The safehouse was a cramped attic above a noodle stall in North Jakarta, its walls papered with maps, red-stringed photos, and equations scrawled in Clarissa’s frantic hand. The air hummed with the static of cheap electronics—a jury-rigged broadcast setup, a laptop hot enough to fry eggs, and a stolen satellite uplink duct-taped to the window. Outside, monsoon rain lashed the streets, but inside, the only sound was Clarissa’s measured breathing as she adjusted the microphone.
Jakarta was watching. The world was watching.