“Find something interesting, Warden? Or are you just admiring the villain?” Basri’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the quiet hum of the console, startling me. My hand, poised over the holographic controls, halted midair. I didn’t flinch, but my shoulders tightened at his sudden proximity. He was closer than I anticipated, his reflection a dark silhouette in the polished screen, just behind my shoulder. I rotated slowly on the ergonomic chair, meeting his gaze. His jaw was relaxed, but his eyes, the color of rich, aged teak, held a sharpness that belied his casual posture. “Laksmana. Just conducting a routine security audit, as per my contract.” “Routine?” One corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve been staring at that particular feed for five minutes, Warden. I think I know what a ‘routine audit’ looks like, and it usually means less scrutiny of my stepmother’s clandestine rendezvous.” I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Observations are part of the audit. Anomalous behavior warrants closer inspection. My protocols mandate thoroughness.” It was a deflection, but a valid one. I wasn’t lying, just strategically omitting details. He stepped closer, leaning a hand on the console beside me. The faint scent of his cologne—something crisp and metallic, like ozone after a storm—filled the space between us. “And what irregularity did you find, pray tell, that ties to Irsan?” His directness was inconvenient. But it also offered an opening. “The same anomaly that led me to this room to secure your penthouse. The silver pendant you still possess.” Basri’s expression hardened, a subtle shift that didn't escape my notice. “That’s none of your concern.” “As long as it’s a potential security vulnerability, it is absolutely my concern,” I retorted, my voice even. “An encrypted object, of unknown origin, linked to a message from an unknown sender, kept by a client targeted by corporate espionage. Everything is my concern, Laksmana, when it pertains to your safety.” He stared at me, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “Always the professional. Even when you’re prying.” “It’s not prying when it’s preventative. Who sent that locket? What does that message mean? ‘He still has it. Good.’ What *is* ‘it’?” I pushed, using the urgency of the moment to my advantage. “If you want me to protect you, I need information. All of it.” He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “It’s… complicated. A long time ago. A friend.” He looked away, towards the sprawling cityscape beyond the penthouse windows. “I don’t even know who would send a message about it now.” “Then let me find out.” I held his gaze. “Hand over the pendant. I’ll run full diagnostics. No inquiries on your end beyond the final data.” Basri hesitated, considering. His eyes scanned my face, searching, perhaps, for a hidden agenda. My expression remained a blank, professional slate. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the small, gleaming medallion. He handed it to me, the cool metal brushing my palm. “Don’t lose it. It’s irreplaceable.” “Understood.” I slipped it into a secure pouch on my belt, the familiar weight a strange comfort. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more ‘anomalies’ to investigate.” My first stop was Auntie Melati’s office. It wasn’t an office in the conventional sense, more like a data-rich alcove tucked away in a quiet corner of the institution's research wing. The air hummed with the quiet thrum of servers and the faint scent of spiced tea. Melati, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, peered at me over the rim of her vintage spectacles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Chinta Kirana. To what do I owe the pleasure? Last I checked, you were tethered to the Laksmana heir like a particularly stylish shadow.” I placed the keepsake on her desk, along with the transmission displayed on my comm-link. “I need you to crack this code. And tell me what you know about this piece.” I tapped the silver casing. “It seems to be connected to the note my past self left me.” Melati picked up the medallion, turning it over in her nimble fingers. Her expression softened, a rare sight. “Ah, this little trinket. Yes, I remember it. A very particular piece of work. As for the message, give me an hour. My little spiders are always hungry for new bytes.” She hesitated, setting the pendant down. Her gaze sharpened. “But Chinta, you’re dabbling in dangerous territory. The past is a viper’s nest. You poke at it, and it might just bite you.” “It already sank fangs in, Auntie. And Basri is tangled up in it.” I explained the connection to Irsan and Dewi, the escalating threats. “I need to know everything.” Melati leaned back, her chair creaking softly. “Basri. Of course. The foundation itself, Chinta, was built on his father’s will. The ‘Final Safeguard’ protocol, he called it. His last wish was to ensure Basri’s protection, no matter what. He anticipated trouble, even from within his own family.” