Battery: 34%.

He opened the browser. Searched.

Homeless shelter Naija City.

Several results popped up. He scrolled. Most were in the downtown area. Too close. Too crowded.

Then he saw it.

Hope’s Rest Shelter.

Location: Edge of the city. Industrial district. Near the old factories.

Open 24 hours. No questions asked.

Makun tapped the address. Maps loaded slow. The blue line traced a path across the city.

Bus 42 would get him there.

He pocketed his phone and started walking toward the nearest bus stop.

The bus stop was empty.

A rusted metal bench. A flickering light overhead. A schedule posted on a cracked plastic board.

Makun checked the time on his phone.

10:47 PM.

Next bus: 11:02 PM.

Fifteen minutes.

He sat on the bench. Dropped his bag beside him. Leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

His body ached. Not from physical exertion. From something deeper.

Spiritual exhaustion.

The book had taken more than he realized. And forcing his Sight in the bar, even for a few seconds, had drained what little energy he had left.

He felt hollow.

Like something essential had been scooped out and he was running on fumes.

The distant hum of traffic. A dog barking somewhere. The wind rustling trash across the street.

Makun opened his eyes.

The street was empty. No cars. No people.

Just him and the dark.

He wondered if he was going to succeed

If with his luck he could go against power he could not yet fathom.

He wondered how he was gonna get out of this shitty situation.

Too many questions.

Not enough answers.

The book was supposed to help. But all it did was make him realize how little he knew.

Headlights appeared down the street.

Bus 42.

Makun stood, grabbed his bag, and waited as the bus pulled up with a hiss of brakes.

The doors opened.

The driver, an older woman with tired eyes, barely glanced at him.

“Where to?”

“Edge district. Hope’s Rest.”

She nodded. “Two fifty.”

Makun pulled out crumpled bills from his pocket. Counted carefully.

$2.50.

He handed it over.

Now he had $13.50 left.

He walked to the back of the bus and sat by the window. The bus was nearly empty. Just him, an old man sleeping in the front, and a woman with headphones staring at her phone.

The bus lurched forward.

Makun pressed his forehead against the cold glass and watched the city slide past.

Buildings gave way to warehouses. Streetlights became sparse. The roads got rougher.

This part of the city felt abandoned. Forgotten.

Perfect.

The bus stopped at the edge of the industrial district.

“Hope’s Rest,” the driver called.

Makun stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped off.

The doors closed behind him. The bus pulled away, taillights disappearing into the dark.

Makun looked around.

The shelter was a squat concrete building. Single story. Barred windows. A flickering sign above the door: HOPE’S REST SHELTER.

The parking lot was empty except for a rusted van and a shopping cart tipped on its side.

The place looked like it had been built in the 80s and never updated.

But it was open.

And it was far from downtown.

That was enough.

Makun walked toward the entrance, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped inside.

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