CLAWS AND LAWS

The oldest of the three men, the one who had spoken, was known as Malomo. His eyes, once friendly, now carried the weight of promises unkept and debts unpaid. Years ago, Agbaje had walked away from a world that thrived on secrets and whispers—had built a new life with Ajoke, hoping to bury his past in the soft embrace of normalcy. But Malomo's presence brought it all crashing back: the late-night meetings, the dangerous assignments, the feeling of being trapped like a pawn on a chessboard.

Agbaje's throat tightened. "I have a family now," he said, his voice low, desperate. "A life. You can't just waltz back in and—"

"Family," Malomo interrupted, almost amused. "You think a family changes anything? The table doesn't care about sentiment or new beginnings. It only cares about what you owe. And, Agbaje, there's still a debt."

Behind him, the other two men shifted, their movements fluid and practiced, like wolves waiting to pounce. Agbaje's eyes darted between them, his muscles tensing. He knew them, knew their ways, and felt the weight of years pressing down. A part of him longed to run, to pull Ajoke into his arms and leave everything behind. But he couldn't. Not yet.

---

THE MEAL THAT NEVER CAME

Inside the house, Ajoke carried a tray laden with meat pies and eggs, her face flushed with the warmth of the kitchen. She glanced out the window again and saw them—Agbaje's stiff back, the men leaning in with predatory smiles. A shiver danced down her spine. Something was wrong.

"Agbaje!" she called softly, stepping out onto the porch, the cold night air biting at her skin. He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge her presence. It was as if an invisible wall separated them, as if he were already being pulled back into a world she couldn't follow.

The men's eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, the garden was deathly still. Malomo's smile widened, and he rose to his feet, his gaze never leaving Agbaje. "We'll be back," he said, his voice a promise and a threat. "We're not finished here."

They walked past Ajoke without a word, the scent of her freshly cooked food hanging in the air between them, ignored. She watched them go, confusion and fear bubbling in her chest. She didn't understand what had just happened, but she felt it—like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Agbaje stood alone in the garden, staring at the ground, and she knew in that moment that something had changed. Something dark had returned. She set the tray down and went to him, wrapping her arms around his trembling frame. He pulled her close, holding her as if she were the only solid thing in a world gone mad.

But neither of them noticed the small, white card that Malomo had left on the garden table, half-hidden beneath the edge of a pot. A card with a symbol that only Agbaje would recognize—an invitation, a command.

The table had called. And this time, it would not be denied.

Chapter 11: Genesis

The living room was shrouded in an oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of hurried hands stuffing clothes into bags. Agbaje moved with purpose, his jaw tight, his movements brisk. Beside him, Ajoke, his wife, mirrored his urgency. Words were unnecessary between them; the unspoken understanding they shared was louder than any declaration. Dinner sat untouched on the table, the children, Dayo and Segun, the only ones who had managed to eat, though even their chatter had quieted under the weight of the evening.

Agbaje muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl of frustration and fear. "I should have known. You don't trust men like these. Never. Not with your family, not with your life. If it means disappearing into the wind, so be it. I will not let them drag us down."

The bags were ready in minutes. Clothes hastily folded, essentials crammed into every available space. Agbaje barked an order to the children, who obediently stepped forward, pulling their little wheeled travel boxes behind them. The night pressed against the windows, thick and impenetrable, as they stepped into the cold embrace of darkness.

The car waited in the garage, where Agbaje had parked it just hours earlier. It felt like a lifetime ago. He opened the garage door and called for Ajoke. She slid the suitcases aside and joined him, ready to hold the gate as he maneuvered the car out. The children waited outside, their small figures barely visible in the dim light.

But when Agbaje finally pulled the car forward and glanced around, the blood in his veins turned to ice. The children were gone.

A frantic search ensued, Ajoke calling their names into the night, her voice laced with panic. Agbaje's eyes scanned every shadow, every corner, his heart pounding against his ribcage. But deep down, he knew. He stopped, standing rigid in the driveway, his fists clenched.

"They have them," he said, his voice flat with controlled fury. Ajoke gasped, but he was already moving. Without another word, he threw open the car door, motioning for her to get in. The engine roared to life as he tore out of the driveway, tires screeching against the asphalt.

---

The Arena: The Slaughterhouse

There was a place where the law dared not tread—a cesspool of darkness known only as The Arena. To outsiders, it was a shadowy myth, but to those who knew, it was the blood-soaked playground of the damned. Every deal, every betrayal, every broken life bore the mark of The Table, the ruling council of The Arena. If his children had been taken, there was no doubt—they were here.

Agbaje's car screeched to a halt outside the compound. The gates loomed before him, rusted steel etched with crude graffiti, an ominous warning to any who dared to enter uninvited. He stepped out, his heart pounding with equal parts fear and rage. The air was heavy with the stench of blood and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled scream pierced the night, but Agbaje didn't flinch. He had only one purpose now.

The guards at the entrance didn't even have time to react before Agbaje was upon them. His fists were lightning, his rage a storm. The first man crumpled under a single blow; the second barely managed to draw his weapon before Agbaje's foot connected with his jaw. He grabbed the man's radio and snarled into it, "Tell them I'm coming."

---

The Hall of The Table

The assembly hall of The Table was a grotesque parody of power. Long tables stretched across the dimly lit room, littered with half-eaten food, spilled liquor, and bloodied weapons. At the far end sat the council, their faces shadowed by the flickering light of a massive chandelier. Each leader exuded menace, their gazes piercing as Agbaje stormed into the room.

The guards barely managed to subdue him, forcing him to his knees before the leaders. Blood dripped from his knuckles, his chest heaving with exertion and fury.

