There was a small, crowded city where everyone hurried to build their dreams. But in a lonely apartment on 11th Avenue lived Kunle, a 29-year-old writer who hadn’t slept in seven days.

He had sold his sleep.

It started when he stumbled upon an online ad…“Exchange what you don’t need for what you desire. Contact: The Sleepless Broker.”Desperate to finish his upcoming novel and pay his rent, Kunle replied. That night, a tall man with eyes like burnt coals visited his home.
“You don’t have to sleep anymore” the broker said, handing him a black vial. “Just drink this. You will never need sleep again. Kunle thought it was perfect. For three days, he wrote endlessly. On the fourth day, he cleaned his entire building. On the fifth, he memorised a dictionary. By the sixth, he began to hear whispers in silent rooms, and shadows moved at the edge of his eyes. On the seventh day, he finally saw them pale, eyeless figures crawling across his ceiling, whispering secrets of a world beyond his understanding. His hands shook as he typed the final line of his novel. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He was a genius now. But outside, at dawn, neighbors gathered around the building, pointing up at his window. Inside, Kunle sat smiling at his finished manuscript, eyes wide open, as sleep stolen from him forever crawled towards his soul to take its due in another form.