You’ve Got 87 Seconds to Cross

The rebel safehouse hummed with the static of tension. Flickering overhead lights cast jagged shadows over maps sprawled across a dented metal table, their edges weighted down by spare ammo clips and half-empty mugs of bitter coffee.

Bintang stood at the head of the room, his silhouette sharp against the glow of a holographic blueprint projecting the Nine Dragons’ headquarters—a monolithic fortress of steel and glass rising from the city’s heart.

The air smelled of ozone and sweat, every breath a reminder of what hung in the balance.

“This is it,” Bintang said, his voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade. He tapped the hologram, tracing a red-lit path snaking through service tunnels. “We breach here, split into two teams. Team One disables the security grid; Team Two ascends to the command center. One misstep, and we’re dead. The Dragons won’t hesitate to bury us.”