Kirana’s fingers were still tight around the tablet, the buzzing echo of Sarmawan’s associate planning her demise a cold imprint on her skin. Zidan stood in her doorway, a decade-old wooden sunbird perched in his palm, his gaze an unsettling blend of old memory and fresh concern. The silence that followed his words felt heavier than any threat. Jayakarta’s night lights glittered through the penthouse windows, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing within. She watched him, a slow, calculated assessment. His eyes, usually sharp with professional critique, held a vulnerability she hadn’t seen since they were children. He knew. Not just her Silat, but the underlying reason for it.
“Trouble is my middle name these days,” Kirana finally said, her voice a low, even hum. She straightened, tucking the tablet under a stack of scripts, a casual gesture that belied the racing thoughts. “And how exactly did you arrive at this profound conclusion?”
Zidan didn’t move from the threshold. “That bird. You gave it to me. Said it would bring luck during my first real stunt performance. And you never give gifts to people you don’t trust.” His thumb stroked the smooth cedar, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You were the only kid who could keep up with me in the old training halls. Your father, he taught you well.” His eyes sharpened. “And the way you moved on that set, Kirana. Not clumsy. Precise. Controlled. The same way you fought when we were kids, before your family… disappeared from the scene.”
He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click, cutting them off from the city’s hum. “The Naga Merah syndicate. Your father was trying to expose them. They set him up, didn’t they? And now they’re using Banyu to keep you in line.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “That harness wasn’t an accident. And what you just heard…” He nodded towards the hidden tablet. “That’s them coming for you again, isn’t it?”
Kirana felt a prickle of irritation at his certainty, at the way he laid bare her most guarded secrets. But beneath it, a strange relief. Someone else knew. Someone else understood the suffocating pressure. “So, the great Zidan Alamsyah, stunt master, now moonlights as a detective?” she retorted, a sliver of her usual defiance returning. “What’s your game, Zidan? Protecting the helpless damsel?”
His expression hardened. “My game is making sure you don’t end up a headline, Kirana. Your family means something to me. And if you think I’m going to stand by while Sarmawan’s thugs try to stage another ‘accident,’ you’re mistaken.” He stepped close, smelling of cedar shaving soap and stale set air. “The Grand Palais. It’s a death trap. We need a plan.”
Over the next few days, their forced proximity in the penthouse twisted into a strained alliance. Their public appearances tightened into crisp theater, every staged glance and lingering touch coded with floor-plan notes and exit routes. They moved through their PR duties, their minds locked in a complex choreography of impending danger, Kirana sharing what little information she had, Zidan meticulously studying blueprints of the Grand Palais, cross-referencing security protocols, and devising escape routes. The fake engagement became their most elaborate stunt yet, a smokescreen for a deeper, far more perilous operation.
The night of the Charity Gala at the Grand Palais shimmered with opulence. Jayakarta’s elite spilled from luxury vehicles onto a crimson carpet, flashes from a hundred cameras illuminating their bespoke attire. Kirana, draped in an emerald gown that clung to her silhouette, moved beside Zidan, his hand a warm anchor at the small of her back. She smiled for the cameras, a picture of B-list charm, but her eyes scanned the crowd, every waiter, every security guard, every shadowed corner a potential threat. Zidan’s whispered instructions were a low thrum against her ear, guiding her through the throng towards the main ballroom.
Inside, the air throbbed with the hum of a thousand conversations, punctuated by the refined clinking of crystal. Sarmawan, ever the gracious host, held court near the main stage, his smile radiating an easy charisma that made Kirana’s stomach churn. Dewi, sharp in a tailored pantsuit, immediately gravitated towards him, her mission to charm him into greenlighting her studio slate a stark contrast to Kirana’s own deadly agenda.
The charity auction commenced, its smooth-voiced announcer gliding through lots of priceless artifacts. Kirana caught snippets of Dewi’s conversation with Sarmawan. Dewi’s laugh, bright and artificial, carried across the room. Sarmawan’s replies were deeper, laced with an almost imperceptible edge. As the bidding intensified for an ancient, ceremonial keris – rumored to have belonged to a legendary monarch – Dewi, caught up in the performative schmoozing, made a grand, sweeping gesture towards Sarmawan, her arm extended. Her manicured finger, sparkling with a borrowed diamond, connected not with his arm, but with the illuminated bid paddle she’d picked up earlier. “Ah, how amusing!” she blurted, her smile freezing as the auctioneer’s voice boomed, “Going once, going twice… to the lady in silver for three hundred million rupiah!”
A stunned silence fell, quickly followed by a ripple of suppressed laughter and confused murmurs. Dewi’s face, usually a mask of professional cynicism, blanched. Sarmawan’s smile, however, widened, a chilling, triumphant gleam in his eyes. “My dear Dewi,” he purred, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder, “such… enthusiasm. But do not fret. We shall discuss the financing for your grand acquisition.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. “Perhaps you could consider it an advance. On certain… favors.”
Dewi, utterly mortified, could only nod, her usual composure shattered. The commotion, though fleeting, was enough. Just as the crowd’s attention began to shift back to the stage, Kirana saw it. A glint of polished silver, almost imperceptible, sliding from the tray of a passing waiter. His gaze, not on the serving, but directly on her. He moved with a practiced fluidity, merging into the confusion around Dewi, and then, suddenly, he was directly behind Kirana.
A sharp prickle on her arm. But it wasn’t her. Zidan, anticipating the strike, had spun, his arm intercepting the poisoned needle meant for her. The waiter, his disguise momentarily slipping, lunged again, a small, wickedly sharp blade appearing from his sleeve. Zidan met it with a block, his movements a blur of defensive power. “Move!” he barked, his voice tight with effort, pushing Kirana forward as he twisted, taking a shallow slash across his bicep from the second strike.
Kirana didn't hesitate. Her body, trained for a lifetime, flowed into motion. She spun, a low sweep of her leg sending a passing table crashing, creating a momentary barrier. The assassin, lean and swift, sidestepped it, his eyes alight with cold intent. This wasn’t a clumsy amateur. This was a professional. “Service corridor! Now!” Zidan commanded, his breath coming in short bursts. He parried another thrust, his injured arm moving with brutal efficiency, protecting Kirana's back as they forced their way through a heavy, unmarked door.
The corridor plunged them into a world of flickering emergency lights and the clatter of distant kitchens. It was narrow, lined with service carts and cleaning supplies, a perfect stage for a brutal, close-quarters ballet. Kirana, relying on her Silat Bayangan, moved like a shadow, turning the corridor’s tight confines to her advantage, using walls and obstacles to feint and strike. Zidan, despite the growing stain on his sleeve, moved with an almost reckless grace, his body a shield, his hands a blur of blocks and counters. They fought as one, a seamless, deadly partnership, their public facade stripped away, revealing the raw, dangerous truth.
But the assassin was relentless, a silent predator, his poisoned blade a constant, glittering threat. He cornered them against a locked utility closet, his movements economical, his eyes fixed on Kirana. Zidan’s breathing was labored now, the wound on his arm a deeper crimson. He shoved a small, red box into Kirana’s hand. It was the fire alarm pull station. “You need to choose,” he said breathlessly, his gaze locked on hers, “Expose them and run, or trust me.”