The stench of burning plastic hung heavy over Neo-Ajegunle’s corrugated rooftops. Solar panels clung to rusted zinc sheets like scabs, struggling to soak light from a sky bleached pale by heat haze and drone traffic. Cracked water tanks, graffiti-tagged wind turbines, and makeshift satellite dishes shared roof space with stubborn tomato plants in repurposed paint buckets. In this chaotic tangle of tradition and survival, nothing went to waste.

  Afolabi crouched on the edge of a rooftop garden, hands dirtied with compost, watching the slum breathe beneath him. From this height, the city was a machine running on human resilience. Below, children darted between neon-lit alleyways, chasing an old robotic football that sparked with each kick. One-legged food carts hissed steam as they prepared peppered meats, the scent mingling with diesel, burnt oil, and ozone. The air itself buzzed—not from energy, but from tension.

  The streets pulsed with contradiction. High above the slums, sleek lev-cars zipped silently along magnetic skyways, ferrying executives between glittering high-rise towers. Holographic billboards advertised gene-cleaning clinics and emotion-regulation implants, taunting those below who couldn’t afford a basic purifier. On ground level, women carried buckets of water from communal pumps, heads wrapped in Ankara-printed scarves, while men with prosthetic limbs begged beside 3D-printed shrine sculptures. The buzz of a modified talking drum—a digital version signaling market closings—echoed faintly through alleyways.

  A holographic billboard flickered above the main junction, trying to advertise MoDA’s latest city-wide protection program. The image cut out every few seconds, replaced by static or a digital message in Yoruba: ?l?run ni agbára wa. God is our strength. A spiritual reassurance—or a warning?

  Afolabi’s eyes traced a sleek skystation hovering far above the skyline. That floating district—clean, quiet, reserved for tech elites and dignitaries—felt like a different planet. In Neo-Ajegunle, water still had to be pumped by hand if you couldn't afford solar purifiers. Yet even here, tradition and future crashed together like iron plates. Cybernetically enhanced preachers shouted about ancestral curses near AI-managed recycling hubs. QR-coded prayer beads were sold beside hacked drone batteries. There was magic here—hidden beneath concrete, rust, desperation, and drone shadows.

  A horn blared. Somewhere, a child screamed playfully—or in fear. In Ajegunle, it was hard to tell the difference.

  “Oi! Dreaming again?” Taiwo’s voice crackled irritably through the comm-bead in Afolabi’s ear. “That sweet potato won’t plant itself, genius.”

  Afolabi smirked faintly, pressing the bead. “Some of us survive on real food—not drone-delivered jollof packets.”

  “Rich kid complaints. And by rich kid, I mean less broke than me.” Taiwo paused. “But seriously—stay sharp, okay? If you hear anything about those ‘Divine Portals’ again, ping me. MoDA swept Mushin last night. Left behind... something.”

  Afolabi’s smile faded. He glanced east, where the smog thinned enough to reveal distant plumes of blue fire curling skyward—another “incident.” The government called them spatial anomalies. The streets called them gates to the gods.

  He’d never seen one up close.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Not yet.

  His hand drifted to the rough string around his neck—the only thing his mother left him before she vanished. A carved piece of wood shaped like an ancient mask. Sometimes, when the wind was right, it buzzed faintly against his chest. It was warm now. That warmth always came just before something strange.

  His grip on the mask tightened, and memories surged.

  He was five. Hiding under a market stall, wrapped in his mother’s patterned shawl, heart pounding like a drum. She had taken him to the Oshodi quarter—flooded with prayer chants, coded graffiti, and madmen whispering they'd seen Orunmila’s hand in the sky. There, amidst the noise, he’d glimpsed an old woman with silver eyes who called him by name without speaking.

  “You’re marked,” the woman had mouthed. “You are one of the Children.”

  His mother had pulled him away in panic, muttering prayers, clutching the mask around his neck. That night, smoke filled their house from nowhere. The next morning, she was gone.

  Some days, the mask’s warmth felt like her fingertips brushing his cheek—a ghost refusing to fade.

  It wasn’t just grief. It was guilt. He’d heard his mother’s voice one final time that night—soft, desperate, whispering through smoke: “Run.”

  And he had. He’d run and never looked back.

  Sometimes, he wondered if he'd abandoned her… or if she'd sacrificed herself for him.

  Afolabi frowned, breathing slower. The background noise of Ajegunle—always there, like the slurred heartbeat of a wounded city—felt off. Something had shifted. He felt it deep in his ribs, like the air itself was holding its breath.

  The rooftop shuddered under passing drones. One hovered too low—its camera scanning faces and barcodes—and Afolabi ducked instinctively. Officially, there was no martial law in Ajegunle. Unofficially, anyone could disappear.

  He thought of Kehinde, probably still at the underground shelter-school, helping organize supplies. He thought of Taiwo—his best friend, his brother in everything but blood. They were his anchors. And even they didn’t know about the dreams.

  The dreams of fire, masked warriors, and gates carved into the sky.

  Suddenly, a sound broke through the air. Not a horn. Not a drone. Not human.

  A low, humming pulse. Like a heartbeat beneath the earth.

  Afolabi stood, eyes narrowing. Down below, the street shifted. A black van without plates rolled slowly past food stalls. Its windows too dark, tires too quiet. Men in dull suits and military boots emerged from a side alley, closing in.

  Afolabi froze.

  His pulse matched the hum.

  Traffickers.

  They always came quietly, clean hands, dead eyes. He had seen their raids. Girls vanished. Boys never returned the same. Rumors said they worked with rogue MoDA tech teams—selling à??-infused DNA or black-market bodies.

  He turned to move, but it was too late. The van doors slammed open. One man raised a hand. Streetlights flickered, pulsing unnaturally—as if recognizing something ancient and terrible in him.

  And then—a sound like tearing silk.

  The air beside Afolabi split open in gold spirals.

  Not a portal, he thought. Not here. Not now—

  The rooftop cracked. Gravity twisted. Light swelled behind his eyes.

  He fell through heat and wind and something older than time.

  Into darkness.

  And for one breathless moment, before he vanished completely, the city held its breath with him—machines paused, neon lights dimmed, synthetic drums quieted, even traffic faltered—as if Ajegunle sensed something sacred had just been lost… or awakened.