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WHY I DENY MY HUSBAND S&X❤️ FOR SIX MONTHS AND ALSO TURN HIM TO GBEWUDANI OKUNRIN😏? Episode 1 – Is S&x Food? My na...
11/26/2025

WHY I DENY MY HUSBAND S&X❤️ FOR SIX MONTHS AND ALSO TURN HIM TO GBEWUDANI OKUNRIN😏?
Episode 1 – Is S&x Food?
My name is Ronke. People in my area used to envy me. They always said I was lucky to have a husband like Tunde. Tall, dark, fine bobo, with a smile that could melt a woman’s anger in seconds. When I married him, I felt like a queen. Women would whisper, “See Ronke’s husband, correct man.”

But as time went on, I discovered something: marriage is not just about looks or smile. After two years together, I started to feel drained. Tunde was a good man, yes, but he had one wahala—every night, all he wanted was to enter my toto.

The routine was the same. He’d come home, eat, bathe, then start giving me those coded eyes 😏. If he tried to touch me and I pulled away, he would k!ss my neck, rub my laps, and whisper, “Ronke, you know I can’t do without you. You are my wife. Let me enter your toto.”

At first, it made me feel wanted. I thought maybe I was so beautiful and special that my husband couldn’t resist me. But as weeks turned into months, I started to see it differently. It looked like Tunde never cared about deep conversations—no talks about our future, our finances, or our personal growth. His own priority was S&x.

One night, after a long and stressful day, he touched me again. My body just vexed. I turned sharply and shouted, “Tunde! Enough! Must you always wan enter my toto? Is S&x food? Am I cooking pot that you must open toto every night? Can’t you just respect me?”

He froze, shocked. His hand dropped. He stared at me like a boy who just lost his toy. “Ronke… why are you talking like this?” he asked quietly.

But my mind was already hardened. From that night, I began denying him. One week passed, then two, then three. Before I knew it, six months had gone. Anytime he wanted to enter my toto, I would roll away on the bed, complain of headache, or pretend I was sleeping.

At first, he tried to beg. He would buy me gifts, pamper me, even kneel and say, “Ronke, please, don’t punish me like this.” But my heart was strong. I thought I was teaching him a lesson.

Soon, I noticed his mood was changing. He became quiet, withdrawn, and he started staying out late. Sometimes when he returned, his shirt carried the smell of perfume that wasn’t mine. 😒

That was when fear entered my heart. “So, this man wants to Che@t?” I thought. “After denying him, he now wants to disgrace me outside?” My anger and jealousy grew. I didn’t want to lose him, but I also didn’t want to surrender myself easily.

Confused, I went to my closest friend, Dupe. She was the kind of friend you can tell anything. One Saturday, we sat under the mango tree in her compound as I poured my heart out.

“Dupe,” I whispered, “this man wants to start misbehaving. Just because I deny him, he is now looking outside. I cannot take it.”

Dupe leaned closer and laughed, “My sister, you are too soft. There is solution. If you don’t want him to Che@t, you can tie him. I know one old woman in Sango. Once she works on him, he will become gbewudani okunrin. He won’t be able to raise his soldier for any woman outside.”

I blinked. “You mean she can make him unable to enter another woman’s toto?”

“Yes!” Dupe said firmly. “He will still be your husband, but outside? Zero. He won’t even have the strength. You will be in full control.”

My mind raced. Part of me felt guilty, but another part felt relieved. I didn’t want him to Che@t on me. I wanted to protect my marriage—even if it meant using charm.

That evening, I followed Dupe to Sango. The elderly woman she took me to had tribal marks and a voice like rusted iron. After listening to my story, she burst into laughter.

“Daughter, you are wise,” she said. “Men are goats. If you don’t tie them, they will graze in another woman’s farm. Don’t worry, I will help you.”

She gave me a small calabash with black powder and some cowries tied together with red cloth. She instructed me:

“Sprinkle this powder on his bathing soap. Put these cowries under your bed for three nights. By the fourth day, his soldier will bow like a weak bamboo. He will not rise for any strange woman. He will depend on you alone.”

