BOOK ONE PREVIEW | Celio Entertainment

BELGRADO

PREVIEW

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other non-commercial use permitted by copyright law.

Resemblance to actual persons and things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

BELGRADO:

Cover Designer: Celio Entertainment (Pty) Ltd

Writers: Silindele-Okuhle Mayipasi & Jason-Sabelo Makiti

Editor: Celio Entertainment (Pty) Ltd

Cover Artist:

Eesa Hendricks

Eesa Hendricks is a talented Cape Town-based designer and illustrator who created the striking cover for Belgrado Book One. With a sharp eye for cinematic visuals and atmosphere, Eesa brought the world of Belgrado to life in ways that exceeded expectations, delivering a powerful poster and cover design that captures the story’s intensity and mood.

Though he has since transitioned into the IT field, his contribution remains a key part of the early visual identity of the Belgrado universe.

Eesa Hendricks

CONTENT

CHAPTER ONE

1 The Notorious Crash

The road carved along the spine of Table Mountain like a black ribbon flung across the dark velvet. Far, far below, the city of Cape Town glittered, a spilled jewellery box of gold and sapphire lights, beautiful and unreachable. Up here there was nothing. No street lights. No buildings. No other cars. Only the cold bite of altitude, the smell of pine and damp earth, and the low clouds drifting past the moon like silent ghosts.

Inside the sleek black YMC Vellura, the heater hummed softly. The driver skipped through songs the way a restless child flips pages. A woman's voice rose above the music, warm, teasing, edged with laughter.

“Yes, babe! That song you just skipped, you know damn well it's my favourite.”

The driver, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled to the elbow, let out a low chuckle that rumbled through the cabin. “Every single time, it's that song.”

“Whatever… I'm calling Wes. I'll tell him to take out the food before he burns the house down.” She thumbed the phone. The ringtone echoed thrice before an amused voice answered on speaker. In the background, an oven timer dinged.

“You do hear the oven, right?” she laughed.

The man on the other end started to reply, but the words never finished forming.

The driver's foot eased off the accelerator. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

Twin high-beams stabbed out of the blackness behind them, too bright, too sudden, too close.

He tensed, knuckles whitening on the leather steering wheel. The beams grew larger, hungrier. The growl of a heavy engine rolled up the mountain like approaching thunder.

He lifted slightly off the pedal, giving the stranger room to pass.

The stranger didn't pass.

A black SUV, windows darker than the night itself, pulled level with them. Its headlights flashed once, twice, an angry, impatient command.

The father's brow creased. He slowed further, hugging the thin white line at the edge of the cliff.

The SUV slowed with them.

Now it was beside them, a matte shadow riding their flank, engine thrumming low and predatory. The tinted glass reflected only the distant city glow, giving nothing back.

A chill crawled up the woman's arms. She lowered the phone without thinking.

The father's voice came out rough. “Haibo? What is this guy doing?”

The SUV drifted closer, driving the man to the edge of the road where a huge drop sat silently.

Metal kissed metal with a soft, deliberate scrape.

The man struggled to pass the matte SUV and saw two beaming green eyes through its window. The man gasps, recognising the entity in the SUV.

Then it lunged.

“SHIT! - ”

BOOM!!

The YMC sedan fishtailed, tires screaming against asphalt. The world became a spiral. City lights below, black sky above, city lights again.

Glass exploded outward in a glittering storm.

The woman's scream cut short as the car flipped once, twice, weightless.

Pine trees rushed down to meet them.

A final, bone-shaking CRUNCH.

Then only the mountain wind, the smell of petrol and scorched rubber, and the faint, dying crackle of flames far below where the city still shone, untouched and unaware.

2 The Notorious Crash

The Yvette's silver YMC Celeste purred through the gates like it belonged there. Sunlight slid over the carbon-weave roof and spilled down the flanks the way expensive champagne foams over crystal. Students on the pavement turned, some openly, some pretending they weren't. The car didn't care; it simply rolled to a quiet stop between a white Mandoe Strauss and a matte-grey YMC Vellura, engine dying with a satisfied sigh.

The door opened. A pair of long legs in black chinos and heels swung out first, followed by the rest of her. Mia Ngandu-Yvette. Hair still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of coconut and vanilla, moving with the breeze. She reached back in, scooped up a tote with notebooks, her phone, and white earphones.