"Where are they?" His voice was a snarl, his eyes wild.

The leader of The Table, a man known only as Razor, leaned forward. His smile was a predator's grin, cold and calculating. "You've got guts, Agbaje, storming in here like this. But you're in over your head."

"Where are my children?" Agbaje roared, struggling against the guards who held him down.

Razor chuckled, the sound chilling. "Safe. For now. But you've broken the rules. You've stepped into our world without invitation. And there's a price for that."

Agbaje's voice dropped, a dangerous calm overtaking him. "You'll regret this. Every single one of you."

Razor's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered. "Brave words for a man on his knees."

---

The Twist of Fate

As Razor spoke, a loud explosion echoed through The Arena. The room shook, dust and debris falling from the ceiling. Agbaje's lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

"You didn't think I'd come alone, did you?"

The doors burst open, and a shadowy figure stepped through, a rifle in hand. It was Adebola, Agbaje's closest ally and a man with a reputation for making death look like art. Chaos erupted as Adebola opened fire, scattering the guards. Agbaje seized the moment, breaking free and lunging at Razor.

The fight was brutal, raw, and primal. Razor was strong, but Agbaje fought like a man possessed. His fists were relentless, every strike fueled by the thought of his children. Finally, Razor fell, bloodied and beaten.

Agbaje loomed over him. "Where. Are. They?"

Razor spat blood, his grin returning. "You think you've won? This is just the beginning."

But Agbaje didn't wait for answers. He turned, motioning to Adebola. "Find them. Burn this place if you have to."

As the fires began to consume The Arena, Agbaje stepped into the night, his resolve unshaken. His children would be found, and those who dared to take them would learn a lesson they would never forget.

The Mark of the White Wolf

The chamber was silent but for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Agbaje stumbled forward, the shackles biting into his wrists. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, his breathing ragged as he was thrown to the cold, marble floor. The men who held him, faceless enforcers of the Table, stood back, their dark suits a stark contrast to the blinding white of the room.

From the shadowy recess at the end of the chamber, a figure emerged. The leader of the Table. His voice, smooth and cold as winter steel, broke the silence.

"Quite an entrance, Agbaje." He circled him slowly, a predator assessing its prey. "You see, we have little patience for disobedience. Tie him down. Let him learn compliance through... reflection."

Agbaje struggled as they forced him into a chair, securing him with rough ropes. He growled through gritted teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of his fear. A man leaned in close, his voice low, a serpent's hiss.

"Agbaje, listen to me. Comply while you still have the chance," he whispered. "Your children may never return if you don't. Do you hear me? Never."

The words hit like a blow to the chest. Agbaje's vision blurred with panic. "Where are my children?" he roared. The man gave no answer, only motioned toward a screen flickering to life.

It was Ajoke, his wife. Bound, bruised, her lips trembling as she whispered his name.

"Ajoke!" Agbaje screamed, struggling against the ropes. She turned her tear-streaked face to the leader.

"Agbaje... help me. They're going to kill me!"

 The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps retreating. Agbaje's breath came in gasps, his mind a storm of rage and terror.

Through the night, he hung there, his body aching, his mind spiraling into darkness. By morning, they dragged him once more into the Arena. This time, the entire Table was assembled, their faces veiled in shadows, their presence oppressive.

The leader stepped forward, his voice no longer cold but filled with venomous anger. "Where is my family?" Agbaje demanded, his voice a raw snarl.

"You should concern yourself less with them," the leader sneered, "and more with the consequences of your defiance."

Something shifted within Agbaje. A deep, primal rage unfurled, coiling through his veins like fire. His eyes turned crimson, the whites bleeding into a fiery glow. His hands trembled violently, claws emerging where fingers once were. The one who stood closest to him whispered in alarm to the leader.

"Boss... he's changing. Something's wrong. He's—"

"Wrong?" The leader laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the chamber. "We are all monsters here."

But the laughter died quickly when Agbaje let out a roar that shook the very walls. His transformation was swift and terrifying—a massive white werewolf now stood where the man had been, his fur stained with rage and bloodlust.

Chaos erupted. Members of the Table drew weapons, but none were fast enough, none were prepared. Agbaje tore through them like paper, his strength unmatched, his fury unrelenting. Blood splattered across the pristine walls; screams filled the air before being silenced by brutal finality.

By the time the carnage ended, the Arena was still. Agbaje stood amidst the bodies, his chest heaving, his white fur streaked with crimson. Slowly, agonizingly, he shifted back to his human form. His trembling hands covered his face as he sank to his knees.

"Ajoke... the children..." His voice broke as tears streamed down his face. He had destroyed them all, but still, there was no sign of his family.

As his cries echoed in the chamber, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was the man who had whispered to him the night before. He was trembling now, fear etched into every line of his face.

"Please," he stammered. "Please, Agbaje. I can take you to them."

Agbaje's blood-red eyes bore into him. "If you're lying, I will tear you apart."

The man led him back to his home, his steps faltering under the weight of his guilt. When they arrived, Ajoke and the children were there, unharmed, their faces pale with fear and confusion.

"It was a test," the man confessed, his voice shaking. "The Table never meant to harm them. It was a ploy to break you, to bring you back into the fold."

Agbaje's relief was short-lived. As he embraced his wife and children, he felt the dark, unshakable truth within him: the monster was now a part of him. The curse of the white wolf had been unleashed, and there would be no escape.

That night, he left his family, his heart shattered, his soul darkened. For their safety, he would walk the world alone, hunted and haunted, forever caught between love, rage, and the beast within.