Hunched in a corner

The safehouse felt like a tomb. Flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows over walls plastered with torn maps and bloodstained intel reports. The air hung heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies and desperation, punctuated by the metallic tang of gun oil. A cracked mug of cold coffee sat abandoned on the war table, its surface cluttered with bullet casings and a single dried mangrove seed—David’s last gift to the coalition.

Mayang’s palms slammed onto the table, sending the seed rolling toward the edge. “We strike now,” she repeated, her voice fraying. “Before they regroup. Before they erase him like he never existed.” Her eyes, bloodshot and wild, scanned the room. She still wore the mud-caked boots from Jakarta Bay, as if clinging to the earth David had died protecting.