He was unravelling, no longer the cold strategist, but a man scorched by humiliation and loss of control. His failure to predict Elijah’s defection and betrayal had shaken him. The collapse of his poaching routes, the seizures of stockpiled ivory and horn, the unravelling of a once impenetrable network all pointed back to her. To Bette.

“You’re going to ruin this if you go in too fast,” the wiry man warned, stepping slightly between Chang and the bags of accelerants. “Let us finish clearing the traps. They’ve upgraded everything. Motion sensors, plate triggers. You trip the wrong one, we lose our advantage.”

Chang narrowed his eyes and stared at the man for a long moment, breathing hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. Then, finally, he took a step back.

“Five minutes,” he said, low. “No more.”

They moved in a slow, deliberate formation, sweeping the perimeter, avoiding the known traps, whispering signals between them. They knew where the blind spots were, where the cameras didn’t quite catch. But the house was still a fortress. They’d have to move carefully.

Inside, Bette and Nyah sat in the glow of the monitors. The soft hum of the machines filled the room, the only light coming from the flickering screens that danced across their faces in pale tones. Nyah’s finger hovered over the directional pad, flipping between angles, south gate, west fence, holding pens, outer brush.

And then she stopped.

“Wait,” she said, voice sharp.

Bette leaned in. One monitor showed a figure, unmistakable. Even from the skewed camera angle, even through the distance and grain, there was no mistaking the man in the black windbreaker and gold chain, standing near the treeline like a harbinger.

“It’s him,” Nyah breathed.

Bette didn’t respond immediately. She stared at the screen, her mouth slightly open, her pulse roaring in her ears. A slow, icy dread crept into her chest.

Chang had come himself.

“That’s not all,” Bette said, her voice barely more than a breath. Her face had gone pale, the colour draining so fast it looked as if the realization had physically struck her. Her eyes locked on the screen, wide and unblinking, and a tremor rippled through her hand as she slowly reached forward, pointing. “They’re not just here to scare us,” she whispered. “They’re going to burn everything.” Her voice cracked on the last word. The horror was plain on her face now, raw, stunned, and complete as if she were watching a nightmare crawl off the screen and into the room with them.

Nyah followed her gaze, three silhouettes moving with calculated care, weaving between the trees like shadows, each burdened with something bulky and metallic. The shapes resolved into jerrycans. Gasoline.

Nyah’s jaw clenched as she toggled another camera, this one caught the fourth figure stepping into view. Chang. There was no mistaking him this time. He moved like a man who had discarded all patience, his rage almost palpable even on the pixelated feed. He spoke to the others, gesturing violently, his hands slicing the air. “He’s not just here,” Nyah muttered. “He’s ready to finish it.” They watched him drop a rag into one of the jerrycans, testing the scent with a grim sort of satisfaction.