Ethan was still awake when he heard it.
Not waves.
Not wind.
Footsteps.
Light. Careful. Human.
He raised one hand to stop Lena from speaking, then killed the visible flame down to embers with a controlled spread of sand.
Darkness swallowed the camp.
Another step. Closer this time.
Ethan moved to the side of the supply stack, spear low, breathing shallow. Lena gripped the metal cup like a weapon, knuckles white.
A shadow slid past the driftwood windbreak.
Then another.
Two intruders.
They weren't scouting for conversation.
They went straight for the storage line.
Ethan waited until one crouched at the food bag, then moved.
Fast. Silent. Violent.
He slammed the first intruder shoulder-first into the sand and drove the spear shaft across his chest. The second figure bolted, tripped on rope, and fell hard near the fire pit.
Lena kicked the fallen lighter away before he could grab it.
"Don't move!" Ethan snapped.
The first intruder coughed and raised both hands.
Under moonlight, Ethan finally saw his face.
One of Zhao's followers.
The second man rolled, groaning, and Ethan recognized him too.
Not random.
Not hungry drifters.
Targeted theft.
"What were you taking?" Ethan asked.
No answer.
Ethan pressed the spear harder. "Wrong answer."
"Food," the first man choked out. "Just food."
"Liar."
He gestured with his chin. Lena checked the second man's jacket and pulled out more than ration bars: cordage, a metal hook, and one of Ethan's marked route stakes—stolen from near their freshwater path.
So that was the real objective.
Not food.
Navigation intel.
Lena's voice was cold. "They were mapping us."
Ethan nodded once.
Minutes later, raised voices echoed from the beach as Mercer arrived with two people and a torch. He took one look at the scene and closed his eyes briefly.
"Again?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Zhao appeared behind him a moment later, furious and theatrical.
"This is absurd," Zhao said. "You attack my men in the dark and call it justice?"
Ethan tossed the stolen stake at his feet.
"Your men were stealing route markers," he said. "You don't send two people at midnight for a snack."
Zhao opened his mouth, then stopped when Mercer picked up the stake and recognized the carving pattern.
Mercer's face hardened. "Is this yours?"
Neither follower answered.
That was answer enough.
For the first time, Mercer didn't hedge.
"You two are done," he said. "No rations from central stock for forty-eight hours. No access to planning. You report only to me."
Zhao stepped in. "You can't make that decision unilaterally."
Mercer turned on him. "Watch me."
Silence dropped like a blade.
The camp line had shifted.
Ethan released pressure on the spear and stepped back, but his tone stayed lethal.
"Next breach won't end with restraint," he said. "Take that message back to everyone."
Mercer nodded once. Zhao said nothing.
When they left, the beach swallowed their torchlight.
Lena sat down slowly, adrenaline shaking through her shoulders.
"They're escalating fast."
Ethan reignited a small controlled flame and checked every bag, every tool, every marker.
"Yeah," he said. "And now they know we won't just absorb it."
He looked inland toward the stream route, then out toward Mercer's fractured camp.
"The lines are drawn now."
Lena watched him in the firelight. "Do we still stay?"
"For now," Ethan said. "But we accelerate contingency plans tomorrow."
He fed one more branch into the flame and listened to the island breathe around them.
No rescue lights.
No second chances.
Only pressure, choices, and consequences.
Night wasn't over.
But the illusion was.