The Father-Son Reckoning

The study was a sanctuary of shadows and silence, nestled in the mansion’s farthest wing on the outskirts of Jakarta. Mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound tomes stood like silent sentinels, while priceless artifacts from decades of ambition and ruthless dealings adorned every surface. Heavy curtains strained against the storm’s rage, flickering with the sudden dance of lightning that cut through the darkened room.

Subianto sat behind his vast desk—a throne of polished wood and glass—a figure carved by years of power and compromise. His posture was rigid, almost statuesque, the kind of man who had learned to command not just rooms but entire empires. The thunder outside was a distant drumbeat to the battle now unfolding within these walls.