The room was thick with smoke, shadows dancing across the dimly lit space. The Nine Dragons Syndicate sat around their long, dark table, each member shrouded in an air of danger and power. In these meetings, tension was the default, but tonight, there was something sharper in the air.
At the head of the table, Wei Long—The Iron Fist—sat with his hands clasped, his eyes scanning the faces of his fellow Dragons. Beside him, Feng Bao, known as The Storm, leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. The two men were calm, too calm, considering the chaos they had left in their wake.
Across from them, Shen Ai, the elusive Alchemist, sat with a deep frown. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, betraying the unease that bubbled beneath her composed exterior. Her sharp eyes flicked between Wei Long and Feng Bao, trying to read between their words.
Wei Long breaks the silence. “The situation at the factory has been handled.”