Doubt is a virus

The surveillance room was a tomb of shadows, its walls lined with flickering screens that cast a sickly blue pallor over Bintang’s sharp features. Dust motes swirled in the beam of a lone projector, illuminating streams of data—Mei Ling’s every move cataloged and dissected. Footage of her laughing at phantom voices played on loop, her once-imperious demeanor fraying at the edges. Felix hovered near the door, his broad frame tense, as if the room’s air were thick with ghosts.

Bintang’s gloved hand swept across a holographic console, freezing a clip of Mei Ling clawing at her own reflection. “Plant this in Ryuji’s network,” he said, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. “Let their greed do the rest.”