The warehouse smelled like secrets.
Zukhanyi stood in the doorway, torchlight flickering across overturned bags, shattered buckets, and black powder scattered like warning signs.
"No forced entry," she said, crouching low.
"Then they had a key," Naledi whispered behind her.
Lutho arrived minutes later, panic in his breath. "I swear I locked everything. Only you, me, and Sipho have access."
They all looked at each other.
But Sipho hadn't been seen in two days.
We lost 12 bags of charcoal. Not stolen — destroyed.
Slashed open. Ground into dust.
A message. Not for money, but to shake us.
Naledi ran her fingers over a deep gash in one of the wooden crates.
She stared at it for a long time before speaking.
"This wasn't random."
I nodded. "This was personal."
The Olwethu shipment was due in 72 hours.
Twenty thousand rands.
We couldn't afford to fall short.
Zukhanyi moved fast — rewrote the production schedule, called in two night crews, and had Lutho bring in family from Hammarsdale to help.
The fire pits burned all night.
By dawn, Naledi's hands were black, her eyes bloodshot.
She leaned on the table and whispered, "They won't break us."
That morning, I got a call from an unknown number.
Not private.
Just… hidden.
"Hello?"
A man's voice.
Calm. Measured.
"I see you're climbing again," he said.
"Who is this?"
"I used to work in Social Welfare. Long time ago. Back when you were just a file number."
My blood froze.
"Nomathemba Dlamini," he said smoothly. "I've been following your story since you disappeared."
I didn't respond.
He continued, "You're clever. Brave. But bravery only works when no one knows your weaknesses."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to remember one thing."
A pause. Then—
"Ashes can be reborn. Or they can choke."
He hung up.
I didn't tell Naledi everything right away.
Instead, I added new cameras to the storage units. Changed the locks. And had Sipho replaced with Anele's cousin — a woman we trusted with our lives.
Still, the fear lingered.
It sat in our beds. In the space between kisses. In the way Naledi flinched when the dogs barked too loud.
But even fear couldn't stop the shipment.
48 hours later, two trucks arrived.
Stacked. Sealed. Ready.
Olwethu's assistant — a quiet woman in dark glasses — checked every crate, nodded once, and handed us an envelope.
Inside: R20,000. In cash.
Naledi stared at it.
Tears rolled down her face.
"We did it."
I smiled, holding her close. "And we'll do it again."
That night, as we counted every note, a new thought whispered in my mind.
If this is what we can earn in one week… how far could we go in one year?
But we didn't see the figure watching from the treeline.
Tall. Quiet. Hidden.
A phone in their hand.
A photo taken through the trees.
Naledi. Me. Holding the money.
The caption typed beneath it:
"Target confirmed. Prepare next phase."