It was a trap built for suffering.

Kamau had always set them in spirals, layered, hidden, tensioned with branches and weights. Once something stepped in, every movement only drew the snare tighter. They were built for strength, not mercy. Designed to bring down bushbuck, warthogs even the occasional hyena but built to kill slowly.

And Chang had walked straight into it.

His once-daunting frame was twisted now, pinned like a broken insect in a web of his own miscalculations. He had likely been there for hours, slowly drained of strength as dawn broke around him.

Bette stared, motionless for a moment, as if her brain refused to catch up to what she was seeing.

And then, she laughed.

It cracked out of her, wild and dry. First just a breath, then a huff, then something bigger, uncontrollable. She bent slightly at the waist, one hand pressed to her ribs. The sound was jagged, like glass rattling in her throat.

Nyah stepped up beside her, eyes wide, uncertain. “Bette…?”

Elijah caught sight of the scene and froze, his mouth opening and closing once. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Bette waved them off weakly, still laughing, tears beginning to streak down her soot-smudged cheeks.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “It’s one of Kamau’s. His best. I told him they were too brutal. Too complicated. Too much.”

Her voice cracked with something that wasn’t just amusement. There was exhaustion in it, and sorrow, and disbelief all tangled together.

Nyah crouched beside her, blinking hard as she looked at Chang, then at the snare. “You’re serious?”

As if on cue, Chang shifted, just slightly, but it was enough. The barbed wire bit deeper into his side, drawing a strangled grunt from his throat. His face twisted in pain. One leg gave a weak, involuntary jerk, and the coils of the trap responded mercilessly, tightening, cutting.

He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet theirs, wild, glazed, and full of panic.

Nyah flinched at the sound. “God,” she whispered. “That thing was meant for a buffalo.”

Bette’s expression didn’t soften. “Or poachers,” she said flatly. “Kamau made sure it worked both ways.”

Elijah let out a short, stunned breath, then snorted, just once, despite himself. “He got himself caught in one of Kamau’s traps.”

Bette nodded, wiping her face with her sleeve. “The more you fight it, the tighter it gets. It’s… it’s almost beautiful.”

Elijah took a step closer, eyes locked on Chang’s bound, crumpled figure. His voice was low, half disbelief, half grim satisfaction. “Never thought I’d see him like this,” he said. “Helpless. After everything… it’s a damn relief.”

Bette stood slowly, legs trembling beneath her. Her voice dropped low, the laughter drying on her lips.

“Too right,” she said. “It’s poetic justice.”

Nyah glanced between them, then back down at the mess of blood and wire. The warriors said nothing, still standing like carved statues, their spears unwavering.

For a beat, the three of them stood there in silence, watching the man who had brought hell to their doorstep now shackled by it.

Kamau’s ghost lingered in that wire, in every twist of metal, every cruel barb. And for a fleeting second, Bette could almost feel him there beside her, watching, satisfied.

She closed her eyes, breathed in the smoke-tinged air, and let the justice settle like dust.