As I carried the calabash home, my heart was heavy. Was I really about to turn my husband into gbewudani okunrin? Was this love or fear? But when I remembered the strange perfume on his shirt, I said to myself, “Better impotent than Che@ting.”

That night, I lay beside him as he snored peacefully. I stared at him and whispered in my heart, “Tunde, forgive me. You will still be mine, but only on my terms.”

And so, the journey began…

Question for you:
Do you think Ronke was right to take such a step? 🤔
If you were in her shoes, would you deny or use charm on your husband?
Find out in Episode 2 here right Now below👇:
https://storytera.com/stories/32/episodes/3202 📺
Episode 3 is also here:
https://storytera.com/stories/32/episodes/3203 📺

Kindly like👍, share✔️ and comment✏️ your own view to this story🙏.
❤️‍🔥If you copy🚫 my story and paste⚠️ it on your own page, remember I sabi how to find and rèpørt⛔️ your pàge🤗.

NOTE TO READERS:
Read episode 2 to 3 in the comment section.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera.
Note: This is 100% Fictional, and not having resemblance to any true events or characters.

Why would someone K!ll to hìde the truth about a DNA mix-up?Episode 1: The Wrong DNA Result That Destroyed My Mother’s B...
11/25/2025

Why would someone K!ll to hìde the truth about a DNA mix-up?
Episode 1: The Wrong DNA Result That Destroyed My Mother’s Burial.
I still remember the smell of dust that morning. It was the same day we buried my mother, the same day my life scattered like broken glass. I am Chinedu, a 27-year-old graphics designer who grew up believing my late father, Mr. Okafor, was my biological dad. I never questioned anything—why would I? My family looked normal from the outside. But behind the walls of our small home, secrets were boiling like hot oil.

My mother had been sick for months. She kept saying, “Nedu, no matter what happens, always look for the truth. Even truth that pains is better than a lie that comforts.” I never understood her until the day she gave me an envelope.

Inside the envelope was a DNA paternity test report that didn’t match my father. I thought maybe it was a mistake. My mother couldn’t speak well again, but she squeezed my hand like she was trying to pass strength through her veins into mine. She whispered, “I’m sorry, my son. I wanted to tell you earlier… but I was scared.”

That was the last sentence she ever said to me.

At first, I ignored the report because I felt she was confused from all the medication. But the DNA paper haunted me every night. After her burial, I finally read it properly. It said Mr. Okafor was not my biological father. My head started spinning. How can I explain this to anyone? How do I even process it?

During the burial reception, some relatives gathered outside and started whispering, “We heard there was a DNA something… are you sure Chinedu is even Okafor’s child?” Nobody knew I was hearing them. My mother’s sister, Aunty Ebele, kept glancing at me like she was hiding something. My uncle from my father’s side also looked uncomfortable.

Everything felt wrong.

Later that evening, I found another letter hidden in my mother’s Bible. The handwriting was shaky. She wrote that she once did another DNA test years ago, but she suspected the result was a mix-up. She didn’t trust the lab. She said she planned to repeat the test but fear and shame held her back.

I felt a strange heaviness on my chest. A lab mix-up? How can a place that handles people’s identity and peace of mind make such a mistake? The thought made my skin crawl.

That night, while others were mourning, I quietly went to my late mother’s room to search for more clues. There I found an old receipt from the same DNA laboratory. The address printed on it made me shiver—because I recognized the name. That lab had once been in the news for a lost sample scandal.

My heart pounded in my throat.

I decided to confirm things for myself, so the next morning I went to the lab. The building looked old, almost abandoned. Paint was peeling from the walls. The receptionist didn’t even smile. She just asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I replied, “but I need to speak with whoever was in charge of records from years ago.”

