Jakarta City Center – Morning. The air buzzed with the heat of bodies and desperation. Protesters flooded the streets, their signs a mosaic of fury: “Nine Dragons Steal Our Air!” and “Subianto’s Lies = Syndicate Profits!” At the periphery, Bintang hovered like a shadow, his hood drawn but his scarred jaw betraying him. Nearby, Clarissa snapped photos of the crowd, her press vests a flimsy shield against the Syndicate’s watchful drones.
Kiran elbowed through the throng, dragging a masked man by the collar. “Syndicate plant!” he shouted, holding up the man’s wallet—stuffed with crisp, Syndicate-printed rupiah.
The crowd roared, but their unity was already fracturing. Above, drones projected real-time disinformation: “Protest leaders linked to foreign terrorists.”
—
Jakarta City Center – Morning. Bintang adjusted his hood, muttering to Clarissa.
“This’ll spiral fast. Keep the kids at the back.”
Clarissa snapping photos, sarcastic.
“Sure, Dad. While you play the martyr?”