The Hidden Sanctuary

The safehouse hummed with the low growl of generators, their frayed cables snaking across a concrete floor stained with old blood and coffee. Maps of Southeast Asia plastered the walls, their edges curled like dead leaves, marked with red Xs and cryptic notes.

A single flickering bulb cast jagged shadows over the team as they filed in—Bintang’s knuckles white around a dossier, Felix picking at a fresh bullet graze on his arm, Mayang leaning heavily on Lia’s shoulder, her breath shallow.

The air smelled of damp earth and desperation. Sebastian kicked a chair into place at the head of the scarred oak table, its surface littered with satellite photos of deforested mountains and Syndicate-owned ports. Thalia lingered by a rusted filing cabinet, her fingers brushing a faded photo of Jakarta’s skyline—whole, unburned. Kiran slumped into a seat, eyes darting to Eka’s empty chair.

Bintang slamming the dossier. “We’re alive. For now. Let’s not waste it.”