The scent of antiseptic clung to the air in the western wing, a sharp contrast to the stale copper tang of the enforcers’ quarters. Banyu rolled his shoulders, his joints popping with soft clicks, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The divan cushions still held the impressions of his earlier, undisturbed nap. He’d barely stirred when Mahesa had called in the cleanup crew, the hushed movements of the medics and the low rumble of their stretchers fading into the comfortable drone of the estate’s ventilation system. His heart, for now, beat a steady rhythm, a temporary truce in the war against his own accelerating demise. Ninety days. The number pulsed behind his eyelids, an unyielding counter.
He pulled on a thin, dark tunic that felt like raw silk against his skin, then slipped into trousers equally unsuited for mountain climbs. The clothes were new, supplied by the compound staff, stiff with an expensive unfamiliarity. He moved to the wide, reinforced door of his room, his bare feet making no sound on the polished plasteel. A subtle hum vibrated from the doorframe, indicating the active security grid. He pressed a thumb against the reader, and the light above glowed green, a soft click confirming the lock disengaged.
His memory of the layout was precise, etched into his mind with the same clarity he used to map animal trails through dense forest. During the ‘mandatory orientation tour’ – a pompous parade of Suryatama opulence and self-importance – Banyu had yawned, nodded, and appeared utterly disengaged. But his eyes, half-lidded, had tracked every camera lens, every pressure plate, every shimmering lattice of laser tripwires. He knew the blind spots, the minute architectural flaws in the supposedly impenetrable security system, better than the guards who patrolled them.
The corridors beyond his wing were a labyrinth of polished chrome and dark, reflective glass. He navigated them not with hurried stealth, but with the unhurried grace of a predator stalking through familiar territory. A faint, almost inaudible hum indicated an active laser grid barring a particularly long expanse of hallway leading towards the private family residences. He slowed, his head tilting imperceptibly. The red beams, invisible to the naked eye but a faint haze under specialized emitters, danced in intricate patterns. He didn't duck or crawl. He simply walked, timing his steps to the fractional pauses in the sweep, his body folding and unfolding through the gaps with a fluid precision that seemed to defy the rigidity of the grid itself. His shadow barely rippled against the wall. A guard drone, a mute bronze orb, drifted past an alcove just as Banyu stepped into it, disappearing from its scanning field before it could register his presence. He repeated the maneuver at three more checkpoints, moving with an ingrained patience and spatial calculation that belied his lethargic façade.
The secure wing where Citra was housed was on the upper levels, its entrance marked by a double layer of reinforced durasteel doors and a visible energy field shimmering across the threshold. A small, almost decorative keycard reader was the only visible entry point. Banyu, without hesitation, reached into the potted fern beside the scanner. His hand closed around a slim, credit-chip sized key, tucked neatly into the soil. A gardener's careless oversight, or a deliberate plant by someone expecting him? He didn't dwell on it. He swiped the card. The energy field flickered, then vanished. The inner door hissed open.
He found Citra on a private balcony, a sliver of the city's neon glow painting streaks across her face. She was small, curled into a plush chair, her gaze lost in the dizzying dance of light below. The air out here was cool, carrying the distant murmur of the city, a stark contrast to the sterile quiet of the estate. Her head snapped up at the sound of the door closing, her gaze locking onto him. She sprang to her feet, rushing across the carpet. He met her halfway, wrapping her in a tight embrace. She smelled faintly of some exotic floral soap, expensive and unfamiliar.
“Banyu!” Her voice was a hushed whisper against his chest. “I thought… I thought they wouldn’t let you.”
He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length, his thumbs brushing comfortingly over her shoulders. “They can’t keep us apart, sis. Not for long.” His eyes traced the slight curve of her brow, the way her lips pressed together in a worried line. His gaze snagged on a faint abrasion along his forearm, a dark scratch he had picked up during the squad's scuffle. Citra’s brow furrowed. Her palm settled gently against his wrist. “You’re hurt. What happened?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Just… a minor skirmish with a particularly aggressive pillow. It put up a good fight.” He offered a lazy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
She didn’t return the smile. Her eyes, sharper than he sometimes gave her credit for, lingered on his face. “Are we in danger, Banyu? Really?”
He knelt, bringing his eyes level with hers. The city lights flared behind him, reflecting off the dark balcony glass. “Never. We’re going to be rich, Citra. Safer than we’ve ever been. I promise you, soon we’ll have everything.” The lie tasted like ash, but he kept his voice steady, his expression calm. He saw the flicker of hope in her eyes, mixed with a persistent thread of fear. He leaned back against the balcony railing, watching her as she rummaged in a small first-aid kit, pulling out a sterile wipe and a medicated patch. She carefully cleaned the scrape on his arm, her touch feather-light, her small hands surprisingly steady.
Then it hit him. A searing, white-hot spasm tore through his chest, a jagged wire shearing through his ribs. His vision blurred, the brilliant city lights dissolving into a swirling vortex of pain. He clamped his molars down into the meat of his inner cheek, the coppery sting of blood an anchor against the spreading agony. He couldn’t let Citra see it. Not now. Not ever. He forced a breath, a ragged gasp that he hoped she would mistake for a sigh. The pain intensified, a tightening vise around his heart, threatening to stop it altogether. He held still, his muscles locked, every nerve screaming. Citra looked up, her hand pausing on his arm. “Are you okay? You just… went still.”
“Just admiring the view,” he managed, the words a strained whisper, his gaze fixed on the distant, gleaming peak of the Imperial Tower, projecting an easy stance. The agony began to recede, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. He swallowed, tasting blood and bile. He was running out of time. Stealing the Sovereign’s Marrow was only half the problem. Getting out of this gilded cage, with Citra, was the other. He required more than a cure. He required an administrative bypass through the inner layers of Suryatama security that instincts alone could not breach: Mahesa’s clearance.
Citra finished patching his arm, her brow still furrowed with concern. “You should get some rest, Banyu. You look tired.”
He nodded, pushing himself away from the railing. “Always. You too, sis. Get some sleep.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise in the gesture. As he slipped back out of her room, pulling the hidden keycard from the fern and returning it to its spot, he felt the damp, metallic tang of his own blood on his tongue. He spat discreetly into a decorative brass planter in the deserted corridor, covering the small, crimson stain with a scattering of dry leaves. He needed to be careful. Very careful.
He walked back through the darkened corridors, the laser grids parting for him like water, his thoughts cold and clear. He was a weapon, yes, but a weapon with a ticking clock. The cure was only part of the strategy. The other part was an escape route, invisible to every eye but Mahesa’s. He pushed open the door to his room, the soft click echoing in the sudden silence. The heavy durasteel door swung shut behind him. The room was dark, the estate lights muted by the thick, reinforced windows. A single, dark figure stood by the window, silhouetted against the faint glow of the city beyond. Mahesa. Between thumb and forefinger, Mahesa held a crumpled, blood-soaked rag. Banyu’s rag.