The safehouse’s air hung thick with the acrid sting of burnt wiring and unspoken fears. Felix’s words lingered like smoke, choking the room.
“Huang Jin,” he repeated, leaning forward, palms flat on the war table. “He’s not Wei Long. He doesn’t want to watch the world burn—he wants to own the ashes.”
Mayang’s chair screeched as she shoved back from the table. “You’re out of your mind. Huang Jin executed entire villages during the Purge. You think he’ll ally with us?”
“I think he’ll use us,” Felix shot back, “and we’ll use him right back. Wei Long is choking his resources. He’s desperate.”
Rangga’s knuckles whitened around a rusted knife he’d been absently sharpening. “Desperate men double-cross faster. You’re trading one executioner for another.”
“And what’s your alternative?” Felix’s voice sharpened. “Pray the Nine Dragons grow a conscience? Wait for CPM to ask nicely before they erase us?”