The Syndicate Begins to Rot

Wei Long’s office stank of clove cigars and paranoia. The dossier lay splayed across his desk like a gutted animal, its grainy photos glowing under the amber light of a flickering hologram. Zhu Fen’s face—sharp, unreadable—loomed in one frame, her hand clasped with a silhouette in a Berlin alley. The timestamp: three days ago. The location: two blocks from Interpol’s black-site annex.

“Interpol,” Wei Long hissed, the word curdling in his throat. His fist crumpled the photo, knuckles whitening around the memory it unearthed—Sumatra, twelve years prior. Jungle heat choking his lungs, bullets shredding bamboo as Zhu Fen hauled him from the mud, her arm bleeding from a shrapnel gash. “We don’t leave brothers behind!” she’d roared, firing blindly into the smoke. They’d limped out together, alive. Always together.

Now, her betrayal festered in his chest, venomous and slick.

Wei Long barking. “Summon Zhu Fen. Now.”