The decision to leave Nigeria didn’t come with trumpets or breakdowns or some dramatic final sunrise. It came quietly, like a slow breath after drowning, the kind that burns on the way in because your lungs have forgotten what air is supposed to feel like, and for Zayn, whose entire rise had been tethered to the red dust of Surulere beneath his feet, the crowded markets of Aba, the silent grief of Port Harcourt oil fields and the idea of walking away felt like betrayal, not to the mission, but to the boy he had once been, the one who swore he’d never run like his father had, never fold like his mother begged him to. But now, with Adanna’s life at risk, his own team fracturing under pressure, and shadow enemies rewriting the rules of engagement daily, escape didn’t feel like weakness, it felt like survival and so he began preparing not for exile, but for continuity, designing an operational structure for DYN Holdings that would function without him at the helm, setting up encrypted com