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “Before your memory wiped, Chinta, you helped lay the groundwork for that safeguard. That note… it wasn't just a reminder. It was a command.” My mind reeled. The compound, my home, my purpose, all tied straight to Basri. And me, before amnesia, a critical piece of the puzzle. “So, my past self knew Basri’s father?” Melati just gave me a knowing look. “Some connections run deeper than professional courtesy, child. Now, go. I’ll call you when I have something.” I left Melati’s sanctum with a new resolve, her revelation settling hard in my chest. The ‘Final Safeguard.’ My forgotten life. This wasn’t just a contract; it was a blueprint I had helped draft. My next move was clear: Irsan. If he was meeting with Dewi regularly, he was my most direct lead. I tracked his personal comm-link, a bypass protocol overriding his school-issue tracking shields. He was moving, not towards the Academy, nor any Laksmana OmniCorp subsidiary, but deeper into the city’s underbelly, towards the labyrinthine alleys of the Old Port district, notorious for its black market data brokers and illicit information exchanges. *Exactly* the kind of place Dewi Laksmana would send someone for discreet digging. I requisitioned an unmarked patrol skimmer, its silent thrusters cutting through the neon smog. The Old Port offered none of Indraloka’s pristine glass towers—just jagged alleys of sputtering holographic advertisements, slick cobblestones, and the metallic clatter of distant shipyard cranes. I parked the skimmer three blocks away, blending into the shadows, my tactical gear beneath a nondescript jacket. I found Irsan entering a building known as ‘The Byte Barrel,’ a dilapidated structure beneath a strobing neon sign depicting a digital skull. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale synth-ale and ozone. Data-brokers, hunched over glowing terminals, whispered deals. I kept my distance, observing Irsan as he approached a heavily tattooed man behind a counter. Their conversation was low, obscured by the ambient noise, but I noted Irsan passing over a data chip, and the broker handing him a small, sealed packet. As Irsan turned to leave, a sudden explosion rocked the building. The neon sign above us shattered, showering sparks. Alarms blared, and the overhead strips buzzed and went dark. Figures in reinforced tactical suits kicked through the entrance, brandishing suppressed rifles. The Byte Barrel erupted into chaos. Brokers scrambled, civilians screamed, and Irsan, ever the trained Warden, immediately dropped into a defensive crouch. “Kirana,” Irsan barked over the shouts, firing a burst from his concealed sidearm that dropped the lead gunner. “Cover me!” There was no time for questions, no time for professional distance. This was an ambush, and we were the targets. I drew my own compact stun-pistol, its silent discharge a stark contrast to the mercenaries’ kinetic fire. I flanked Irsan along a line of barstools, dropping two shooters who tried to pin him behind the partition. We fought back-to-back, a familiar rhythm from our Academy training. Our movements were synchronized, fluid, a dance of controlled violence amidst the pandemonium. I cleared a path to the exit, dropping a gunman who tried to flank Irsan from a blind spot. He was good, precise, but his focus was always a little too narrow, a flaw I knew well. A hulking enforcer kicked through a supply door, leveling a shock-rifle straight at my temple. I saw it too late, my attention split between two other targets. Before I could react, Irsan spun, a blur of motion, his arm sweeping up. His sidearm discharge struck the enforcer’s chest plate square. The man seized, dropped the rifle, and hit the grimy floor. “Focus, Kirana!” Irsan snapped, his voice tight. “They’re not playing games.” We drove through the remaining hired guns, using overturned metal tables and strobing emergency arcs for cover. With the last shooter stunned, and the building starting to fill with the wail of approaching sirens, we escaped into the grimy alleyways. We ran until we were several blocks away, the sounds of the chase fading behind us. We ducked into a dark, refuse-filled alcove. Our breathing was ragged, but our eyes were alert. “Dewi’s hit squad?” I asked, sliding my weapon into its rig. Irsan leaned against the damp wall, his chest heaving. “Could be. Or someone else she pissed off looking for the same thing.” He looked at me, his gaze intense. “Look, Kirana, I know what you’re thinking. And you’re not wrong. Dewi hired me. She wants me to find something for her. A failsafe. Something Basri’s father supposedly hid, to wrest control of the company if Basri proved… unsuitable.” “And you’re playing both sides.” It wasn’t a question. “I’m playing for answers,” Irsan corrected, a grim set to his jaw. “I want to know why she’s so desperate, and what she thinks she’s trying to find. And frankly, your past self seemed to be involved in whatever this ‘failsafe’ is, too.” He stopped, wiping a streak of oil from his cheek. His eyes met mine, holding a strange mix of weariness and urgency. “The failsafe isn’t a program, Chinta. It’s a person.”

Crossed Wires and Close Calls