Dewi’s voice tore through the rain-soaked night, a guttural cry that scraped against Kirana’s ears. “He was smiling.” The words echoed, sharp as glass shards. Sarmawan. Watching. Smiling.
Kirana stumbled back from the railing, the chill of the rain forgotten, replaced by a deep, bone-pricking dread. Her gaze locked with Zidan’s, the lingering warmth of their kiss dissolving into a shared current of icy resolve. “We need to get inside,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Now.”
They moved with a practiced urgency, a dance born of necessity rather than choreography. Back through the service corridor, past the still-blaring fire alarm, a cacophony that masked their escape. They rode a staff elevator down, emerging into the Grand Palais’s chaotic aftermath. Firefighters milled about, guests huddled in luxurious disarray, but no one seemed to notice the two drenched, dishevelled celebrities melting into the throng. Their driver, a veteran of Zidan’s security detail, was waiting, a dark SUV idling discreetly. He took one look at their state, his face grim, and sped them away without a word.
Back inside Penthouse Perdana, the neon grid of Jayakarta sprawled beneath reinforced glass. Kirana peeled off her sodden gown, the silk clinging uncomfortably, and pulled on a thick, oversized hoodie. Zidan had already changed, setting up his laptop on the expansive kitchen island, its display glowing with encrypted communication channels. The city lights outside blurred into a distant, indifferent hum.
“Dewi’s right,” Kirana stated, her voice taut, cracking slightly. “He knew. He wanted us to see it.”
Zidan nodded, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “A power play. He wants us off-balance. But he showed his hand: he monitored the ambush in real time, which narrows down his command post.” He paused, looking up at her. “How do we get to Banyu without him realizing we’re looking?”
Kirana pulled out her burner phone, thumbing the matte casing. “He’ll be careful. He knows they’re watching him. I’ll use the old code. The one from before.” She typed rapidly, a sequence of numbers only she and Banyu would recognize. The digits routed directly into an isolated relay.
Minutes stretched into an agonizing wait. Kirana paced the cold marble floor, tracking the sweep of car headlights forty floors below. Zidan tracked her stride, hands resting flat beside his trackpad. Finally, the burner phone buzzed. A single, encrypted message: `safe. monitoring. u?`
Kirana typed back, `need eyes on Sarmawan's digital footprint. everything.`
Banyu’s reply was almost immediate: `dangerous. what have you done?`
“He’s spooked,” Kirana said, her nails digging into her palms. “He knows what Sarmawan does to leakers.”
Zidan leaned closer to the phone. “Tell him it’s for his freedom, Kirana. Tell him we can finally get him out.”
She hesitated, then typed. `freedom. for us both. you're our only way in. ghost run.`
Another tense pause. Then: `okay. but if they sniff me out, i’m gone.`
“He’s in,” Kirana breathed, a sliver of hope piercing the gloom. “He’s going in.”
The next few hours blurred into a frantic flurry of activity. Zidan, drawing on his network, established a secure, untraceable communication line, patching Banyu directly into their makeshift command center. Kirana stood by, her face etched with worry as she watched her younger brother’s relay icon blink active on Zidan's monitor. Banyu, from his hidden corner of Jayakarta, became their eyes and ears inside the Naga Merah’s labyrinthine network.
“It’s a mess in here, Kiki,” Banyu’s voice, filtered through the secure comms, was tight with tension. “Sarmawan’s got layers of firewalls, decoy servers… he’s good. Really good.”
“Focus on his personal accounts, anything tied to his film productions,” Zidan instructed, his voice calm, steady. “Look for anomalies, anything that doesn’t fit the public records.”
Hours crawled by. The sky beyond the terrace glass grayed into slate dawn. A knot burned at the base of Kirana's neck, but sleep remained impossible while Banyu mined hostile servers.
Then, a sudden exclamation from Banyu. “Found something! A hidden drive… disguised as a production budget for ‘Crimson Tide’. It’s not just a budget, it’s… a shadow ledger.”
Kirana leaned forward over the granite counter. “A shadow ledger? What does that mean?”
“Shell company payouts,” Zidan said, tracing a column of figures. “Offshore holdings. Proof of his whole network.”
“It’s encrypted,” Banyu said, his voice dropping. “High-level, something I haven’t seen before. Biometric lock.” He zoomed in on a specific file, an amber node in the directory. “It says… ‘Naga’s Seal’. And there’s a visual key. It looks like… a unique pattern. A specific design.”
Banyu brought up a side-by-side comparison: a hazy image of an ornate gold ring. “This is it. The biometric key is tied to Sarmawan’s personal ring. The one he always wears, the one with the carved dragon scale design.”
Kirana studied the render, cold prickling down her neck. The dragon scale ring. She’d seen it countless times, a flashy, ostentatious piece of jewellery that Sarmawan never took off. It wasn’t just a ring; it was the key to unlocking his entire criminal enterprise. The sheer audacity of hiding such critical evidence in plain sight, on his own finger, was chilling.
“The Naga’s Seal,” she repeated, her voice a dry rasp. “He’s practically boasting.”
“We need that ring,” Zidan said, voice flat and sharp. “Or at least, a clear scan of the biometric data from it. But how do we get close enough without him realizing?”
The room fell dead silent save for the hum of the air system.
The wall-mounted monitor above the media console flicked on, cutting into a local broadcast feed under an amber banner: Film Executive Vanishes.
The reporter's voice broke across the living room. “Sources close to the production company confirm that renowned talent manager, Dewi Anggraini, was reported missing early this morning after her office in the Arkana Tower was found ransacked. Police are investigating, but no leads have yet emerged…”
Kirana backed into the counter, breath catching. Dewi. Caught in the backlash of the warehouse attack.
Zidan pulled up traffic feeds and Arkana Tower logs on his machine, keystrokes cracking like dry kindling. But the feed was dead. Too clean. Too organized. Sarmawan had wiped the slate.
The burner unit vibrated against the stone counter. Kirana tapped the incoming notification. The image loaded slowly, pixel by agonizing pixel.
It was a picture of Dewi. Bound to a chair. Her gaze, usually sharp and calculating, strained toward the lens. A strip of dark tape covered her mouth. The background was indistinct, shadowy, but undeniably a cold, concrete room. Below the image, a message appeared, stark and menacing.
‘The premiere. Bring the girl. Alone.’