Jakarta’s corpse smoldered under a leaden sky, its streets choked with ash and the metallic stench of blood. The Nine Dragons’ flag fluttered atop the skeletal remains of Parliament Tower, its crimson emblem a mockery of the city’s once-defiant spirit. Below, Hitori stood motionless on a mound of rubble, his blade sheathed but his presence a wound in the air. He watched as crows picked at the dead—coalition fighters, civilians, children—all reduced to carrion.
“This is only the beginning,” he said to no one, his voice swallowed by the wind.
“We have to go… or we die here.”
Bintang, Mayang, and David crawled through the belly of Jakarta, their flashlights cutting frail beams through the claustrophobic dark of the underground tunnels. The walls wept sewage and memory. Bintang led in silence, his face a mask, but his hands trembled—not from fear, but fury. They’d been outplayed. Outlived.