The woman gave me a strange look and called someone inside. A man in a lab coat came out. His eyes were red like he hadn’t slept for days. When I mentioned my mother’s name and the year she ran the test, I saw his face change immediately. He asked me to follow him to his office.

Inside, he locked the door quietly.

“What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room,” he said.

The way he whispered those words made goosebumps rise all over my body. He confessed that many years ago, the lab had a technician who was later fired for mishandling multiple DNA samples. Those cases were never made public to avoid “panic,” according to him. He revealed something even scarier—he believed some results were wrongly swapped.

I felt like my bones were melting. So, my mother’s suspicion was true.

He handed me a dusty file. “Your mother came back months later to ask if her sample was affected. We couldn’t confirm because the technician had already been dismissed.”

My heartbeat became louder than my breathing.

“So you’re saying my whole identity may be a mistake?” I asked him.

“There is a chance,” he replied quietly.

I didn’t know when tears slipped down my face. My chest tightened like something was squeezing my heart. I asked if there was any way to trace the original sample, but he shook his head.

“You may have to start searching from the beginning.”

As I stood up to leave, he called me back.

“Your mother said something before she left the last time she visited. She said: ‘If the truth comes out when I’m gone, tell my son to look for the man who used to visit me in secret.’”

My head snapped up.

“What man?”

He sighed and wrote down a name on a small paper.

When I opened it, my hand trembled. The name was someone I had heard once as a child—a man my mother called “an old friend.” His name: Mr. Chukwuemeka.

But the scariest part?

The lab technician said he had not seen that man for years now. He said people said the man left suddenly, like he was running from something.

As I walked out of the lab, I felt like the ground was shaking beneath me. Why did my mother hide all this? Who was this man? Was he my real father? Or was the truth even darker?

Something told me the answer wasn’t going to be simple. And when I reached home, I found a letter slipped under my door.

There was no name on it.

Inside, someone wrote just one sentence:

Stop searching for the truth if you love your life.

My hands went cold instantly.

Who wrote it?
Why didn’t they want me to continue?
What exactly was my mother hiding?
Who left the warning letter at Chinedu’s door?
Is this mysterious man truly his real father, or is there a darker secret behind his mother’s past?
Why would someone K!ll to hide the truth about a DNA mix-up?
Read episode 2 and 3 in the comment section below👇
Kindly like👍, share✔️ and comment✏️ your own view to this story🙏.
❤️‍🔥If you copy🚫 my story and paste⚠️ it on your own page, remember I sabi how to find and rèpørt⛔️ your pàge🤗.

NOTE TO READERS:
Read episode 2 to 3 in the comment section.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera.
Note: This is 100% Fictional, and not having resemblance to any true events or characters.

11/24/2025

I feel like someone should please borrow me or dash me money to complete it🙏.
My wish before 2025 ends is to:
• Floor it
• Do Buglary windows and door

My name is Amarachi, and for years I believed my husband, Chike, was the kind of man every woman prayed for. Calm. Carin...
11/24/2025

My name is Amarachi, and for years I believed my husband, Chike, was the kind of man every woman prayed for. Calm. Caring. God-fearing. The type of man that would drop me at work every morning and remind me to pray before I slept. We lived in a quiet estate on the outskirts of a well-known Nigerian city. I never imagined danger could hide inside my own home.

Inside Room 404: Searching for My Husband’s Ritual Altar
Episode 1: The Night I Discovered My Husband’s Hidden Door

The first strange thing happened on a Thursday night.

Chike returned home unusually late. Not because of traffic or work—those ones were normal—but because he came in smelling of something I couldn’t place. Not perfume. Not ci******es. Not alcohol. It smelled like a mixture of burnt herbs and something metallic, almost like rusty iron. When he held me, his hands were cold.

“Babe, you’re okay?” I asked.

He forced a smile. “Just tired.”

But his eyes were red, and he kept avoiding my gaze. I brushed it off. People get stressed. People get tired. Marriage teaches you to ignore small things so that peace can stay.

But that night, I couldn’t sleep.

