Ibe stayed pressed against the wall beside the duty room, his phone hidden inside his trouser pocket, still recording.

From where he stood, he could see the office door through the narrow reflection on a cracked windowpane.

The officer who had collected the cup from him stepped out first, holding the remaining cake and wine inside a black nylon bag.

His eyes moved across the station yard with suspicion.

“Where is Ibe?” the officer whispered.

Another officer came behind him.

“Maybe he has gone to the charge room.”

“Find him,” DPO Charles said from inside the office.

His voice was lower now, but still sharp.

“I don’t like the way he looked at me.

That boy knows too much.”

Ibe closed his eyes for one second.

The dream returned to him in pieces: the smiling faces, the cup in his hand, the burning in his throat, the sudden darkness.

He had woken before dawn with his shirt soaked in sweat, his chest pounding as if he had already escaped death once.

When DPO Charles announced the surprise party that morning, Ibe had tried to convince himself it was only coincidence.

Maybe the dream was just fear.

Maybe the station really wanted to celebrate him because he had recently helped recover stolen goods and refused a bribe from a local trader.

But the moment he saw the wine poured only into his cup and the cake cut specially for him while the others watched without touching anything, the warning became too clear to ignore.

Now his pocket carried proof that the danger was no longer in his dream.

It was wearing police uniforms.

He slipped away quietly, moving past the back of the counter where case files were stacked in dusty piles.

Two civilians sat on a bench outside the charge room, staring at him with curious eyes.

He nodded once, calm enough not to draw attention.

Inside, his heart was moving like a trapped bird.

He reached the small restroom at the end of the corridor and locked the door.

Only then did he pull out his phone.

The recording had captured everything.

DPO Charles saying the food was poisoned without saying the exact words, then saying he was not ready to die.

The officers discussing hired killers.

The plan to make Ibe’s death look like armed robbery.

The order that he must not see the next day.

Ibe listened for only ten seconds before stopping it.

His hands were shaking, but his mind was strangely clear.

He could not report the matter to the same station.

He could not run home openly.

If he left through the front gate, they would know.

If he stayed, night would find him inside their reach.

He opened his contact list and scrolled to a number he had saved months earlier.

ACP Daniel Okoro.

The Assistant Commissioner had once visited the division after a robbery investigation went wrong.

During that visit, Ibe had helped him locate a missing evidence register that others had claimed was lost.

Before leaving, the ACP had handed Ibe his card.

“Young man,” he had said, “the force needs officers who still fear God.

If you ever see something that can destroy lives, don’t carry it alone.”

Ibe had never called the number.

Until now.

He dialed.

It rang