Finger-Pointing and Accusations

The safehouse reeked of burnt coffee and unspoken accusations. Rain lashed against the boarded-up windows, the only light coming from a flickering bulb dangling above a scarred wooden table. Felix paced like a caged animal, his boots echoing on the concrete floor, while Bintang sat rigid in a corner, methodically cleaning a pistol that didn’t need cleaning. Kiran hunched over a map dotted with red Xs—failed rendezvous points. Sebastian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his usual calm replaced by a furrowed brow. Clarissa’s fingers flew across her laptop keyboard, the glow of the screen sharpening her frown.

Felix slams a fist on the table. “We walked into a slaughterhouse. Someone talked. And it wasn’t me.”

Bintang not looking up. “Your plan was the problem. Charging in like a bull, no exit strategy—”

Felix laughed bitterly. “Exit strategy? You were supposed to cover the east tunnel. Where the hell were you?”