Wilson stood by quietly, his usual confidence tempered by the gravity of the moment. He gave Elijah a brief, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement, but stayed silent.

Bette’s gaze never wavered from Elijah’s face, the suspicion still clear in her eyes. “You’re asking me to trust you. Trust that after everything you’ve been a part of, you’re suddenly on the right side of this. I don’t know if I can.”

There was a long pause before Elijah spoke again, quieter this time. “I know. But if there’s any chance of stopping him, if there’s any chance of making things right… I’m here to help. I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. Not Chang, not any of it.”

Bette looked away briefly, her mind turning. This was far from easy. There was too much at stake. But she couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility of new leverage. With a sharp inhale, she returned her gaze to him, still unsure, but willing to listen.

“You’re asking for a second chance,” Bette said slowly. “But it’s not just about you anymore. You’ve got to show me you’re serious. Help us get to Chang. Help me protect everyone here, or this conversation is over.”

Elijah nodded, resolve hardening in his chest. “I’ll do whatever it takes.

Bette took a steady breath, her gaze shifting toward the van. “The man in there, is he injured?”, her voice was still heavy.

Bottom of Form

Elijah nodded once. “A little perhaps, but not badly. I tied him up but the trails are not really comfortable. He may have been jostled around some….”

“Bring him in there,” Bette ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument. “I have some supplies in here.”

***

Kamau staggered as his feet hit the ground, legs stiff from hours cramped in the metal shell of the van. His wrists were still bound, the rope leaving angry, raw welts on his dark, dirt-smeared skin. His clothes were soaked with dried sweat, clinging to his wiry frame, and the sharp, sour scent of sweat, fear and exhaustion drifted off him in waves.

His face was gaunt, hollowed by sleeplessness, eyes sunken and bloodshot, darting anxiously around the compound like a cornered animal. There was no bravado, no defiance, only the tight, shallow breathing of someone who had been waiting for the flash of a blade that, so far, had not come.