Not just with walls and tech and traps, but with the people who stood behind its purpose. With Kamau scrubbing dung off rubber boots, with Elijah baby-talking to calves when he thought no one was listening. With Nyah gripping the wheel of a Land Cruiser roaring into danger. With Wilson meditating in silence near the elephants, guarding more than just gates.

And with Bette.

At its centre.

Planning.

Waiting.

Daring the enemy to make the first move.

***

Chang stood at the edge of the infinity pool that spilled into the horizon like a taunt. The water was still, serene, mocking him with its quiet perfection. Behind him, the villa gleamed in soulless opulence; glass walls, teak-panelled eaves, imported stone that stayed cool underfoot even in the equatorial heat. It was a fortress of taste and power, custom-built to reflect control. And yet, at this moment, Chang was anything but in control.

He was losing.

Another intercepted shipment. Another silence from a trusted courier. Another hole punched through his meticulously crafted network. The pieces weren’t slipping, they were being ripped away. Someone was pulling the thread, and his empire was starting to fray.

With a guttural shout, he hurled the crystal tumbler in his hand across the patio. It hit the edge of a chaise lounge, shattering into glittering shards that scattered like a warning. A servant startled nearby, holding a tray of tea. Chang rounded on him instantly. “Don’t just stand there like a dumb goat. Clean it up!”

He paced the patio like a caged animal, shirt hanging open to reveal a coiled serpent tattoo slithering over his chest, its fangs poised near his collarbone, a gold chain glinting at his throat. His phone was in his hand, his thumb already aching from refreshing updates that never came, from messages sent into digital voids. Silence, silence, silence. And failure.

“Elijah,” he hissed the name under his breath, like a curse. He’d thought the man could be shaped into something valuable; a blunt instrument, yes, but one with a head for logistics and loyalty. Fool. The defection hadn’t just embarrassed him. It had exposed him. Now the firm, those puppeteers behind their desks, in their cold glass towers and colder suits were asking questions. And when they started asking, it meant his time was running short.

He kicked over a lounge chair, the crash against the tiles sharp and satisfying. Another servant appeared from inside the villa, hesitated, and was immediately waved away with a snarl. “Out. All of you. I don’t want to see a single one of your pathetic faces.”

As the staff vanished into doorways and shadows, Chang exhaled hard, trying to slow his breath. The air was too hot. The buzzing of insects too loud. He strode to the bar cart, poured a shot of vodka, and downed it like water. The burn barely registered.

He stared into the pool, seeing his reflection tremble in the shifting blue. “They think I’m some local puppet,” he muttered to himself. “Some placeholder. But I built this. Me.” He slammed the glass down again. “If I fall, it all falls.”

The firm would not tolerate failure. They didn’t care how far across the world he was stationed. To them, he was just a node, a cog, and if he jammed, he’d be replaced. Eliminated. But before that happened, before they sent someone to audit his blood and his accounts, he would take back control.

He couldn’t rely on his people. Half of them were spies, the other half idiots. No, if this was going to be salvaged, he’d have to do it himself. Find the weak link. Tear it out.

His eyes narrowed toward the west, where the dust of the conservancy rose like a smudge against the sky. The foundation.

They had started this.

He would finish it.