Zion knows someone in admin. Of course she does.

So they find themselves in the dusty office of the Faculty Secretary, waiting while Zion chats up the clerk.

Lanre leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Tobi just… stands there. 

Her fingers toy with the edge of her bag where the notes are stacked.

Her mind hums like an overworked engine. 

Zion finally returns, waving a slim folder.

“Here,” she whispers, almost triumphant. 

Tobi takes it.

It smells faintly of old paper and stale air.

She flips through quickly — names typed neatly, numbers, signatures. 

And there it is. 

Oghenemaro Stevens. 

Room 3B. West Hostel. 

Tobi exhales.

It feels too easy. 

The West Hostel is quiet when they get there.

Afternoon sun slants low, painting the corridors in long shadows.

Most of the doors are open — students spilling out, some cooking, some arguing over a football match on someone’s phone. 

But Room 3B is closed. 

Tobi lifts her hand and knocks. 

No answer. 

Lanre steps up beside her and knocks harder.

Still nothing. 

Then — faintly — a voice from next door: 

“You’re looking for Maro?” 

They turn.

A boy with headphones slung around his neck leans against his doorframe. 

Tobi swallows.

“Yes. Do you know where he is?” 

The boy shrugs.

“Haven’t seen him since… maybe two, three weeks ago? He moved out. Said he needed space to ‘focus.’” 

“Do you know where he went?” Lanre asks. 

Another shrug.

“Nope. Didn’t leave a number. He’s… strange like that.” 

The boy eyes them for a moment longer, then shuts his door. 

Back outside, they stand in silence. 

Zion chews her lip.

“Well. That’s… dead end-ish.” 

Tobi shakes her head.

“Not yet.” 

She pulls out her phone and opens her messages app.

Searches the name: Maro. 

Nothing. 

She tries her email.

Nothing. 

Her hands start to sweat. 

Lanre watches her.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” he says. 

“That he doesn’t exist,” Tobi whispers. 

But then Zion pulls something from her tote. 

The seminar group photo.

She holds it up, jabs her finger at a figure in the back row — blurred but visible. 

Hoodie. 

Head down. 

But there. 

“That’s him,” she says.

“I swear it is. We didn’t just make him up.” 

Tobi stares at the photo, her throat dry.

Because she can’t remember the day it was taken.

But she remembers the hoodie.

And the way he stood — just like that. 

Like a shadow. 

Zion slips the photo back into her bag.

Her voice is low.

“We just have to look harder.” 

Lanre mutters something under his breath.

But Tobi isn’t listening. 

Her phone buzzes in her hand. 

Unknown number. 

One new message. 

Her stomach flips as she opens it. 

One sentence. 

One more neat, black-lettered line. 

You’re almost here. Don’t stop now. 

She feels Zion and Lanre watching her.

But she can’t speak. 

Because for the first time, she realizes — 

Whoever’s leaving the notes… 

Is always one step ahead.