She slipped the pods in. The opening chords of her current obsession flooded her ears and the campus noise dropped away. Shoulders loose, chin slightly lifted, she started across the plaza. Conversations dipped as she passed. A few phones angled her way for not-so-subtle pictures. She pretended not to notice. She always did.

Halfway to the law faculty, her phone buzzed against her palm.

Dad.

The screen lit up.

Dad: How's everything going? Hope you're keeping up, your last year at least.

Her thumbs answered before her brain caught up.

Mia: The usual.

Three dots. Then:

Dad: Your mother would be happy to have you on Saturday at the Expo.

Her steps slowed. The music felt… suddenly childish.

Mia: The entire day? Yorh, mom will literally drag me out of my apartment if I don't show.

Dad: I'm proud of you, Mia. Keep swimming, Mimi.

The nickname punched the air out of her lungs. Mimi. Nobody had called her that since she was twelve. Something warm and dangerous flared behind her ribs. For three full seconds the playlist sounded triumphant, like a victory anthem written just for her. A smile ghosted across her mouth and vanished just as fast.

She stared at the message, fingers frozen.

Another buzz. A voice note this time. She tapped it without thinking.

Her mother's voice spilled into her ear, bright, breezy, a little tipsy on life:

“You better come, Mia! The ladies dress theme will be Navy blue, she says. Love you!”

The warmth curdled.

Mia's grip tightened until the phone case creaked. The playlist shifted again. She typed the only thing she could force out.

Mia: Got it, love you too…

She shoved the phone into her back pocket. Shoulders that had been loose a minute ago now carried bricks.

Then a familiar giggle floated in from behind.

Someone cat walked up, hips swaying like they were on a Paris runway, and plucked the right earphone clean out of Mia's ear.

Mia spun, ready to curse, and stopped.

Thembakazi Mudimo stood there in a white short-sleeve high neck t-shirt, colourful cardigan, and baggy jeans, twirling the stolen earphone between two fingers like a magician with a coin.

A grin split Mia's face before she could stop it. The storm clouds rolled back.

“Thembakazi!?”

Thembakazi laughed, bright and unfiltered. “It's been a while, baby gworl!”

Mia screamed so loud, the whole courtyard turned their heads toward them.

“I thought you were only back next week - what the hell?”

“Girl, third year waits for no woman.” She slipped the earphone back into Mia's ear, letting her fingers linger just long enough to say I missed you without words. “Come on, we're already late and Mr. Davids might do that dramatic entrance thing again.”

Mia exhaled, the weight sliding off her shoulders like someone had cut the strings. Thembakazi bumped Mia with her hip as they fell into step.

For the first time all morning, the music in her ears sounded like it belonged to her again.

3 Class Debate

The hall smelled like new textbooks, instant coffee, and the faint coconut of someone's hair oil. Phones glowed under desks, TikTok sounds leaked from headphones, and half the back row was still trying to look awake.

Mia and Thembakazi slid into their usual seats, third row from the front, left side, perfect sightline to the projector. A couple of first-years waved; someone shouted, “Ey, Mia, your car's blocking my Golf again!” Laughter rippled. Mia just lifted two fingers in a lazy salute “A very good morning to you too, Tristan.” She dropped into her seat.

Tristan chuckled.

The door banged open exactly three seconds late. Mr. Davids strode in wearing the same navy blazer he'd worn since second year, sleeves rolled, tie already loosened. The entire hall stood like soldiers.

“Morning, Mr. Davids!” they chorused, half sarcastic, half genuine.

“Morning, criminals-in-training,” he fired back Davids, grinning. “Sit, sit. Before you incriminate yourselves further.”

Groans and chuckles. Chairs scraped.

Davids tapped his laptop. The projector woke up with the LYRA crest, sleek silver wings over a lot of people had only seen on the news.

Gasps. Confusion rippled through the hall.

“Bruh, that's the actual LYRA?”

Davids let the chaos run for five beautiful seconds, then raised his hand. Silence fell like someone had hit mute.

“In six weeks LYRA will run a recruitment on their academy. Top three interns gets an agent profile for the LYRA. If you're not good enough, you might go to SANDF or SAPS.” He said, voice low and velvet.

The hall detonated.

“Are you serious?!”

“Tell them I can run a 2.4 km in under nine minutes, baba!”

Mia's heart slammed once, hard, against her ribs. Her fingers found Thembakazi's across the aisle. They didn't smile; they just stared, electric.

