Kunle adjusted his glasses, the scratched lenses amplifying the faint glow of The Amotekun’s mainframe console. The supercomputer’s hum filled the cavernous lab, a steady, almost hypnotic sound that felt alive. Kunle wasn’t supposed to be here this late. Interns like him weren’t exactly trusted with unsupervised access to the facility’s core systems, but no one had stopped him either. He chalked it up to the usual indifference of his supervisors. They barely noticed him unless something broke.

His task tonight was simple—routine diagnostics on a sub-layer of engram data storage. It was tedious work, requiring patience more than skill, which is probably why it had been dumped on him in the first place. Kunle didn’t mind. He liked the solitude, the soft glow of the monitors, and the predictable hum of the mainframe. Here, the chaos of the outside world seemed far away. The facility’s walls, thick and impenetrable, offered a kind of sanctuary from the messiness of life.

But tonight, something was different. As Kunle typed commands into the console, the system responded sluggishly, as if burdened by some unseen weight. He frowned and leaned closer to the screen. That’s when he saw it: a single line of code, blinking at the bottom of the log like a red flag.

ENGRAM 732-b: MEMORY FILE PARTIALLY RETAINED. AUTHORIZATION LEVEL: REDACTED.

ENGRAM 732-b: MEMORY FILE PARTIALLY RETAINED. AUTHORIZATION LEVEL: REDACTED.

Kunle hesitated. He should report this. That was protocol. Any anomaly, no matter how minor, had to be flagged and escalated. But his hand didn’t move toward the intercom. Instead, it hovered over the keyboard, his curiosity warring with his better judgment. What harm could it do to take a closer look? Just a peek, he told himself.

He typed a command to access the file. The console flickered, the screen momentarily going black before flooding with a cascade of images. Kunle’s breath hitched as he watched the fragments of a life play out in rapid succession: a child’s laughter, a shadowy explosion, trembling hands reaching into darkness. Faces he didn’t recognize flashed before him, their expressions frozen in moments of joy, fear, and despair.

“KuThe images stopped as abruptly as they had begun, leaving Kunle staring at a blank screen. His heart pounded in his chest, his palms slick with sweat. What had he just seen? These weren’t just fragments of code; they were memories—real, vivid, and undeniably human.

The console emitted a low beep, snapping Kunle out of his trance. A new message blinked on the screen:

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. LOGGING INCIDENT.

Panic surged through him. He quickly typed a series of commands to shut down the terminal, his hands trembling. If the system logged his actions, he could be in serious trouble. Worse, if someone found out what he’d seen… He didn’t want to think about the consequences.

Just as he reached for the power switch, a voice cut through the quiet.

nle.”

He spun around, nearly knocking over his chair. Ogundele, his supervisor, stood in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against the sterile light of the corridor. The man’s face was unreadable, but his tone carried an unmistakable edge.

“What are you doing here?” Ogundele stepped into the room, his polished boots clicking against the tile floor. Kunle’s mouth went dry.

“Just… running diagnostics, sir,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand instinctively moved to his pocket, where he’d slipped a data chip moments earlier. It was a reflex, born out of sheer panic. He hadn’t planned to take it, but something in him had compelled him to preserve a piece of what he’d seen.

Ogundele’s eyes flicked to the darkened console, then back to Kunle. He said nothing, but the weight of his gaze was suffocating.

“Diagnostics?” Ogundele repeated, his tone flat. He took another step forward, his presence filling the room. “At this hour?”

“I… I couldn’t sleep,” Kunle lied. “Thought I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s workload.”

Ogundele studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching unbearably. Finally, he nodded toward the console.

“Shut it down and go to your quarters. Now.”

Kunle didn’t need to be told twice. He powered down the terminal, his hands still trembling, and hurried out of the lab. As he passed Ogundele, he felt the man’s eyes on him, cold and unblinking.

Back in his dormitory, Kunle collapsed onto his bed, his mind racing. The data chip burned in his pocket, a tiny, incriminating weight. He pulled it out, turning it over in his fingers. What was he supposed to do now? Reporting it was out of the question. Ogundele’s reaction had made that clear. Whatever this was, it was dangerous. But the more Kunle thought about it, the more he felt a gnawing need to know the truth.

He booted up his personal terminal, the faint hum of the device filling the room. He inserted the chip and waited, his heart pounding. The screen blinked to life, displaying a single line of text:

"To those who find this, beware. They are watching."

Kunle’s breath caught. The words felt like a warning and a challenge all at once. He stared at the screen, torn between fear and curiosity. Then, before he could react, the message disappeared, replaced by a new one:

"Authorization Required. Level REDACTED."

He leaned back, his mind racing. Whatever this was, it was bigger than he’d imagined. And he was in the middle of it now, whether he liked it or not.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Kunle couldn’t sleep, his thoughts consumed by the images, the messages, and Ogundele’s cryptic warning. By morning, he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t let this go. Not yet. Not until he understood what he’d stumbled upon.

When he arrived at the lab the next day, Ogundele was waiting for him. The man’s expression was as unreadable as ever, but his presence spoke volumes. Kunle nodded a silent greeting and moved to his station, his movements deliberately casual. But inside, his resolve was hardening.

He had questions. And he was going to find answers.