School had just ended at Charleston High. The golden sun dipped behind the city skyline as a sleek, black 2024 Lincoln limousine purred away from the gates. Inside, sitting at the farthest end of the leather seat, was Chuks, a 17-year-old prodigy whose classmates both admired and resented in equal measure.

Brilliant, outspoken, fearless in debate—yet, paradoxically, reclusive. Nobody really knew why. Some whispered it was because his father, Chief Obidike, was not just wealthy but one of the most feared men back in Nigeria. Others swore Chuks secretly thought himself better than everyone, a narcissist cloaked in silence. Whatever the reason, Chuks carried a cold distance that made him untouchable.

Today, he was unusually broody. Not because school was over, but because from Charleston he was headed straight to the airport—then back to Nigeria. He hated it there.

As he boarded his father’s private jet, a thought clawed at him: he hadn’t seen his mother in months, not even heard her voice. The last memory he had was a wound that refused to close—catching her in a compromising embrace with Micah, their pilot. The betrayal had scarred him. Micah knew Chuks had seen it, yet carried on flying their family as if nothing had happened.

Chuks had sworn to keep the secret buried—for the family’s sake, to protect his father’s legacy. But every night, the vision returned: Micah’s hands on his mother. And in those dreams, Chuks killed him a thousand ways.

Now, at 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, fate whispered his chance.

He walked quietly into the cockpit, his school compass clenched in his fist. Micah looked up, startled, but before he could speak, Chuks drove the sharp metal point into his neck. Blood spattered the cabin. The pilot gagged, choking on his own breath.

Unflinching, Chuks pressed the radio:

“Mayday, mayday—Flight 11232 going down near Abuja.”

Even as he spoke, he stabbed again—this time into Micah’s eye. The man’s scream was swallowed by the roar of the engines. His hands clawed helplessly at the controls as the jet tilted into a deadly descent.

Calm but trembling, Chuks strapped on a parachute. He looked back at the blood-soaked cockpit one last time.

“Happy landing, Micah,” he whispered coldly, before pulling the hatch and leaping into the night sky.

The wind howled around him as Abuja’s lights drew closer. When he landed, bruised but alive, he pulled out his phone and dialed the authorities. His voice was steady, almost detached.

“This is Chuks Obidike. Flight 11232 is down. Send help.”

The boy genius had just committed his first sin.