Davids lifted both hands. “Cool it. We'll talk logistics next week. Right now I want your brains, not your screams.” He clicked to a blank slide with one line in bold:

Does justice always align with the law, or are there times when taking matters into your own hands the only way to serve true justice?

Dead quiet.

Then Davids dropped the bomb. “Discuss.”

Hands exploded upward.

Thabo stood first, no hand raised, just pure confidence. “Justice and law must align. Full stop. Period. The second normal people start playing judge, jury, or… heck, even executioner, we're one tweet away from anarchy. We have laws for a reason.”

A girl in the second row, Lindiwe, snorted loud. “Tell that to every woman who's ever been failed by a restraining order, Thabo.”

Soft “ooohs” and snapped fingers.

Tristan leaned back, arms crossed, trademark smirk in place. “So what you're saying, Lindi, is Batman was right?”

The hall cracked up.

“Sit down, Tristan,” someone shouted.

Davids let it ride, eyes dancing. “Anyone else want to confess their vigilante fantasies before we get serious?”

Thembakazi's hand shot up like a rocket. “Real talk, sir. If the system protects the powerful more than the victims, then the law itself becomes the crime. History is literally built on people breaking bad laws. Apartheid didn't end because everyone wrote polite letters.”

“Amandla! In order to end violence, we use violence.”

Half the hall snapped in solidarity. The other half shifted uncomfortably.

A guy from the back, Jaden, voice thick with no sleep and Red Bull, called out, “Yeah, but where's the line? Today it's apartheid, tomorrow it's extortion in black and coloured communities.”

All eyes slid, slow and inevitable, to Mia.

Tristan again, voice syrupy with fake innocence. “I think Commissioner Yvette's princess has been very quiet. Tell us, Mia, when your dad locks someone up and the case falls apart because the docket „disappeared‟, does that do justice? Or just Tuesday?”

A couple of gasps. Someone whispered “Dayum."

Mia felt every stare like needles. Thembakazi‟s hand found her knee under the desk and squeezed once: I've got you.

Mia inhaled through her nose, slow. When she spoke, the room went graveyard silent.

“The law is supposed to protect everyone,” she said, voice steady, but something raw vibrated underneath. “It's supposed to be blind. But I've watched files vanish. I've watched evidence walk out of courtrooms in designer briefcases. And I've watched victims go home and hang themselves because the same night the guilty walked free.”

You could hear a pen drop.

“So yes,” she continued, eyes burning straight at Tristan, then sweeping the hall, “justice and law should be the same thing. They're not. And when the people wearing the badge fail… Then someone else has to stand in the dark and do the job the light was too scared to finish – forcefully if necessary.”

Silence so thick it hurt.

Then Thembakazi let out a low, proud “That's my girl.”

Mr. Davids didn't smile this time. He just studied Mia like he was seeing the real her again.

“Five-thousand-word essay on that exact question,” he said quietly. “Due in two weeks. And Miss Yvette… I expect footnotes."

The bell rang. Nobody moved.

Mia stared at her father's old watch ticking on her wrist, the second hand sweeping forward like a countdown.

4 Parking Lot

Dusk bled across the UCT parking lot, the sky turning bruised orange behind the tress. Students spilled out of the law building tired from the whole day, voices loud, phones out, replaying Mia's mic-drop moment.

Mia walked fast, keys swinging from two fingers. Thembakazi half-jogged to keep up, still on speaker with her dad.

“Okay, tata, yes I ate. Okay, I'll tell her… love you too.” She dropped the call and grinned sideways. “He says you better put my name down for the new YMC drop. Limited white, carbon roof, the works.”

Mia snorted. “Tell your timer the waiting list is longer than my tax bill.”

Both laughed as the Celeste chirped, doors open. Mia slid in, engine waking with a low growl that vibrated through the seats. Thembakazi threw her bag in the back and buckled up.

“So,” she said, eyes on the road, “V&A. I need something very demure, very… mindful for Saturday's Expo.”

Thembakazi's grin turned evil. “Cool. We're dragging Ayesha. She's been locked in that firm since six this morning. Girl needs daylight.”

“Call her.”

Thembakazi hit speaker. Ringtone… ringtone…

Ayesha picked up.

“Thembs, I hope it's important. I have fifteen unread emails and my soul left my body around lunchtime.”

Thembakazi didn‟t miss a beat. “Warfs. New outfit for Mia's family Expo. You're coming, and baby gworl… no is not an option.”

