Chapter 2 - The Stranger in the RoomThe rain drummed a relentless, frantic beat against the corrugated iron roof of my tiny, single-room shelter behind the mechanic’s workshop in Enugu.
Inside, the air smelled damp, mixed with the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and cotton wool.
On my narrow wooden cot, the man I had pulled from the highway ditch stirred, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to sit up. A low groan of pain slipped past his cracked lips, and his right hand flew instinctively to his heavily bandaged temple.
“Easy,” I whispered, stepping forward with a cup of warm water and a small tablet. “Don’t force it. You’ve got a severe concussion and bruised ribs.”
He blinked through the darkness, his dark eyes adjusting to the dim light of the single kerosene lamp. For a moment, confusion rippled across his face—a terrifying blankness where his memories used to live.
“Where... where am I?” he asked, his voice rough and deep, carrying an unmistakable ring of natural authority despite his battered state.
“You’re safe,” I replied gently, holding the cup to his lips so he could take a few slow sips. “I found you by the highway past Ozalla. Someone left you for dead.”
He stared at me, his gaze scanning my simple wrapper, the bare concrete walls, and the single suitcase sitting by the door. A shadow of guilt crossed his face.
“You spent your own money on me, didn't you?” he murmured. “I saw the clinic bills. You gave them everything.”
I offered a small, tired smile. “You were bleeding out on the asphalt. Money comes and goes; life doesn't. My name is Amara.”
The stranger looked down at his bruised hands, clenching them into fists. “Amara... I know my name starts with a C. But everything else... it’s fog. Flashing headlights, shattering glass, and a voice saying, ‘Make sure he never reaches the board meeting.’”
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I froze, the cup halting in my hands. A board meeting.
This wasn't just a random hit-and-run victim. This man had been hunted.
