The marker squeaked, then fell silent. Inside the glass-walled boardroom at Aerospace Headquarters in Lagos, a picture of a plane sat on the whiteboard under a storm of wrong answers. Lines crossing lines, arrows fighting arrows, numbers that didn’t agree.

At the front, the billionaire CEO, Johnson Uche, gripped the table with both hands. His eyes were wet. His voice shook.

We have 48 hours, he said. If we fail again, we lose the contracts. We lose everything.

The room of top engineers sat frozen. No one spoke. The air felt heavy, like a bad dream you couldn’t wake up from.

Then a voice came from the doorway, low, steady, and completely out of place. I can correct it. Every head turned.

By the door stood a man in his early forties, with a tattered coat and dust on his shoes. His beard was tangled, his hair was rough. He held a tired brown bag close to his chest like treasure.

The security guards were already moving. Johnson lifted his hand. Wait.

The guards stopped. The stranger’s eyes didn’t shake. He looked at the failed drawing of the plane, like it was an old friend that had lost its way.

I can correct it, he said again. The room held its breath. Hours earlier, before the city woke fully, Williams Andrew opened his eyes under the shadow of the Echo Bridge…