A long, high pitched scream crackled through the speakers. “I'm in yesterday's suit, my feet are staging a protest, and I still smell like court transcripts. Yes! Pick me up before I change my mind and face-plant into my bed.”

“If you're not outside my res in ten minutes I'm disowning both of you.”

“Relax, princess,” Thembakazi shot back. “We're coming.”

Mia floored it out the boom gate, tires chirping on the smooth tar.

Ten minutes later they hit the city and slammed into a wall of brake lights.

“Haibo,” Thembakazi muttered, sitting up. “This isn't normal traffic.”

Ahead, the road narrowed into a choke point. Yellow tape flapped in the wind. SAPS bakkies angled across lanes, lights strobing red and blue. Officers in bullet-proof vests waved cars through one by one. One black LYRA SUVs sat in the middle of it all, matte as midnight, no plates, just that unmistakable silver wing on the doors.

Mia's stomach dropped.

Thembakazi leaned forward. “That's… a lot of firepower for a fender-bender.”

Ayesha's name flashed on the dashboard. Mia hit accept.

“You're on speaker,” Mia said, voice flat.

Ayesha's groan crackled through the car. “Y'all better not be late because of Load-Shedding.”

“Worse,” Thembakazi answered, eyes still on the scene. “LYRA‟s got the whole road locked down. Looks like a war zone.”

A pause on the line.

Then Ayesha, quieter: “…You seeing body bags?”

Mia's gaze snagged on a huddle of officers near an alley mouth. One of them, tall, grey temples, Chief Molethi, her dad's old academy buddy, was arguing with a woman in a dark LYRA windbreaker. Even from here Mia could read the tension in his shoulders.

“No bags,” Mia said slowly. “But whatever it is, it's big.”

The light turned green. An officer waved them through. Mia eased the Celeste forward, slow, careful.

As they passed the tape, the LYRA woman turned her head.

Their eyes locked for half a second through the windshield.

Cold. Professional. Unreadable.

Mia's foot slipped off the accelerator for a heartbeat.

Thembakazi noticed. “Yooo?”

Mia swallowed, pressed the pedal again. “Yeah. Just… looking at the female LYRA agent.”

Ayesha's voice cut in, impatient. “Well recognise faster, I'm starving and my mom's already asking if you two are still coming.”

Thembakazi forced a laugh. “Five minutes, drama queen.”

Call ended.

Mia merged back into traffic, but her knuckles stayed white on the wheel.

In the side mirror, the yellow tape disappeared behind them, flapping like a warning flag nobody had asked for.

5 LYRA Inspection

Five agents sat around the brushed-metal table, none of them moving, none of them breathing right. Four chairs stayed empty. One at the head. One opposite Agent Francis who is wearing an arm string.

The door opened without ceremony.

Commissioner Samson Ngandu-Yvette filled the frame, six-foot-four of barely contained fury wrapped in a textured tailored three-piece charcoal suit with an overcoat. Bald head gleaming under the harsh LEDs, his jaw locked tight. He dropped a thick dossier on the table like it weighed a ton.

“Sit.”

They sat down again.

He didn't bother with greetings. Just clicked the remote.

The screen lit up with grainy night-vision footage.

Two agents walk in, Agent Marcus and Agent Lopez looking frustrated holding their masks on their waist side. Samson watches.

“Sorry we're late, maneer. Had a homicide over at Mombai's place.”

They sit down and stare at the screen.

A quiet street. Agent Lutho stepping out of his car with agent Francis smiling at the little boy running toward Lutho screaming “Daddy!”

A midnight blue Mandoe sedan screeching in. Windows down. Muzzles flash orange.

Agent Lutho took twelve, three hit fragmentation to the chest before he hit the ground. Francis took one to the arm as he dived for cover.

No one in the room blinked.

Francis gripped his right bandaged arm tighter.

Samson let it play until the shooters peeled away and the child's scream cut through the speakers like a blade. Then he froze the frame on the masked driver.

“Zoran,” he said, voice flat. “Made one mistake.”

Click. Blurry licence plate, enhanced.

“Home CCTV caught it. Traffic cams followed it all the way to the old harbour district in Simon's Town. Same warehouse block Thato Mombai used to own - before someone put two in his chest and in his head; left him in his house last week.”

Agent Garrison spoke first, voice rough. “So Ea Boikakaso is growing bigger balls.”

