The Diplomatic Game

Luxury Penthouse, Jakarta Skies. The penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows framed Jakarta’s skyline like a glittering chessboard, the city’s chaos muted by layers of soundproof glass. Mei Ling swirled a glass of bourbon, her scarlet qipao blending with the room’s blood-red accents. Zhu Fen paced near the wet bar, his cigar smoke clashing with Liang Ren’s sandalwood cologne. Outside, monsoon clouds loomed, their shadows creeping over the Syndicate’s empire.

Mei Ling is calm and deliberate. “Wei Long clings to the past. The Phoenix Dragon’s shadow stifles us all.”

Zhu Fen snarled. “He’s weak. Letting rebels sabotage our docks? Letting children like Liang Ren question us?” He crushed his cigar into an ashtray shaped like a dragon’s skull.

Liang Ren smooths, adjusting his cufflinks. “Weakness is a symptom. The disease is his refusal to adapt. The IKN project could triple our revenue, yet he hesitates—nostalgia for a dying world.”