Around 2:17 am, I heard the sound. A soft dragging noise coming from the corridor. Like someone shifting a wooden plank. I thought it was the wind until I heard footsteps. Slow, careful… sneaking footsteps.

I tapped the bed beside me, but Chike wasn’t there.

My heart started beating fast. I stepped out of bed and tiptoed toward the sound. The corridor light was off, but the faint glow of the moon slipping through our window gave me enough vision.

That was when I noticed something I had never seen in the three years we lived there.

A small crack in the wall panel. A thin line of light leaking from behind it.

It wasn’t there before.

The sound stopped instantly, as if whoever was inside had sensed my presence. I held my breath. Then, slowly, the crack closed—as if the wall itself sealed shut.

I touched the surface.

Just smooth paint. Nothing more.

I rushed back into the bedroom before Chike would catch me outside. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opened and he walked out, pretending to yawn like someone truly just woke up.

“Amara, why you dey awake?”

But I had clearly seen that he wasn’t in the bathroom minutes ago.

“Nothing,” I lied. “Nightmare.”

He nodded slowly, watching me the way someone watches a witness they didn’t want to talk. Then he climbed into bed. I pretended to sleep. But around 3:01 am, he quietly stood up again.

This time, I followed him—but from a distance.

He walked toward the corridor wall. Placed his palm on a particular spot. And just like something out of a horror movie, the wall parted open, revealing a narrow dark space behind it. A secret door that blended perfectly with the paint.

I covered my mouth with both hands.

He slipped inside and the wall closed behind him.

I wanted to scream but no sound came out. My husband—my calm, gentle, prayerful Chike—had a hidden room inside our house.

And I had no idea what he kept there.

The following morning, he was cheerful, making breakfast as if nothing happened. He acted normal. Too normal. But I could no longer see him as my husband. I saw him as something else. Someone else.

By afternoon, my curiosity was fighting with my fear. What was inside that hidden room? Why did he sneak in at night? Why did he lock it with a wall door instead of a key?

I began watching him carefully, and that was when I noticed patterns I had ignored for too long.

He hated mirrors.
He always washed his hands the moment he returned home—even if he didn’t touch anything.
He kept a small red pouch in his car that he never let me touch.
And every Friday night, he disappeared for “prayer fellowship” that had no name.

But the moment everything became worse was when I found the drawing.

It happened two weeks later.

I was cleaning the bedroom when I bent to pick something under the bed. My fingers touched paper. I pulled it out—and my blood ran cold.

It was a hand-drawn symbol. Black charcoal mixed with palm oil. A crooked circle with a horned shape in the middle. Under it was written:

Room 404
Do Not Enter
Blood Is Owed

My hands started shaking so badly that I dropped the paper.

Room 404? Inside my own house? A room that didn’t exist on the estate plan?

Immediately, I heard the main door open.

Chike was back earlier than usual.

I kicked the drawing under the bed and pretended to be folding clothes. But he entered the room straight and grabbed my wrist.

“Amara, you touch anything under this bed?”

His voice didn’t sound like him. It was deeper. Rough. Dangerous.

“Nothing,” I whispered.

He watched my eyes for a while. Then slowly released my hand.

“Good. Just be careful. Some things are not for you.”

That night, I didn’t sleep at all. I waited until I heard him snoring, then I sneaked into the corridor again. This time, I armed myself with courage and my phone’s flashlight.

I pressed my palm on the spot he touched.

Nothing happened.

Maybe there was a code. Or a pattern. I tried pressing harder.

Still nothing.

But as I turned to go back, I noticed something odd. A tiny black stain on the floor next to the wall.

I crouched down and touched it.

Sticky. Dark. Thick.

It wasn’t paint. It wasn’t oil.

It was blood.

I jumped back instantly.

That same moment, something inside the wall moved. Not loudly. Not violently. Just a soft shift—like someone dragging their hand across the other side.

I froze.

Then a whisper escaped from behind the wall.

Amara…
Leave here.

I ran.

