R20,000 lay on the table.
Stacked in neat rows, the cash looked unreal — like something borrowed from someone else's dream.
Naledi ran her fingers across the bundles. "You remember the first month? We made R200 and thought it was victory."
I smiled. "It was."
We didn't spend the money fast.
Instead, we split it three ways:
R5,000 toward upgrading security cameras and warehouse locks.
R10,000 into a savings vault with no names attached.
R5,000 for paying night crews who pulled 48-hour shifts to save the order.
But just as we planned the next shipment, a storm began to stir from inside.
Sipho returned.
Unannounced.
Unapologetic.
He stood at the warehouse entrance with a cigarette in his mouth and a smirk on his face.
"I hear you girls are rich now," he said.
Naledi stepped forward. "You disappeared for four days without word."
"Family funeral," he shrugged.
"You didn't answer your phone."
"I didn't know I had to."
Zukhanyi narrowed her eyes. "The last time you were here, we were broken into."
Sipho didn't blink. "So now you're accusing me?"
"No," Naledi said softly. "We're firing you."
He laughed. "You two really think this little business can survive without men?"
"Watch us," Zukhanyi said.
He didn't argue.
But as he walked away, he said something low under his breath.
"Y'all better watch your backs. You're not the only ones who know how to start a fire."
Later that night, Anele came to us, panic in her voice.
"I overheard something," she said, breathless. "Sipho's talking to someone from the same office that investigated you."
Naledi and I locked eyes.
"Which office?"
"Social Welfare… the ones from before. He mentioned a name—"
She paused.
"Ngubane."
My chest tightened.
Ngubane had been the deputy in charge of the orphanage records. He was the one who ordered the girls to be punished. If he was still alive — and still in power — we were in more danger than we thought.
Naledi paced the room.
"Zukhanyi," she said, "you need to tell me something. All of it."
I nodded.
I told her everything.
About the fire.
About the six bodies.
About how I never saw the faces of those who died — just the screams behind locked doors.
"I didn't light it to kill," I whispered. "I lit it to free us. But I waited too long."
Naledi didn't speak.
She just took my hand.
"You were a child," she said. "They made you feel like you were the devil. But you were just trying to escape hell."
The next day, an envelope was left at the door.
No stamp. No name.
Inside: a single photo.
Naledi. Tied to a chair. Fake blood across her mouth.
It wasn't real. But it was meant to be a warning.
And on the back of the photo, in black marker:
"Next time, it won't be fake."
We activated every plan.
Cameras. Locks. Emergency bags.
But still… we weren't ready.
That night, as we lay in bed, Naledi curled into me and whispered, "Promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"If they come for us — don't run without me."
I kissed her forehead.
"We don't survive unless we survive together."