“Maybe,” Samson said. “Or maybe someone wants us to think he did.”

Click.

Satellite still: cargo trucks taking impossible detours, disappearing into that dead harbour at 3 a.m.

“Residents near Simon's Town are hearing drilling, generators, heavy machinery at night. Too much noise for ghosts.”

Agent Anderson leaned forward. “Could be smugglers. Could be nothing.”

Samson's eyes cut to him. “The same car was spotted outside Mombai's house forty-eight hours before he died. Nothing is nothing anymore.”

Agent Lopez, arms folded tight, muttered, “Feels like they‟re drawing us a map to me, sir.”

“Exactly,” Samson said. “And maps can be traps.”

Agent Alvarez gave a humourless laugh. “So we walk into the ambush anyway? What if it blows up in our faces?”

“Then we prepare for that possibility” Samson says.

He moves around the table, handing out printed sheets detailing each agents role except for Francis.

“Tonight. Full tactical insertion. We go in hard, we go in quiet, we go in expecting hell.”

Silence.

Francis hadn't moved. Right arm in a sling, left fist clenched on the table, eyes burning holes in the frozen image of his dead partner. The agents begin filing out. Lopez pauses at the door, her eyes lingering on Francis - something like guilt in her glance.”

As Samson wraps up his notes, he notices Francis still seated, staring at the desk, with his fingers tighten around the paper, his jaw clenched in a battle between restraint and anger.

“You're on over watch. Live cams, drone feed, comms. Nothing else.”

Francis's voice came out scraped raw. “You're benching me?”

“I'm keeping you alive,” Samson said. “Difference matters.”

He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick brown envelope, and set it in front of Francis.

“Lutho's personal effects. Death-benefit forms. His wife shouldn't get them from a stranger.”

Francis stared at the envelope like it was radioactive. When he finally took it, his fingers shook, just once.

Samson rested a soft hand on Francis's injured shoulder. Francis didn't lean into it.

At the door, Samson paused.

Francis spoke to the table, not loud. “There's more to this, sir. I can feel it.”

Samson's mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“Keep that thought close, Francis. You might be right.”

He walked out.

The door hissed shut.

Francis stayed seated, envelope clutched in his good hand, staring at the screen until the lights automatically dimmed and the room went black around him.

6 Three Musketeers

The promenade at the V&A Waterfront buzzed like it always did on a Friday evening - families spilling out of restaurants, tourists snapping photos of the massive Ferris wheel spinning lazily against the orange sky, and Table Mountain looming in the background like a silhouette. Seagulls dove for dropped chips near the harbour edge, squawking over the live marimba band playing upbeat covers by the water. The air carried salt from the Atlantic, mixed with the sweet smoke of boerewors rolls from a nearby vendor and the faint perfume drifting from open boutique doors.

Mia, Thembakazi, and Ayesha weaved through it all, dodging a street performer juggling fire torches while a crowd cheered. Thembakazi paused to drop a R50 note into the performer's bucket - "For the vibes!" - earning a dramatic bow and a wink from the guy.

"Remember that overpriced steakhouse with the view?" Thembakazi said, pointing at the harbour-side spot where waiters in crisp white shirts hustled trays of seafood platters.

Thembakazi laughed, bumping hips with a group of tourists posing for photos in front of the giant, Cape Town word. One of them asked in a thick accent if she'd take their picture; she obliged, framing the shot perfectly with the mountain behind.

A child holding an ice cream fell near the girls and Mia scooped the little guy up just in time, handed him back to his flustered mom, gave him a R20 note to buy another cone.

The little guy called Mia “mama” and the girls cracked up. “This might be a sign you'll be a mother, Mia” Thembakazi laughed. “Fokof.” Mia replied.

Inside the mall, fairy lights twinkled overhead like someone had bottled Christmas and let it loose. Perfume samples assaulted them from every direction, sales clerks shouted about 50 % off, and somewhere a baby was losing its mind over a balloon.

Ayesha stretched her arms above her head, blazer half-off, tie completely abandoned. “God, I needed this.”

Thembakazi smirked. “You live in that firm now. We're just… staging an intervention.”

“Rude but fair,” Ayesha laughed.

They wandered past various stores, past the sneaker store where Thembakazi pretended she wasn't eyeing the new Jayden drop. Then Mia stopped dead in front of a boutique window - black cocktail dresses on mannequins that looked like they cost more than rent.

