Omen Collective

The excitement from the System's rewards still pulsed through Ebilade, his mind alive with possibilities. He strode across his apartment, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his phone as he dialed Cyrus Blackwell's number. As the dial tone buzzed in his ear, his expression softened into something thoughtful, yet edged with determination. He imagined the organization he would build—the people he'd need, the loyalty he'd command.

A firm voice came through the line, crisp and clear. "Mr. Ebilade," Cyrus greeted, his tone both respectful and professional.

"Blackwell," Ebilade responded smoothly, a hint of the satisfaction he felt slipping into his voice. "I need you here. It's time we discuss a new... direction."

There was a brief pause, then the steady reply, "On my way, sir."