The clinic in Lagos was nothing like the polished bunkers or high-tech medical bays they were used to. It was small, overworked, and heavy with the smell of antiseptic and sweat. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a pale, weary glow. The air was damp, humid, and clung to the skin.

Jason lay still on the narrow bed, his body broken in ways that made the doctors shake their heads. His chest rose and fell, but every breath sounded like a fight. Stitches crossed his arms and torso like crude scars. Bandages wrapped around his legs. But none of that frightened Leah as much as the part no...