“This might actually be the last time we do this carefree,” Mia said quietly. “Third year ends, internships hit, and then… real life.”

Thembakazi's usual comeback died on her tongue. She looked up at the lights instead, reflection dancing in her eyes.

Ayesha bumped Mia's shoulder. “Then we make it count.”

Neon green sign ahead: Smoothie King.

“Break?” Thembakazi asked, already steering them inside.

The place was half full. On the left, a couple sat hunched over a table covered in printed-out dating-app profiles. The girl looked ready to commit murder; the guy had his head in his hands while a group of teens behind them whispered and giggled.

Ayesha clocked it first. “Whoa, is she vetting him with screenshots?”

“Swipe left energy,” Thembakazi whispered.

Mia snorted so hard she almost walked into the counter.

Ten minutes later they emerged with Mia holding a mango-passionfruit smoothie, Thembakazi with something electric blue, Ayesha clutching strawberry-banana like it was medicine.

Thembakazi raised hers high. “Slay!”

Phones out. Selfie time.

First one: peace signs, fake model pouts.

Second: Thembakazi mid-sip, eyes crossed, smoothie threatening to spill.

Third: Ayesha photobombed by a passing toddler sticking out his tongue.

They scrolled through the shots, howling.

Mia stared at the screen a second longer than the others. In the photo, they looked invincible - sun-kissed and laughing like the future couldn‟t touch them.

“You almost looked like you're aunt.” Ayesha said, speaking to Mia.

She swallowed.

“Sometimes I wish we could just… freeze this,” she said, voice soft. “Right here.”

Thembakazi lowered her phone. “You good?”

Mia forced a grin. “I'm great. Just… time's moving too fast.”

Ayesha slung an arm around Mia's shoulders, pulled her close until their temples touched.

“Then we squeeze every second out of it.”

Thembakazi joined the huddle, arm around Ayesha.

Mia lifted her cup. “To the Three Musketeers.”

Clink.

Three plastic cups, cold and sticky, met in the middle.

For one quiet heartbeat, the mall noise faded, the lights blurred, and it was just them - laughing, alive, twenty-something and untouchable.

Then Thembakazi ruined it by yelling “One more selfie!” and they scattered, chasing the moment before it slipped away.

7 Wesley's Fate

The sun dipped lower, leaving an orange and purple hue in the sky. The living room glowed blue from the massive curved TV mounted above the fireplace. Empty chip packets and a half crushed can of cool drink littered the coffee table. Wesley Ngandu-Yvette, fourteen going on fifteen, sprawled across the L-shaped leather couch - one sneaker dangling off the armrest, the other planted on the plush rug now dusted with crumbs.

His fingers flew over the controller, eyes narrowed at the screen where his neon-wrapped drift car screamed around the final corner.

“You‟re dust, Jordan!” he crowed into the headset mic.

Jordan‟s voice came back calm, almost bored. “Okay.”

Wesley grinned wider. The finish line flashed ahead. First place locked.

Then Jordan‟s car - some matte-black monster with flaming exhaust - slipped from third to second in a heartbeat.

“Nah, nah, not today,” Wesley muttered, leaning forward.

Sharp turn coming. Virtual cliff on the right. Wesley nailed the handbrake… or thought he did. The back end stepped out too far. Tires smoked, then gave up. His car pinwheeled off the track and into the abyss.

“NO!”

He launched upright, sending the open chip bag airborne. Salt-and-vinegar snow rained across the rug.

On screen: WINNER – Player 2 „Jordan‟

Jordan‟s laugh crackled through the headset, low and victorious.

Wesley flopped back, arm over his eyes. “Bro, my tire literally fell off. That‟s a glitch.”

“Luck‟s a skill, lil cuz,” Jordan teased. “Next race we bet something real. Loser buys the new gamepass.”

Wesley perked up. “Deal. But we do it proper, maybe at the Expo this Saturday. They‟ve got that whole gaming lounge set up with the new rigs. I‟m ending you in front of everyone.”

A pause on the line. Jordan‟s voice dropped. “Might sit this one out, Wes. You know… my parents.”

Wesley‟s thumbs stilled on the controller.

“You don‟t have to talk to him,” Wesley said quickly. “Just hang with me. It‟s been forever since we properly chilled. You were grinding finals, while I was learning about photosynthesis.”

Jordan huffed a small laugh.“Maybe. I‟ll see.”

