The Lexus glided through Kelapa Gading's manicured streets like a predator stalking prey, its obsidian exterior reflecting the gated mansions and ivory condominiums of Jakarta's elite. Inside the chilled cabin, Bintang—the cerebral "Master Mind" of the Black Sorrow syndicate—tapped his fingers against a holographic tablet, its cerulean glow casting jagged shadows across his angular face. A silver serpent pendant coiled around his throat, its ruby eyes glinting like twin embers, while his leather jacket, studded with obsidian clasps, exuded a faint musk of sandalwood and gun oil. Every detail was curated: the calculated disarray of his tousled hair, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the way his thumb absently traced the edge of the tablet as if it were a weapon.
Beside him, Putri—the syndicate's "Witch"—hummed a discordant melody, her porcelain fingers meticulously painting her nails a venomous onyx. Her lace dress, black as a starless sky, pooled around her like spilled ink, contrasting starkly against the car's ivory leather seats. A ruby stud pierced her nostril, catching the light with every tilt of her head, while kohl-rimmed eyes, sharp and unblinking, stared at nothing and everything. She was a paradox: fragile as bone china, lethal as a shiv to the ribs.
Bintang tossed the tablet aside, its holographic display dissolving into static. "Put. Felix mentioned you encountered a Dragon. Someone even you couldn't profile." His voice was silk over steel, the kind of tone that masked curiosity as indifference.
Putri blew on her nails, the ruby stud glinting. "Not just a Dragon. There's… interference." She tapped her temple, silver rings clinking softly. "Like static pressing against my skull. Their energy's cloaked."
Bintang's smirk dissolved. The Black Sorrow thrived on secrets—this was a chink in their armor. "Cloaked by whom?"
"Not the government. Something older." Putri's gaze sharpened, a shard of ice. "Primal. Like the island itself is hiding them."
Outside, Jakarta's skyline loomed—a labyrinth of glass and greed where their syndicate, a hive of millennial hackers and digital mercenaries, pulled strings from the shadows. Bintang drummed his fingers on the armrest, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap syncopating with his thoughts. "Find them. Before they dismantle us."
The Messenger
Beneath the flickering fluorescents of Blok M subway station, Felix—a wraith in a frayed bomber jacket—melted into the crowd. His sneakers squeaked against cracked tiles slick with spilled soda and rain, the air thick with the stench of fried oil and desperation. Vendors hawked sate ayam from rickety carts, their voices competing with the tinny beats of pirated K-pop blasting from phone speakers. A street performer strummed a guitar missing two strings, his voice gravelly as he mangled a Coldplay ballad.
Felix's eyes—cold and calculating behind wire-rimmed glasses—scanned the chaos. The performer's gaze locked onto his, a silent signal: a flick of the wrist, a nod. Felix veered into a grimy alcove where the man crouched, his guitar case littered with coins and cigarette butts.
"Jul's intel. Where?" Felix's voice was a rasp, barely audible over the screech of arriving trains.
The performer grinned, gold-capped teeth glinting. "Can't hang, Brother Felix. But…" He mimed typing on a phone, his grin widening.
Felix slid an envelope thick with rupiah into the man's calloused palm. "Make it quick."
The performer tapped his cracked screen. A photo flashed: a neon-lit arcade, its sign spelling Melawai Addict Gamers in pulsating pink. Coordinates followed.
"Pleasure doing business," the man purred, vanishing into the throng like smoke.
Felix adjusted his sling bag, its contents clinking—a laptop encrypted with military-grade software, burner phones stripped of GPS, a stun gun disguised as a power bank. "Melawai," he muttered. "Let's play."
Gamers' Gambit
The arcade was a cathedral of chaos, its air thick with the stench of sweat, stale pizza, and the acrid tang of energy drinks. Teens hunched over monitors, their faces bathed in the sickly glow of screens as joysticks clattered and keyboards clacked. Felix weaved past a Dota 2 tournament, the crowd roaring as a team annihilated their rivals in a pixelated bloodbath. A kid in a Fortnite hoodie slammed his fist on a table, sending a pyramid of Red Bull cans toppling.
At the management office, a hulking guard with a dragon tattoo snarling across his neck nodded at Felix. "He's in the VIP lounge. Final round's in overtime."
Felix smirked. "Tell him I don't like waiting."
An hour later, the door creaked open. Rico—a lanky teen with a patchy goatee and a Naruto headband—slunk in, his cargo pants sagging under the weight of nerves. Behind him hovered Astrid, a petite girl in a hijab patterned with pixelated hearts, her eyes darting like a sparrow's.
