Inside the main building, numerous officers bustled about. To reach the door of the Headquarters Office, one had to navigate a long corridor adorned with the nameplate “ACP SALEEM KABIR KUMO.” It was prominently displayed in large letters. I paid little attention to it until the door of the office swung open on its own. As I stepped inside, I marveled at the well-organized and aesthetically pleasing office.

The room had three chairs arranged around a small center table in the western corner. In the center of the room stood a well-maintained refrigerator. To the south was a locked room, while to the east, a large table held documents, a laptop, and some small framed pictures. On the wall above were larger portraits, including one of the President, the Governor of Zamfara State, and the Chief of Police of Nigeria, IGP OF POLICE GABADAYA, also known as *IGP KABIR KUMO.*

However, my attention was swiftly drawn to the occupant of the office, who was seated in a swivel chair, turning to face the door. My astonishment left me momentarily speechless.

Saleem, a white man in a predominantly black country, had the complexion of a Moroccan, resembling chocolate. His long face had a slightly broadened appearance, with a long nose leading to a small mouth that seemed to hold a perpetual secret. His eyes, framed by dark lashes, were difficult to read, concealing a hidden depth. With determination, he rose from his seat, supporting himself with both hands, and began pacing the office. His tall and imposing stature contrasted with the calm and relaxed curls that graced his head. He truly lived up to the label of a “giant,” a 28-year-old man who seemed to tower over the world.

As he moved, he wore the uniform with pants and a light blue shirt. On his shoulders, his name was proudly embroidered, signifying his identity. He eventually settled back into his chair, casually draping one leg over the other. Retrieving his phone, he pressed a button, revealing a photo of a woman.

In the picture, she wore a black and white shirt and pants, her disheveled attire indicating she had been recently apprehended. Her head was bare, and her long hair was loosely tied with a band, allowing the tail to cascade down. A pair of glasses covered half of her face, while her feet were clad in high-heeled shoes that left an impression. She appeared to be descending a flight of stairs on an airplane, followed by some escorts dressed in court attire and sunglasses. One carried a briefcase, while the other held a small women’s bag. Her earpiece dangled as she engaged in conversation. It seemed she was captured unawares, not realizing she was being photographed.

As I gazed at the image, my heart raced. It was an image from five years ago, but it seemed as if it had happened just moments ago. I clenched my fist, pressing it against my cheek, where she had been struck. My eyes dropped, and I imagined her lips, as though they were pressed against mine, recalling the warmth of her breath and the taste of her saliva. My heart raced, and I felt myself losing control.

With a sudden burst of determination, I rose from my seat, my eyes ablaze with a newfound resolve. My phone slipped from my hand, landing on the table with a thud. I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table, and let out a sigh. “MALIKA MALIK,” I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion. “I have avenged you.” Taking a moment to compose myself, I continued, “And I will reward you with a position that surpasses your family’s wealth, one that your mother, father, and entire family would envy. Your bravery and sacrifices will be celebrated, and you will wear the police uniform with pride, greater than anyone else!” With that, I settled back into my chair, my heart still racing with memories and determination.

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