Ebute-Metta was loud as always. Street vendors shouted over generators. Boys played loud music from cracked speakers. Keke drivers argued over change. But Dre moved through it all like he wasn't part of it.
He was changing — not into something new, but into what had been buried under the noise. Quiet power. Cold intelligence. A mind sharper than the streets could handle.
He leaned against the side of a locked barbershop, hoodie on, face half-hidden. His eyes scanned everything — not just people, but their habits. Their timings. Their weak spots.
Dre wasn't talking much these days, but he was watching. Every movement. Every transaction. Every lie masked with laughter. He understood now — the real game wasn't about being feared. It was about being underestimated.
Emmanuel spotted him from across the street and crossed over.
"Guy, you just dey ghost everybody these days," Emmanuel said, wiping sweat from his brow. "We no dey see you again."
Dre looked at him once, nodded, then returned his gaze to the road.
"You alright?" Emmanuel asked, more serious now.
"I'm learning," Dre replied.
"Learning what?"
"How things really work."
Dre pointed subtly at a nearby kiosk. A man was shouting over the phone, furious. Beside him, a boy barely in his teens quietly packed crates of drinks behind the scenes, unnoticed.
"You see that?" Dre asked.
"What?"
"They always think the one making noise is the boss. But the one doing the real work? That's who owns tomorrow."
Emmanuel squinted. "You dey read too many deep quotes."
"No. I'm just not sleeping like the rest of them."
Dre had learned that chaos is a distraction. The shouting, the pride, the show of strength — it blinded people. He chose silence instead. A silence that saw through the noise.
"Wetin you dey plan?" Emmanuel asked cautiously.
"I'm not planning anything," Dre said. "I'm just getting ready."
"Ready for what?"
"For when it all collapses. Then they'll start looking for the one who didn't talk, didn't show off — just waited. Watched. Learned."
Emmanuel paused. "You serious?"
Dre turned fully to him now. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
He didn't. His face was calm, but his eyes carried weight. He wasn't bluffing. He was preparing. And everyone else was still playing with time.
"I heard Femi and them are calling you soft now," Emmanuel said. "Said you disappeared since that thing with Zion."
Dre scoffed. "Let them talk."
He stepped away from the wall and walked slowly toward a narrow alley where he could watch without being watched.
"I'm not soft. I'm patient."
There was no pride in his voice — just fact. Like he already knew how it would end. Like a chess player sacrificing a pawn, waiting for the king to slip.
Later that night, Dre stood near the back of an unfinished building overlooking the street. From here, he saw how everyone moved — who borrowed money, who lied about it, who controlled which corner. He didn't need to ask questions. The answers were in their actions.
He was no longer trying to be respected. He was simply becoming someone they would have no choice but to respect.
Not today. Not loudly.
But soon, The Real game is about to begin