Silvergate University looked different in the early morning.
The students were quieter, the air was cooler, and the halls echoed with the sounds of distant brooms, clinking cups, and sleepy footsteps. It was in this quiet that Elijah Mwangi felt most invisible—and most alive.
He moved down the corridor with a mop in hand, earbuds in, a playlist of ambient music playing in his ears. Not that he needed it. He could already hear the whispers even when there was silence.
"He's just a janitor."
"What a waste of a tall, fine man."
"Probably failed high school."
He didn't respond. He never did. That was part of the plan: stay low, stay unseen, and stay alive.
He had made it this far.
But recently, something—or someone—was changing things.
Amina Njeri.
She had stared at him too long yesterday.
And that laugh. That sharp, dry laugh she gave when he told her his name—he still heard it in his mind.
Not mockery.
Not disbelief.
Something else.
Something dangerous.
---
Across campus, Amina tugged her sweater tighter around herself as she walked toward the faculty library. Her shift at the café had ended, but her thoughts hadn't.
Why did he call himself Elijah?
Why did a janitor talk like a poet?
Why did his eyes look like they carried secrets?
She shook her head.
She didn't have time for mystery men.
Her tuition was overdue. Her phone bill was two weeks late. Her younger brother, Jesse, had texted her the night before asking for bus fare to return to school.
She had nothing left to give—except borrowed strength and maybe another piece of her pride.
She reached the literature wing and climbed the stairs slowly. On the second floor, she turned to the open study window and paused.
There he was again.
Down below. Mopping the main walkway. Alone, as always.
She leaned slightly against the railing, just watching.
He didn't glance up. But somehow, she felt like he knew.
---
That afternoon, Kevin strolled across the quad like he owned it.
And in many ways, he did.
Son of a senator, top student in the business department, former president of the student union. Everyone knew Kevin Oduor. Especially Amina.
Once, he had made her feel like the world revolved around her.
Until he dropped her for the daughter of a governor.
That was two semesters ago.
Today, he walked right up to her while she was reading under the tree near the science block.
"Amina," he said smoothly.
She didn't look up.
He cleared his throat.
"I see you're still pretending to be too busy for a proper greeting."
She sighed, looked up slowly. "Kevin, I'm not pretending. I really am too busy for nonsense."
He chuckled. "I missed that sharp mouth. You haven't changed."
"But you have," she said coolly. "Upgraded your lies, haven't you?"
He grinned. "Come on. Don't be like that. I was young."
"You were 22."
He raised his hands. "Fine. I was an idiot. But that's in the past."
She closed her book. "What do you want?"
"I heard you're in a tight spot with your fees," he said, voice dropping lower.
Amina froze.
He leaned closer. "I could talk to someone. My dad knows people in the bursar's office. One phone call and you're cleared."
She stood up slowly.
"Keep your favors, Kevin. I don't need a rich man to fix me."
She walked away.
Behind her, Kevin's face darkened.
---
Elijah saw it happen.
He was on the far end of the building, wiping glass panels, but he saw Kevin approach Amina. Saw the tension in her shoulders. Saw the heat in Kevin's expression when she walked away.
He clenched his jaw.
Kevin Oduor.
The name triggered something. A memory.
Two years ago, Kevin's name had shown up in an offshore data leak. The Mwangi family's fixer had flagged him as a potential threat—not because he was smart, but because he was greedy.
And dangerous men weren't always the ones with guns.
Sometimes, they wore smiles and polished shoes.
---
That night, Elijah opened his encrypted laptop.
The room was quiet, save for the hum of a single bulb.
He typed in a code—his failsafe—and accessed the surveillance archives he'd hacked into weeks ago. Silvergate had cameras on every corner. Cameras no one checked.
Except him.
He pulled up footage of the bursar's office.
Paused.
Zoomed.
There. Amina.
She looked worn, frustrated, her eyes red.
He frowned.
And then, something made him hesitate.
He moved his cursor to a blank notepad.
Typed:
Transfer Ksh 15,000 to Amina Njeri — Label: "Academic Welfare Fund."
He paused.
Was he interfering?
Was he protecting?
He hit "Execute."
Some risks were worth it.
---
The next day, Amina stood at the finance window in shock.
"There's a credit here," the clerk said, tapping the screen. "Fifteen thousand. Posted last night."
"What?" she breathed.
"Anonymous. Labeled 'Academic Welfare Fund.' You have two weeks to pay the rest."
She left the building dazed.
Who had helped her?
She hadn't told Leila. She hadn't told Jesse.
Kevin?
No. He would've bragged.
She found herself walking across campus, scanning faces, looking for... him.
And there he was.
Elijah, wiping the notice board near the administration block.
She approached slowly.
"Hey," she said.
He didn't look up. "Hey."
"I got help with my school fees."
"Good."
"No one knows who sent it."
He nodded once.
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
He finally looked at her.
And in his eyes, she saw nothing.
Just deep, guarded silence.
"No," he said softly.
She stared at him a moment longer.
Then she smiled. "Right. Of course."
---
Two days passed.
Then the blog post dropped.
📸 Is the Billionaire's Lost Son Still Alive?
A grainy photo. A teenage Elijah standing beside Maxwell Mwangi. Labeled as "dated but suspicious."
The caption read:
> "Sources claim Elijah Mwangi, declared dead in 2018 after a tragic car explosion, may still be alive—and walking among us."
Elijah's chest tightened as he read it in the cybercafé.
Someone had recognized him.
He logged out, wiped the system, and left immediately.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat with the lights off, one hand clutching his burner phone, the other holding an old chain from his past life.
They were getting too close.
And if they touched Amina—
No. He wouldn't let them.
---
The next morning, Amina found a note tucked into her locker.
Neat handwriting.
"Be careful who you talk to. Not all smiles are safe. —E"
She stared at it for a long time.
Then folded it and placed it in her pocket.
---
Meanwhile, in an office suite uptown, Grace Mwangi, Elijah's stepmother, slammed her fist on the table.
"Who leaked this photo?!"
Her assistant trembled. "It came from a university server. Anonymous source. Silvergate campus, we believe."
Grace narrowed her eyes.
"Elijah was always too soft. If he's alive, he'll come for the girl."
"What girl?"
"Find out."
She stood, her voice cold.
"And if he's alive... then I'll finish what we started."
---
Back at Silvergate, Elijah paced behind the maintenance shed.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown Number: "You're slipping, Elijah. She makes you soft."
Then a photo.
Amina—leaving the finance office.
Elijah stared at the screen.
Then deleted it.
His hands shook.
His mind raced.
For five years, he had lived in silence.
No family.
No name.
No power.
But now—he had something to lose.
And that made him dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.