Game Master ⚔

Kante sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, staring down at the old man kneeling before him. The man trembled, his frail body shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.

He was drenched in his own blood, his white hair stained crimson. A gaping wound marred his scalp where chunks of hair had been violently ripped out. His upper lip had been sliced, and a jagged scar ran across his face, dangerously close to one of his swollen, bloodshot eyes. He shouldn't have been able to speak—by all logic, he should have been dead by now.

Yet, here he was, alive and begging.

"Please, sir, don't kill me."

The old man whimpered, his voice shaky, hands clasped together in a desperate plea.

"Please, I'll do anything. Anything…"

Kante remained unmoved, his cold gaze betraying no hint of emotion. He appeared every bit the merciless killer he was rumored to be, his face devoid of pity or remorse. His voice was as icy as the Arctic winds.

"Your time hasn't come yet."

He said, his words slicing through the air like a knife.

"I still have several jobs for you."

They were still in the man's house in the outskirt of the city, and are in his private libray. Books lined the shelves, but their musty knowledge was of no use to the broken figure on the floor. The old man had seen hell—and Kante had been the one to show it to him. Kante had dragged him to the edge of death and back, tormenting him relentlessly. But despite the abuse, despite the agony that left him clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, the man was still breathing.

Barely.

Kante gestured to the chair opposite him, his hand moving with the same calm precision with which he'd inflicted pain.

"Sit down,"

He ordered. "I have something for you to do."

The old man scrambled to obey, his limbs quivering as he sat, haunted by the memory of the previous day—the day this monster had first entered his home. He had quickly learned that resistance was futile. Defiance only invited more suffering.

Once the man was seated, Kante reached into the drawer of the table before him and slid a phone across to him.

"I assume that belongs to you,"

Kante said, his voice casual, as though they were discussing the weather.

The old man nodded, too afraid to speak.

"I've done my own research,"

Kante continued, his tone dropping to a darker, more dangerous register.

"But I still want to hear it from you. How big is the company you work for? How strong are your people?"

The old man's breath hitched. He shook his head violently, panic overtaking him.

"No, no, no! I'm just a solo surgeon. I don't work for anyone!"

Kante's hand moved swiftly, the flick of his wrist almost imperceptible. The sound came first—a sharp hiss cutting through the silence. Then the pain followed, blinding and searing. The old man screamed as he tumbled from his chair, clutching at his cheek where a fresh wound now bled freely.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!"

He shrieked, barely able to control his shaking.

"I... I work for an organ trafficking ring. Please! That's the truth!"

Kante leaned back, watching the man writhe in agony, his expression one of mild disinterest. He slowly coiled his whip, the almost invisible weapon now slick with fresh blood.

"Get back up,"

Kante said calmly, as though the man's agony was of no consequence.

"And tell me everything you know. You've learned not to waste my time."

With great effort, the old man pushed himself back into the chair, his breath labored, his bloodied face twitching in pain. He started to speak, his lips trembling with fear.

"I... I'm part of an organ trafficking ring. The company isn't that big, but we have powerful people behind us—people who supply us with resources and protection. I was one of the founders… I know how we started, how we got connected to these people—"

"I didn't ask for a history lesson,"

Kante interrupted, his voice sharp and menacing.

"Just tell me—how large is your company, and how strong are your men?"

The old man gulped, struggling to compose himself.

"We're large enough to take over the two biggest companies in Lagos City. Our men... they're strong enough to take down an entire convoy of elite police officers, even the best cops in the city. But without the people backing us, we'd be nothing."

Kante's lips curled into a sinister smile.

"Good to know. And how much does your company value this Connect you're looking for?"

The old man's eyes widened in shock. His mind raced—how did this heartless young man know about the Connect? He thought about asking but quickly decided against it. He simply answered,

"A vault of gold. He's our link to breaking into the next level."

Kante's smile widened, a chilling sight.

"A vault of gold, huh? Well, what if I told you the cops will be taking that vault of gold to their headquarters in just a few hours?"

The old man's face contorted in confusion.

"The... the cops? How do they know about him?"

Kante leaned forward, reaching into the drawer again. This time, he pulled out a large printed photograph and spread it on the table.

"They don't know he's a Connect."

He explained, tapping the picture with his finger.

"But they do suspect him of being Snowflake."

The old man's eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"Snowflake? The cold-blooded killer? That makes no sense! How could they confuse him with Snowflake? He's innocent!"

"Doesn't matter," Kante said, his cold smile returning. "Here's where you come in. And I suggest you don't screw this up."

The man nodded, still trying to piece together what Kante was planning.

Kante gestured to the phone.

"Pick it up. Call whoever's in charge of your little operation. Manager, boss, I don't care who. You're going to tell them exactly what I told you about the Connect."

The old man hesitated, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the phone. His mind screamed to ask why—to demand what Kante's intentions were—but he didn't dare. He knew better than to question this man's motives.

He dialed the number and pressed the phone to his ear. It rang for what felt like an eternity before a deep voice answered on the other end.

"Yes, old man?"

The voice growled.

"I told you not to call me unless you had something new."

The old man glanced nervously at Kante, who nodded, urging him to speak.

"It's about the Connect,"

The man said, his voice steady despite the fear boiling inside him.

"The cops... they suspect him of being Snowflake. They're looking for him."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Are you sure?" The deep voice finally asked. "What's his connection to Snowflake?"

"I don't know,"

The old man replied, his voice more confident than he felt.

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is that they've already arrested him and are transporting him to headquarters right now."

The voice on the other end cursed.

"How the hell did they get him? We couldn't even find him with all our connections."

The old man glanced again at Kante, who gave him a subtle smile, enjoying every moment of the conversation.

"This is our chance," The old man continued, his voice stronger now. "A whole convoy of elite cops is guarding him on the way to the headquarters. I'm sure they'll avoid the highway to keep things quiet. You know what to do."

He hung up the call without waiting for a reply, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel Kante's eyes on him, appraising, judging.

Kante chuckled softly.

"Not bad. You did well,"

He said, giving a slow, mocking clap. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he added.

"Now get up and eat something. It wouldn't do for you to starve to death before your work is finished."

The old man didn't need to be told twice.