Week three arrived like a slow exhale. The frantic edge of lust had softened into something heavier, more dangerous: intimacy. They’d crossed bodies; now the harder boundary—the heart—was beginning to crack.
It happened on day twenty-one.
The Lagos grid, already strained by rolling blackouts and the variant’s economic fallout, finally buckled. At 10:47 p.m. the lights died with a soft pop. Screens went dark. The hum of the compound’s backup generators didn’t kick in immediately—some automated safety protocol delaying non-essential draw. The penthouse plunged into velvet black, broken only by the faint city glow filtering through the dome.
Someone—probably Noah—found the emergency candles in the kitchen drawer. Soon the lounge was lit by a dozen tea lights and two thick pillars, flames d
