Eka’s Cyberattack

The air in the Bandung safehouse hummed with tension, thick with the scent of stale coffee and the faint metallic tang of overheating circuitry. Eka’s workspace was a nest of shadows, illuminated only by the cold glow of her terminal. Outside, monsoon rain lashed against boarded-up windows, a relentless percussion that matched the rhythm of her keystrokes. She barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the flickering screen and the labyrinth of code she was unraveling—line by line, firewall by firewall.

“Almost there,” she muttered, her voice raw from hours of silence.