The low rumble of the garage door rolling up cut through the room. Wesley shot upright again.

“Shoot - My mom‟s home. Gotta move this setup before she sees the mess I made.”

He was already yanking cables, console warm against his chest.

“But real talk,” he whispered into the mic, “I‟ll ask if I can skip the Expo.”

Jordan scoffed. “Aunt Carmela? She‟ll give you moorse klap.”

They both cracked up.

“Safe, bro.”

Call ended.

Wesley had one foot on the stairs when the front door opened.

Carmela Ngandu-Yvette swept in - heels clicking, designer shopping bags swinging from both arms, keys jangling like wind chimes. She looked like she‟d just stepped off a magazine cover, even after a full day.

“Hey, baby,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her.

“Hey, Ma.” Wesley jogged over, relieving her of half the load. The bags were heavy - fabric rustling inside.

“There‟s more in the boot.”

He darted to the garage, popped the trunk of her black YMC Tenebris, and hauled out the rest.

By the time he got back, Carmela was already unpacking across the marble kitchen island: crisp white shirts, tailored black suits, silk ties, even a slim Seiko watch still in its velvet box.

Wesley set the bags down and hovered.

“Uh… Ma?”

“I know exactly what you‟re about to ask,” she said, giving him a knowing look.

“What you‟re wearing to the Expo, right?”

Wesley hesitates.

“Uh-“

She lights a sleek black suit one of the bags and laid it out like it was royal attire. “You‟ll match with your father… since he also likes suits.”

He forced a nod. “Looks… great. And Mia?”

Carmela smiled, soft and proud. “Mia‟s picking her own dress - she‟s in one of her moods. You know how she gets.”

She raises her eyes affectionately.

Wesley swallowed the protest he‟d rehearsed. Skipping wasn‟t an option. Not with the whole family expected to show face beside the upcoming YMC Expo.

“Thanks, Ma,” he mumbled, gathering the bag with his new clothes.

“Try it on tonight,” she called after him. “Make sure the sleeves aren‟t too long.”

He trudged upstairs, the weight of Saturday already pressing on his chest. Jordan might not show. Mia would probably spend the whole night glued to her friends. And he‟d be stuck smiling for cameras next to parents who still treated him like he was ten.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, looked down at the perfect suit in the bag, and felt smaller than ever.

Grade 8 starts Tuesday.

The Expo is Saturday.

8 Fitting Room

Upbeat music thumped through the speakers. Mia stood in front of the full-length mirror, tugging at a plain navy outfit that clung in all the right places.

Ayesha and Thembakasi sprawled on the velvet couch behind her, legs kicked up, smoothies in hand.

Ayesha made a face. “It‟s giving… nothing.”

Mia rolled her eyes and vanished behind the curtain.

A beat latter, she steps out in the next dress - sharper, bolder.

Thembakasi tilts her head. “Hmm… Nice. But it‟s not giving glow.”

Ayesha nodded. “You look like you‟re heading to close a merger, not an expo.”

“Maybe I am going to a board meeting.” Mia says flatly, adjusting the hem.

Thembakasi laughed.

Mia groaned and disappeared again.

Montage:

Mia in a form-fitting dress, smoothing out the fabric.

Thembikasi “It‟s too tight.”

Mia “I like this one.”

Ayesha “You could just… buy another.”

Mia in a bright dress, twirling before the mirror.

Thembikasi shook her head. “Still not you.”

Mia in another dress, arms crossed, looking at her unimpressed friends. “You two are impossible.”

Mia pulling at the hem of a dress, shifting uncomfortably as Ayesha and Thembs exchange a glance.

Ayesha “Yeah, no. Next.”

End Montage:

Mia rubbed her temples, patience thinning. She disappears one last time behind the curtain and re-emerges in the dress.

Sleek. Elegant. Deceptively simple. Clean lines. Understated power. The ambient light catches the fabric just right, hinting at quality without being over the-top. Mia steps forward, her fingers brushing the smooth material. She looks at herself.

Silence.

Ayesha froze mid-sip, straw still in her mouth, their eyes following her reflection in the mirror.

Thembakasi‟s eyebrows shot up. “Okay… that‟s a problem.”

“No coz, now you look gooooooooood,” Ayesha finished, slow grin spreading.

Mia turned, checking the side profile, the back. She turns slightly, catching different angles. For once, no complaints. Just quiet confidence.

