Rain hammered relentlessly against the armored shell of the Resistance van, a steady drumbeat that seemed to echo the city’s unrest. Jakarta’s labyrinthine streets blurred under the windshield, headlights slicing through the thick haze of smoke, neon flickers, and the dull glow of emergency flares. The city was alive with tension—sirens screamed distantly, drones thrummed overhead, and shadows darted through slick alleyways, leaving trails of whispered warnings and wet footprints.
Inside the vehicle, Thalia sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, holding a jade talisman pressed gently to her forehead. The carved sigils etched deep into the stone pulsed with a faint warmth, synchronizing with the slow, measured rhythm of her breathing. The visions had grown clearer over the past few days, less fragmented, as if the veil between now and what was coming had thinned. Her mind sifted through flashes of images and feelings—watchers in the dark, unseen eyes tracking every step.