I ran so fast I almost fell. I burst back into the bedroom, locked the door, and covered myself with the duvet even though it didn’t protect me from anything.

But I knew one thing for sure:

Whatever my husband kept inside Room 404 wasn’t ordinary.
Whatever voice whispered my name wasn’t human.
And whatever ritual he was part of… I was already involved without my consent.

I stared at Chike as he slept peacefully beside me, not knowing that his lies were tearing my sanity apart.

I knew I must find that altar.
I must know what he hides.
I must uncover every secret behind Room 404.

But what if discovering the truth becomes the last mistake I ever make?
Have you ever lived with someone you thought you knew—only to realize you were sleeping beside a stranger?
If you were in my shoes, would you open the hidden door… or run before dawn?
Read episode 2 and 3 in the comment section below👇
Kindly like👍, share✔️ and comment✏️ your own view to this story🙏.
❤️‍🔥If you copy🚫 my story and paste⚠️ it on your own page, remember I sabi how to find and rèpørt⛔️ your pàge🤗.

NOTE TO READERS:
Read episode 2 to 3 in the comment section.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera.
Note: This is 100% Fictional, and not having resemblance to any true events or characters.

True Story: The Nurse Who Sold Babies for Money 👶💔Episode 1: The Beginning of A Dangerous Love Story in Lagos 🌃My name i...
11/23/2025

True Story: The Nurse Who Sold Babies for Money 👶💔
Episode 1: The Beginning of A Dangerous Love Story in Lagos 🌃
My name is Kemi, and I will never forget the story of a woman I once admired, but who later shocked everyone with her dark secrets. She was a nurse, a beautiful, tall Yoruba woman with a heart-shaped face and a smile that could melt even the hardest soul. Her name was Nurse Funke.

Everyone in the area respected her because she worked at a private clinic not too far from our street in Lagos. Mothers trusted her, families adored her, and single men admired her curves and confidence. If you saw her, you would never believe that behind her polished look and expensive perfume was a hidden world of lies and betrayal.

But what made her story even more shocking was that her journey into this dark life started with love—love for a man who destroyed her.

Funke grew up in Mushin with her widowed mother. Life was never easy. Her mother sold pap and akara by the roadside just to send her to school. Funke always said she wanted to become a nurse because she loved helping people. And true to her dream, she struggled through nursing school until she finally got her certificate. That was the beginning of her new life, the life where she was finally earning money and getting attention.

One evening, at a friend’s birthday party, Funke met Segun. He was tall, muscular, and had a soft voice that could make any woman’s heart race. Segun was a businessman who claimed he imported goods from Dubai. In truth, nobody really knew what his “business” was, but he always had money to throw around.

That night, Segun walked up to Funke and said, “You look too fine to be standing alone.” His words were smooth like honey, and before long, they started talking. One thing led to another, and soon, Funke found herself falling for him.

Segun was different from all the men Funke had met. He was bold, caring in his own way, and he knew how to make her laugh. Their relationship became serious quickly. Within a few months, Segun moved into Funke’s small apartment.

At first, things were sweet. Segun spoiled her with gifts—new phones, designer bags, expensive lace. For a young nurse who had struggled all her life, it felt like heaven. But gradually, Funke noticed that Segun was always pressuring her about money.

One night, as they S!ept side by side, Segun whispered, “Funke, you dey work for hospital. You fit help me now. Babies dey plenty, but some rich couples dey find pikin wey no be theirs. If you fit connect me, we go cash out big.”

Funke was shocked. “Ah! Segun, you dey craze? Sell baby? God forbid!”

But Segun didn’t stop. He began to twist her mind. He told her stories of couples abroad who paid millions just to adopt children. He promised her that nobody would know, that it was just helping childless couples while making money.

At first, Funke resisted. She swore she could never be part of such evil. But things changed when Segun began to withdraw his love. He started coming home late, ignoring her calls, and making her feel less important. Funke, desperate not to lose him, gave in.