"S-sorry, Bang Felix," Rico stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. "The match went into sudden death—"
Felix raised a hand, silencing him. He tossed a folder onto the table, its contents spilling out: bank statements flagged with red ink, a map of South Jakarta riddled with pins, and a grainy photo of Prof. Rhinno exiting a government van.
"Ustad sent you?" Felix's tone was deceptively mild, a spider assessing its prey.
Rico nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. "H-he said you'd fund the pesantren. In exchange…" He slid a letter across the table—a plea for resources, signed by the seminary's elders in trembling script.
Felix skimmed it, then leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Where're you staying?"
"Nowhere. We've been couch-surfing since we left." Astrid's voice was steady, but her knuckles whitened around her phone, its cracked screen displaying a paused game of Mobile Legends.
Felix unzipped his bag, producing two keycards embossed with the Grand Mahakam Hotel's logo. "Suite on the 12th floor. Use the lobby Wi-Fi—it's encrypted." He paused, studying Rico's headband. "And lose the anime merch. Makes you memorable."
Rico flushed. Astrid pocketed the keys, her gaze sharp. "What's the catch?"
Felix smiled, a wolf baring its teeth. "Be ready when I call."
The Professor's Predicament
At Sakura No Ma, an upscale Japanese restaurant nestled in Menteng's tree-lined streets, Prof. Rhinno sipped matcha tea, his nose buried in a leather-bound tome titled Bio-Evolution: The Unseen Frontier. The scent of seared wagyu and miso broth mingled with the soft chime of wind bells, a fragile tranquility. Sunlight filtered through bamboo blinds, dappling the polished oak tables with golden fractals.
A shadow fell over his table.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
Bintang stood there, his leather jacket replaced by a tailored charcoal blazer, its lapel pin a tiny obsidian serpent. He slid into the seat opposite Rhinno, uninvited, his cologne—smoky, expensive—clashing with the delicate aroma of green tea.
Rhinno's grip tightened on his teacup, the porcelain threatening to crack. "No entourage today? How… modest."
Bintang flagged a waiter with a flick of his wrist. "Omakase menu. And a bottle of Yamazaki 18." He turned to Rhinno, his smile razor-thin. "You look well. For a relic."
Rhinno's jaw twitched. "Your father would—"
"—spin in his grave?" Bintang chuckled, low and mirthless. "Let him. I've rewritten his legacy."
The air thickened. Suddenly, the restaurant froze—waiters mid-stride, steam suspended above teacups, a fly halted mid-buzz. Time itself held its breath.
Rhinno's eyes widened, his teacup trembling. "You've mastered spatial stasis."
Bintang leaned closer, his voice a velvet threat. "You drafted the equations, sensei. But you lacked the stomach to use them." He dropped a stack of thousand-dollar bills on the table. Enjoy the sushi. It'll be your last meal in peace."
As Bintang strode out, time snapped back. The fly buzzed on. Rhinno's teacup clattered against its saucer, matcha sloshing over the rim.
Five youths, he thought, recalling Sebastian's determination and Thalia's fiery grit. Unite them. Before Bintang turns them to ash.
The Camp's Whisper
Nightfall draped Jakarta in neon, the city's pulse quickening as the Black Sorrow's headquarters stirred to life beneath a derelict textile factory. The entrance—a rusted freight elevator—descended into a subterranean lair humming with the whir of servers and the glow of a hundred monitors. Exposed pipes dripped condensation onto concrete floors, and the air tasted of ozone and burnt coffee.
Putri descended the catwalk, her boots echoing like funeral drums. Below, hackers—hoodied, caffeinated, lethal—typed furiously, their faces lit by the ghostly light of code. The air crackled with the static of stolen data and whispered betrayals. A teenager with neon-green hair cursed in Mandarin as he bypassed a firewall, while another girl, no older than sixteen, siphoned cryptocurrency from a Swiss bank account.
Bintang awaited her at a glass-encased workstation, his fingers flying across a holographic keyboard. "Well?"
Putri tossed a file onto the desk. Surveillance photos spilled out: Sebastian meditating on the beach at dawn, Thalia's eagle circling overhead like a sentinel, Pandu sharpening a knife under moonlight.
"They're evolving," she said, tracing Sebastian's image with a blood-red nail. "Faster than we predicted."
Bintang's gaze darkened. "Then we accelerate Phase Two. Burn their potential before it ignites."
Outside, thunder rumbled. Somewhere, a storm was brewing—and with it, the first strike of a war no one saw coming.