DÉJÀ VU - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

The screen was blurry at first, but as the video played, everything became clear—too clear.
It was Xanai, standing at the edge of a dark street, her face pale under the streetlights. She looked shaken, terrified. Her hands were trembling, barely holding onto something—wait, no—someone. There was a man next to her, some unknown figure in a hoodie, dragging her toward a car parked on the side of the road.
My blood froze. Who the fuck was that?
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I had prepared for police pressure, but this? This was a whole different kind of threat.
As the video continued, Xanai's lips moved like she was talking, pleading, but no sound came from the phone. The bastard had muted the video, probably to hide whatever threats he was throwing at her. I feel my heart rate pick up—rage boiling my insides. The way she clutched her arms around herself, vulnerable and scared... I knew something was wrong.
"Where the fuck is this?!" I snapped, looking up at the officer who handed me the phone.
He shrugged, looking just as clueless. "It was sent to the precinct half an hour ago. Anonymous. We don't know who or where this is from. We were hoping you might."
I felt the temperature in the room drop. An anonymous threat? This wasn't random—this was about me. Someone wanted leverage. They knew dragging Xanai into this would hit me where it hurt most. Mi feel mi fists tighten till mi nails dig into mi palms.
But mi couldn't lose it. Mi had to think. Had to act fast.
Mi stood up abruptly, pacing in the small holding room. "Yow, unnu cya track the location of where that video come from?"
The officer shook his head. "Not from the video itself. Whoever sent it covered their tracks well."
I cursed under my breath. Mi mind racing. Was this a setup? A warning?
I hissed, and was about to give back the phone, but stopped as another video came in. My brows furrowed, and I clicked on it.
Xanai was lying on the ground now. Her clothes... gone. Her skin was smeared in blood, trembling uncontrollably, her face streaked with tears. She was shaking, crying, her chest rising and falling like she could barely breathe.
There was a message attached to the video. Mi felt mi vision blur for a second, pure anger washing over mi.
"Har pussy good too enuh. Shame she affi dead."
Mi couldn't breathe. The world around me collapsed.
Mi stared at the screen, mi body frozen, fists clenched so tight mi knuckles turned white. Whoever sent this... they were already dead in my eyes.
Mi threw the phone down with a force that cracked the screen. Mi chest heaving, mi mind clouded with nothing but violent rage.
I grabbed the officer by his collar, before speaking, "Anyhow she hurt nuh more... anuh dah pussy deh alone mi a kill. Let mi di fuck out before mi use mi teeth dig through this rass." I spoke seriously, meaning every word.
He swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear. Without a word, he fumbled for the keys in his pocket, unlocking the door with shaky hands.
1 week later
The streets were buzzing with whispers. Word spread quickly, and everyone knew something had shifted in the air. That video, that night—everything had changed. Xanai was still missing, and I couldn't rest. Every minute felt like a punch to my gut, my thoughts constantly returning to the video, to her face twisted in fear.
It had been a week of pure hell. The police were slow, moving at their own pace. I couldn't rely on them. So, I took matters into my own hands, calling in favors, searching every corner, pushing people for answers, even if it meant getting rough.
My world had narrowed down to one mission: find Xanai. Whoever had done this would pay—and not just with blood.
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was a message from an unknown number.
"7pm. Meet mi dung a your part, dragga." It read.
The warehouse. My warehouse. The same warehouse I killed Jerome in.
The air around the warehouse was thick with tension as I approached. The building loomed in the darkness, its towering, rusted frame casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt. I had been here so many times before, always in control, always the one deciding who walked out and who didn't. But tonight felt different.
I checked my watch: 6:59 p.m. Right on time.
I moved silently toward the entrance, my footsteps muffled by the gravel underfoot. As I slipped through the side door, the smell of old machinery and damp concrete hit me. The place hadn't changed, but something felt off. It was too quiet.
My eyes scanned the space, catching glimpses of movement in the far corner. Then I saw her—Xanai. She was tied to a metal chair, she had lost weight. Her head slumped forward, blood trickling down her arms as dry blood stained her face. My heart lurched.
I could be wrong but I heard heels tap against the floor quickly as another hooded figure ran past.
Goodly wa ooman dat but minuh care mi come yah fi one thing and one thing only.
The room reeked of blood, stale blood, which I'm not used to as after every kill, I'd have a team come in to clean up.
But I couldn't afford to lose focus now. I took a step forward, hand tightening around the grip of my gun, and that's when I heard it—a low chuckle, echoing through the empty space.
"You came," a voice called out from the shadows. The figure stepped into the light, the same hooded man from the video. He stood between me and Xanai, his hands casually in his pockets, like he was waiting for a friend.
Dat sound fishy. Yah battyman?
I raised my gun, my voice low and deadly. "Let her go. Now."
He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You think you're in control here?" He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to the ground. A phone. The screen flickered on, showing a live feed—Xanai, barely conscious, a bomb strapped to the chair.
My heart stopped.
"I've been watching you for a long time," he continued, his voice calm. "Yuh think you can play God inna dis place, kill whoever, whenever yuh wah. But tonight, you don't get to choose who lives."
I clenched my jaw, my mind racing. I couldn't let him walk out of here alive, but one wrong move, and Xanai wouldn't make it either.
"You kill her," I said slowly, "and enough a yuh deeven a leff fi do autopsy."
The man grinned, stepping closer to Xanai. "That's the thing. You don't get to decide." His hand hovered over the trigger connected to the bomb.
Time slowed. My mind calculated every option, every move, but it all came down to this moment.
I lunged forward.
The gun fired. Once. Twice.
The hooded man stumbled back, eyes wide, clutching his chest as blood poured from his wounds. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his hand twitching near the detonator.
Tell unu nuh fuck wid mi eno.
I sprinted toward Xanai, ripping the bomb from her chair, hands shaking as I tossed it aside. I pulled her into my arms, her body limp but alive.
"It's okay," I whispered, holding her close. "Yuh safe now mama, it's over."
But as I looked down at the man lying in a pool of his own blood, I knew it wasn't. Not yet. Because whoever had sent him—whoever had set all of this in motion—was still out there.
And they had just made the worst mistake of their lives.