The first baby she helped Segun “arrange” was from a young girl who had been abandoned by her boyfriend. The girl was scared, crying, and couldn’t face her parents. Funke calmed her down at the clinic, and instead of reporting the case, she called Segun. Within two days, the baby was gone, and Segun handed Funke an envelope with N250,000.

Funke’s hands shook as she opened the money. That single moment changed everything. The money was more than her three months’ salary combined. She told herself it was just a one-time thing. But it didn’t stop there.

Soon, Segun began bringing clients—rich women from Ikeja, couples who lived abroad, even church members who had prayed for children for years. Funke became the key to their “blessings.” The more she did it, the deeper she sank into the game.

But while she was making money and enjoying Segun’s love, she didn’t know that her choices were slowly building the trap that would one day destroy her.

One evening, after she had just completed another transaction, she sat alone in her room staring at the ceiling. Her heart was heavy. She asked herself, “Kemi, if my mama knew I was doing this, would she still be proud of me?” Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she quickly wiped them.
Segun walked in with drinks and said, “Babe, stop thinking too much. We are building a future. One day, we go travel out, buy mansion, ride Benz. Just trust me.”
Funke forced a smile, but deep down, she felt uneasy. She didn’t know that her love for Segun was dragging her into a pit she might never escape.
And so, the story of Nurse Funke—the woman who started selling babies for money—began with love, desperation, and greed.
But love built on lies always has a bitter end.
❓What happens when one of the babies goes missing and questions start flying?
❓Will Segun stand by Funke, or will he betray her?
❓Can love survive when it is built on money and secrets?
Read episode 2 and 3 in the comment section below👇
Kindly like👍, share✔️ and comment✏️ your own view to this story🙏.
❤️‍🔥If you copy🚫 my story and paste⚠️ it on your own page, remember I sabi how to find and rèpørt⛔️ your pàge🤗.

NOTE TO READERS:
Read episode 2 to 3 in the comment section.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera.
Note: This is 100% Fictional, and not having resemblance to any true events or characters.

11/22/2025

I will Fear no evil, for thou at with me. Psalm 23 vs?

My name is Tunde Ajayi, a 26-year-old investigative content creator. I loved chasing stories nobody else wanted to touch...
11/22/2025

My name is Tunde Ajayi, a 26-year-old investigative content creator. I loved chasing stories nobody else wanted to touch, especially stories that could destroy the illusion of the so-called elites. But when I stumbled on the anonymous message that changed my life, even I knew I was crossing a line.
Let me start narrating my story🤷‍♂️
The Banana Island Oracle: My Hunt for the Billionaire’s Blood Pact
Episode 1 – The Forbidden Mansion of the Billionaire Oracle
I never believed fear had weight until the night I stepped into the mansion of Chief Adefolarin—the man everyone whispered about but no one ever confronted. Some people called him a billionaire philanthropist. Others called him something darker—The Oracle of Banana Island. They said he was a man who never aged, a man whose wealth multiplied every year while his enemies disappeared one by one.

My name is Tunde Ajayi once again, a 26-year-old investigative content creator. I loved chasing stories nobody else wanted to touch, especially stories that could destroy the illusion of the so-called elites. But when I stumbled on the anonymous message that changed my life, even I knew I was crossing a line.

The message came at 12:16 a.m.:
“If you want to know the secret behind Chief Adefolarin’s wealth, come to Ilasan bus stop tomorrow night. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t come with your phone.”

The message had no ID, no profile picture, no traceable information. Normally, I would ignore such cryptic notes. But this one carried something that hooked me: a short video clip showing Chief Adefolarin entering a black room filled with strange carvings. At the center of the room was a bowl—filled with something that looked like red liquid.

Blood. Or something pretending to be blood.

That was when my curiosity overpowered my fear.

The next night, I arrived at Ilasan like someone going for a job interview with death. The place was quiet. Too quiet. Suddenly, a slim woman in a long brown veil stepped beside me like she grew out of the shadows.

