Killmonger's POV — Months Later
The desert night used to be quiet.
Not peaceful—quiet. A kind of dead silence that swallowed footsteps, swallowed thoughts, swallowed guilt.
Tonight, that silence felt wrong. Charged. As if the air itself was waiting for something to break.
Killmonger sat alone at the far end of the outpost, boots planted in red sand, back resting against a half-collapsed wall. The moon cast long shadows over the ruins—ancient stone eaten away by centuries of wind. His knife spun between his fingers, catching dim shafts of silver light.
He didn't sleep much anymore.
Couldn't.
Because for the first time since arriving in this world…
he was no longer sure where the threat was coming from.
Inside the outpost, half a dozen rebel commanders argued over a map projected from a scavenged Wakandan holo-device. Their voices leaked through the cracked walls—words about formation, artillery positions, border movements, and the next phase of escalation.
Killmonger barely heard them.
His focus was on the dark horizon.
Something had shifted.
Months ago, their movements were clear. Predictable. Calculated.
But in the last weeks—intel had gone missing. Files had been wiped. Messages had failed to arrive. Men he trusted had begun acting… strange.
And deaths.
Accidents—but too many of them.
Someone was playing a deeper game.
And they were playing it well.
A soft crunch of footsteps behind him. Not hostile. Familiar.
"Still awake?"
Nakia's voice—low, tired, but steady—broke the tension.
Killmonger didn't turn.
"If I sleep, I miss things."
"You mean if you sleep, you become a target."
"Same thing."
She sat beside him, keeping a careful distance. Enough to show respect. Enough to show she wasn't a threat.
Her eyes followed his—toward the horizon.
"You feel it too," he said.
She didn't deny it.
"The border tribes are moving strangely. And the Jabari have cut off two of their usual routes. And your messages to Achara?" She paused. "None of them have been delivered."
"I know."
"You think it's infiltration?"
Killmonger exhaled, long and slow.
"I think it's betrayal."
Silence settled between them—heavy, suffocating.
Nakia finally spoke.
"You should tell them. The commanders inside."
"And start a panic?" He scoffed. "No. Not until I know who I'm hunting."
Nakia looked at him carefully.
"Or who is hunting you."
A message pinged on Killmonger's wrist-com. A single vibrating pulse. One he had programmed for only one thing:
Compromise.
Level Red.
Origin: Internal.
His chest tightened.
Someone inside the outpost had just attempted to access encrypted files that only three people were allowed to touch.
And two of them were standing out here.
He shot to his feet.
Nakia stood too.
"Who?"
"I'll know in thirty seconds."
He strode back toward the outpost, boots kicking up sand, knife sliding silently back into its sheath.
Nakia followed, hand brushing the grip of her ring blades.
Inside, the commanders were still arguing. But the moment Killmonger stepped over the threshold, the arguing died.
Men straightened.
Eyes shifted.
Tension spread like oil on water.
Someone here had made a move.
Someone had overplayed their hand.
His HUD flickered to life—tracking heat signatures, nanotech readings, electromagnetic residue. Each signature tagged in yellow.
Until one flashed red.
KAMBA — Logistics Officer.
Access violation detected.
Location: Communications room.
Killmonger didn't shout.
Didn't accuse.
He simply walked—slow, cold, deliberate—toward the back corridor where the communications chamber sat. Each of his steps echoed, long and metallic, like gears preparing for war.
Nakia whispered sharply,
"Erik—don't kill him in front of everyone."
"I'm not killing him."
He reached the steel door and hit the panel.
The door slid open—
—and Kamba froze, hand still hovering above the holo-console.
Files—Killmonger's files—glowed on the screen behind him.
Not rebel reports.
Not border strategies.
These were the plans Erik hadn't shared with anyone.
The real ones.
Diversions.
Sleeper cells.
Central African supply routes.
The weapons caches and fallback alignments only he knew.
The ones meant for the final phase.
Kamba's eyes darted between Killmonger and the screen.
"It's… not what it looks like."
Killmonger stepped inside.
One step.
Another.
His shadow swallowed the room.
"Then explain it," he said quietly.
"I—I was checking for corruption. I thought the files were compromised—"
The holo-screen flickered.
A second ID tag appeared.
Kamba hadn't been extracting data.
He had been uploading it.
Outside the outpost.
To an unknown receiver.
"Kamba," Killmonger said softly, "who gave the order?"
The man swallowed hard.
His hand trembled.
"It—it wasn't—"
A gunshot cracked across the room.
Kamba's eyes widened.
Blood blossomed across his chest.
He collapsed forward—dead before he hit the floor.
Killmonger didn't even flinch.
But he turned.
Slowly.
Coldly.
And saw the silhouette standing in the doorway—rifle smoking, face half-hidden in shadow.
A familiar face.
A trusted face.
Commander Yado.
Nakia gasped.
"You—?!"
Yado didn't lower the gun.
Didn't look away.
"He was a traitor," Yado said, voice firm. "You saw the data. He was selling us out. I acted fast."
Killmonger studied him—silent, unblinking.
Because the shot…
was too clean.
Too immediate.
Too perfectly timed.
Almost as if Yado was silencing the only man who knew the truth.
Nakia looked between them.
"Erik…"
Killmonger spoke, voice quiet as a blade sliding free.
"Yado. Who was he sending the files to?"
"I told you—someone outside the network. The signal was Wakandan. Maybe T'Challa's spies. Maybe—"
"No," Killmonger said.
"Not Wakanda."
He stepped closer.
"It was you."
The room went still.
Yado tensed—just a fraction, but enough.
Enough for Killmonger.
Because a man who shoots a traitor should feel justified.
Relieved.
Even angry.
But Yado looked… afraid.
Nakia's grip tightened on her blades.
"Yado," Killmonger breathed, "you've been feeding someone information for months. And now you're cleaning your tracks."
Yado exhaled shakily.
Then—
He raised his rifle.
Killmonger moved first.
He slammed Yado's arm upward as the rifle fired into the ceiling. The two men crashed into the corridor wall, metal ringing beneath the impact. Yado grunted, elbow striking out—but Killmonger caught it, twisted, and drove the man face-first into the opposite wall.
"Who are you working for?!" Killmonger roared, voice shaking with fury.
But Yado only spat blood and laughed—broken, desperate.
"You think you're the only one with a plan?"
He slammed his forehead into Killmonger's jaw.
Slipped his arm free.
And tried to flee down the hallway.
Nakia threw a blade—pinning Yado's coat to the wall and stopping him short.
Killmonger caught him by the collar, ripped him loose, and slammed him down onto the metal floor.
"WHO?!"
Spit flew from his teeth.
His voice cracked like thunder.
Yado's breathing hitched.
Then the man whispered:
"Wakanda… isn't your only enemy."
A beeping sound chirped.
Killmonger's eyes flicked down.
Yado's belt—
A small device—
Blinking red—
A remote detonator.
Killmonger's instincts exploded.
"Nakia—MOVE!"
He hurled her backward—
Just as the outpost erupted.
A deep, throat-tearing explosion ripped through the eastern wing, sending steel and sand into a roaring ball of fire.
The ground bucked.
The ceiling caved.
Men screamed.
Killmonger felt himself thrown backward, slammed into a pillar, vision blurring white.
Through the smoke and flame, Yado's last words echoed in his skull:
"Wakanda isn't your only enemy."
Then the night—
the silence—
the world—
collapsed.