The keys to the gate felt heavy in Miles’s pocket — a cold piece of brass entirely different from the digital numbers pulsing in his eyes.
The landlord’s agent had left thirty minutes ago, still looking at Miles like he was either a front for a bigger syndicate or a kid who’d stumbled into an inheritance he was about to burn through.
Miles didn’t care how he looked.
He only cared about the clock.
Time Remaining: 39 Hours, 42 Minutes.
He stood in the center of the dark, windowless back office, the iron door thrown open to let the grey Lagos morning slice through the dust.
The room smelled of old stagnant water and rusted pipes.
It was perfect.
He didn’t waste time.
He ordered a delivery of raw materials from a supplier down the expressway — bags of Portland cement, fine river sand, gravel, heavy-duty padlocks — and the Opay transfers cleared instantly, the system slicing through his balance with terrifying efficiency.
Within two hours a flatbed truck rumbled into the lot, exhaust coughing black smoke as two laborers stacked brown paper bags of cement against the office wall.
When the truck pulled away, Miles was left alone with the pile.
He tossed his jacket onto the dusty concrete counter in the office.
Underneath, his arms were lean but corded with the muscle memory of a trade he’d thought he was leaving behind.
He picked up an old rusted shovel from by the drainage grates and walked out to the bay where the slab was fractured worst.
The system’s golden text flickered at the edge of his vision, trying to push data streams at him, but he forced it down.
Right now he didn’t need waveforms.
He needed structural integrity.
He sliced open the first bag of cement with his pocket knife, the grey powder spilling out onto the gravel in a cloud that tasted like lime and stone at the back of his tongue.
He added the sand by eye, muscle memory guiding his arms as he worked the shovel through the mixture until the color went uniform.
The rhythmic scrape of the shovel against asphalt replaced the thudding bass of his production software.
His hands, still tender from the silver drive, burned where the wooden handle rubbed his palms raw, sweat tracking grey lines through the dust settling on his forehead.
He dragged a hose from the main valve and turned it on, water hissing into the dry mound, cratering the center.
He dug the shovel back into the weight, folding water into powder until it turned into that thick, aggregate sludge he knew so well.
Physical Front Realignment: 28%.
Creative Potential Adjusting: Detoxification Active.
A strange notification flashed in his sight.
For months he’d hated this feeling — the wet cement dragging at his shoulders, knowing a full day of it would only buy him a cheap meal and transit fare home.
But now every stroke felt like he was building a wall between himself and the people hunting him on 4th street.
He wasn’t just laying concrete.
He was pouring a foundation for a machine they couldn’t reach.
By midday his shoulders were screaming.
He scooped the wet mortar into the deep fissures of the bay, using a flat wooden board to trowel it smooth until the cracks disappeared under a clean slate-grey finish.
He was wiping sweat from his eyes with his forearm when the phone in the office started ringing, the sound sharp against the bare brick walls.
He dropped the trowel and walked back inside, boots leaving wet grey prints on the dry gravel, and picked up the phone.
Not Vertex.
Not an unknown number.
His aunt.
His throat tightened.
He cleared it before hitting answer.
“Mami?”
“Miles.” Her voice came through warm, but laced with that familiar strain of someone who’d spent too many years carrying a household alone.
“Where are you?
I called earlier but it was busy.
Your sister said you haven’t answered messages since yesterday.”
He looked down at his cement-streaked jeans, then at the gold text resting at the bottom of his vision.
Balance: $1,298.00.
“I’m fine, Mami,” he said, softening into the tone he always used with her.
“I’m out working.
Got a new contract on a commercial property.
It’s — it’s a big project.
Had to move some things around.”
“A contract?” A note of worry crept into her voice.
“Are you still doing that tiling work with the master? This story is hosted at g.com.
Don’t overwork yourself.
You know your entrance results will be out soon, and we need to focus on the school registrations.”
“No, Mami, it’s not like before.” His eyes fixed on the Opay icon, and a sudden pressure built in his chest — the urge to just tell her everything, send her three million naira right now and watch the stress drain out of her life.
But he knew her.
Drop that kind of money on her without a visible, legal source and she wouldn’t spend a single kobo of it.
She’d panic that he’d gotten into something illicit.
The Wash had to be running first.
It had to look like a real business — something she could see with her own eyes.
“I’ll be home late tonight, Mami,” he said, keeping his voice steady.
“Just wanted to check on you.
Don’t worry about school fees or rent.
I’ve got it covered.
I promise.”
“God bless you, my son.” The worry didn’t fully leave her voice, but she let it go.
“Be careful on the roads.”
The line went dead.
He lowered the phone slowly, the screen catching a grey smear off his dusty thumb, and stood in the quiet office for a long moment.
Then he looked down at his hands — stained with cement, raw from the system, but stronger than they’d been twenty-four hours ago.
He turned back toward the door.
The sun had started its slow descent, throwing long shadows across the freshly leveled concrete of the bays.
Time Remaining: 28 Hours, 15 Minutes.
Hardware Relocation Critical.
The system was waiting.
Vertex was out there somewhere, recovering from the frequency strike.
He had to finish the floor tonight — because tomorrow, the laptop had to come down from the fourth floor.