“You’re late,” she said.

I had never seen her before. Her voice didn’t sound normal. It sounded like someone speaking from both her throat and her chest at the same time.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“A messenger,” she answered. “If you truly want to expose the truth about the billionaire, follow me. But once you enter, you cannot turn back.”

A cold breeze brushed my neck. Something in me screamed RUN. But something else—maybe pride—forced my legs to follow her.

She led me through a narrow hidden path behind a row of uncompleted buildings. At the end of the path was a black gate that didn’t look like it belonged there. It was carved with strange symbols that twisted when I blinked. My heartbeat doubled.

“How do you even know this place?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she placed her palm on the gate. It opened silently, as if the hinges were afraid to make noise.

On the other side of the gate was a large mansion buried deep inside the thick bush. It was nothing like the fancy homes on Banana Island. This one looked ancient—like it had been built long before Nigeria was even created.

“This is Chief Adefolarin’s real house,” the messenger whispered. “The mansion he shows to the public is just a distraction.”

My mouth went dry.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

“To witness something,” she replied. “To understand the truth you think you want to expose.”

We walked into a long hallway lit with red lanterns. Each lantern contained a small fire that didn’t behave like normal flame. It flickered in strange patterns, almost like it was breathing.

At the end of the hallway, I heard voices—low, deep, chanting voices.

Suddenly, the messenger stopped.

“You must enter alone,” she said.

“I thought you brought me here.”

“My work ends at the door. Your journey begins inside.”

I wanted to argue, but the door before me opened on its own. A cold wind rushed out like something inside was exhaling after holding its breath for centuries.

I stepped inside.

The room was shaped like a circle. Candles lined the walls, forming symbols I could not understand. At the center of the room stood a large wooden table. On the table was a metallic bowl filled with thick red liquid. Beside the bowl stood a man in a wine-colored robe—Chief Adefolarin.

My stomach dropped.

He turned slowly.

“Tunde Ajayi,” he said calmly. “I’ve been expecting you.”

My heart froze. How did he know my name? How did he know I was coming?

“Sir… I didn’t come here to—”

“Expose me?” he said, smiling. “Of course you did. Curiosity is a wonderful poison.”

I swallowed hard. “Is it true? What they say about you? About the blood pact?”

His smile widened, but his eyes remained cold.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Why do you think some men rise while others remain average? Do you think success is random? Do you think wealth is innocent?”

I felt sweat crawling down my back.

“I don’t understand,” I muttered.

“Then listen carefully,” he said. “Everything in this world comes with a price. Some pay with time. Some pay with talent. But the greatest men pay with something deeper. Something you cannot comprehend.”

He dipped his finger into the bowl of red liquid and lifted it. The substance dripped slowly.

“This is the foundation of my empire,” he said.

I stepped back instinctively.

He laughed.

“You fear what you do not understand,” he said. “But you came here seeking the truth. Let me show you the truth.”

Before I could react, he raised his hand—and the door behind me slammed shut with a loud bang.

The candles brightened. The room shook. Something started crawling across the floor—something I couldn’t fully see. It looked like a shadow, but shadows don’t move on their own.

Chief Adefolarin spoke again, his voice deeper than before.

“There are only two kinds of people,” he said. “Those who run from destiny and those who walk into it.”

His eyes turned darker. Almost black.

“Tonight, you will decide which one you are.”

My breath stopped. The shadow-creature crept toward me, its shape slowly forming into something like a human with no face. My knees shook. My lungs tightened. My instincts screamed for escape, but the door was sealed.

The last thing I heard before the room went completely dark was Chief Adefolarin’s voice:

“If you leave this place alive, you will never be the same.”

Then the shadow touched my leg.
And everything went silent.
Who was the faceless shadow that touched me in the dark room?
What exactly is the billionaire’s “blood pact,” and why was I chosen to witness it?
Is the messenger truly on my side—or part of the Oracle’s plan?

Read episode 2 and 3 in the comment section below👇

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