“I think this is it,” she said, almost to herself.

Thembakasi leaned back, satisfied. “You don‟t think. You know.”

Ayesha smirked. “Finally.”

Mia faced the mirror one last time. The girl staring back didn‟t just wear the dress - she owned the room.

9 Fitting Room

Berkley Yvette lies comfortably under the bed sheets, the morning light filtering through the curtains. The alarm cut through the peaceful atmosphere like a blade. His eyes flutter open, adjusting to the new day.

Without thinking, his hand slid across the sheets to the pillow beside him, searching for the familiar warmth, the dip where her head should have been.

Cold. Empty. Perfectly smooth.

His fingers curled into the fabric for half a second before he let go.

He exhaled once, slow, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood.

Bathroom. Mirror. Water on his face, ice-cold. He watches himself for a moment, expression unreadable, then steps into the shower. Steam fills the room as he mentally prepares for the day ahead.

Sixteen minutes later he was back in the bedroom, buttoning a charcoal shirt, rolling the cuffs once. The rare platinum watch caught the morning light as he snapped it shut around his wrist.

Downstairs, the living room TV broadcasting a drag racing show.

Luz Yvette sat on the couch, legs crossed, notebook open, pen moving in sharp, elegant strokes. Her aura is composed, exuding quiet strength.

Berkeley walked in, semi-dressed for work. He greets his mother with a nod.

“Morning, Ma.”

“Morning, Berk.”

Lilly, the head maid and caretaker of Luz rolled in the breakfast cart in a pristine black-and-white uniform, carrying two trays - one for each of them.

“Tortilla Española and cappuccino for you, mama.” Lilly says.

“Thank you, Lilly.” Luz said, closing her notebook. Setting it aside as she acknowledges the meal.

Samp, beans, biltong crumbs, paired with freshly pressed green juice for Berkeley.

“Thanks.”

They bowed their heads.

Luz prayed, voice steady. “Father, we thank You for another day, for the blessings you provide, and for the strength to face what lies ahead. Soon, our family will be whole again. Guide us. Keep us. I pray, in the mighty name of my Lord and Saviour. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Berkeley nods, absorbing her words. Food hit plates - but something lingers beneath his composed exterior. Luz notices.

“It‟s not the expo that‟s troubling you, is it?”

Berkeley exhales, staring at the plate.

“Eish, these past years have been… hectic. Yorh. I keep wondering if I could have made better choices.”

“We all have our doubts. But when the time comes, we show up.”

Silence.

Then: “Ma. I need a favour. A big one.”

Luz sat up straight, looked him dead in the eye.

“What kind of favour?”

Berkeley hesitates, then meets her gaze.

10 Mandoe Deal

Jordan Yvette killed the engine and sat in the silence for three full seconds.

The building loomed ahead - glass and steel twisted into sharp angles, the massive "MANDOE INDUSTRIES" logo carved into the facade like a challenge. YMC's biggest rival. His family's mortal enemy in boardrooms and showrooms.

He stepped out and walked straight to the entrance.

Security guard in a black suit intercepted him ten feet from the doors.

"Can I help you?"

"Jordan Yvette. Here to see Gareth Mandoe."

The guard's eyes narrowed - just a flicker - before he nodded.

"Inside. Receptionist will take you."

The security pushed open the glass doors next to him.

Jordan didn't look back.

The lobby hit him like cold water - marble floors, employees in tailored suits moving fast, eyes flicking to him and away just as quick.

At the front desk, a poised receptionist in her mid-thirties looked up as Jordan approached, smile professional until recognition hit.

"A Yvette at Mandoe?" she said, voice low, amused. "Does your father know you‟re here?”

“Yes.” Jordan says, voice stern.

“Oh, then how can I assist you?"

"I‟d like to see the CEO."

The receptionist raised an eyebrow but didn't blink. She pressed a button.

"Boss? A Jordan Yvette's here to see you."

Pause.

"Send him up."

She stood. "This way."

Jordan‟s nerves were palpable, but his exterior remained composed. He follows her down a sleek corridor, their footsteps echoing in the vast space.

They reach the elevator. Jordan exhales deeply as the doors open.

Doors opened on the executive floor - the city sprawled out below through floor-to-ceiling windows.

She led him to double doors, knocked lightly, then pushed them open.

"Mr. Mandoe. Jordan Yvette is here."

Jordan stepped inside.