Far ahead of the night market, a tower rose into the dark with a blaze of light sharp enough to wound the eyes. Its body was cylindrical, but the base flared wide, like a tepak sireh placed with ceremonial pride in the heart of the city. It did not merely stand there. It seemed to watch.

  Menara Syahbandar.

  Luxury cars lined the front courtyard in obedient rows. Gloss black. Pearl white. Metallic silver. A curated exhibition of wealth. Drivers stood straight beside open doors, movements crisp, disciplined.

  At the entrance, men in dark suits and women in tailored elegance stepped inside wearing faces sculpted by importance. Smiles displayed. Shoulders squared. Every stride carried the quiet delusion that tonight favored them.

  Tonight belonged to them.

  “Invitation for the Zing Fund Presentation, sir?”

  The receptionist’s voice was polished, professional. She accepted the card from the slender fingers of a man in a deep red suit. The vest fit him like it had been negotiated with his bones. A long earring swayed gently in the night breeze.

  Azazil.

  He returned a flawless smile. Not excessive. Not lacking. A smile learned, not born. Then he stepped alone into the glass elevator.

  The doors closed.

  The elevator ascended.

  “I’ve arrived, Tan Sri,” he said softly into his phone, as if reporting the weather.

  The call ended.

  Azazil leaned back against the glass wall and watched the midnight city unfold beneath him. The lights below were small, arranged, obedient to grids and regulations. From above, everything looked manageable. Almost fragile.

  His lips curved.

  If this city had a switch, he would have flipped it long ago.

  From the elevator speakers, applause thundered upward, seeping into the narrow space.

  “Thank you for the speech by Dr. Syarifah,” the emcee’s voice flowed smoothly, rich with courtesy and hollow promises.

  The applause lingered.

  “I now invite Datuk Mubin, accompanied by Yang Berbahagia Tan Sri Ghani Ismail, Deputy Prime Minister of Malaysia, to officiate the presentation of the Zing Fund cheque.”

  Two older men stepped onto the stage. One tall, hair combed with official precision, his face scrubbed clean of emotion. The other shorter, his wrinkles mapping years of compromise.

  A giant cheque worth twenty million ringgit was presented to Dr. Syarifah.

  Cameras attacked the moment relentlessly. Flashes detonated against their faces, blinding for a heartbeat. The image would be replayed, printed, circulated. A symbol of trust. Of progress. Of something that would never be mentioned at a press conference.

  “With that, this evening’s ceremony concludes.”

  The hall began to pulse. Chairs scraped softly. Voices braided together. Some guests headed for the exits. Others lifted cameras and recorders, scenting opportunity.

  Syarifah had just stepped down from the stage when the air around her shifted.

  Not because of the journalists.

  Because a woman was already waiting at the foot of the stairs. Unhurried.

  Tall. Slender. Her posture carried the rigidity of someone who had never permitted her spine to learn submission. Her hair was coiled into a precise bun, not a strand out of place. Her attire was modest, but every fold of fabric fell with deliberate accuracy.

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  A crescent moon pendant at her neck caught the hall’s light, glinted once, then dimmed.

  She said nothing.

  Yet Syarifah’s steps instinctively slowed to match hers.

  “Dr. Syarifah! What is your response to Kenz’s viral video?”

  The question exploded, then multiplied like scattered gunfire.

  Journalists pressed too close. Microphones hovered near her chest. Cameras rose without permission. Personal space collapsed in an instant.

  Syarifah inhaled deeply. Her shoulders tightened. She adjusted her glasses, a small gesture to regain control.

  Before she could speak, a hand rose in front of her.

  Not pushing.

  Not striking.

  Simply an open palm, upright and steady.

  A signal to stop.

  The tall woman stepped forward, placing her body precisely between Syarifah and the reporters. Her gaze swept across their faces. Not sharp. Not angry.

  Cold.

  “Sorry,” she said at last.

  Her voice was low, even. Each syllable landed with unarguable weight.

  “We have to leave.”

  No explanation.

  No smile.

  No elaboration.

  She touched Syarifah’s wrist. Not a pull. Just enough to redirect her path. The contact was brief, professional, certain.

  Syarifah followed without protest.

  The journalists paused, not out of respect but because instinct whispered that the next step would be a mistake.

  As they passed, one cameraman lifted his camera again.

  The woman turned her head slightly.

  Just slightly.

  Their eyes met. The cameraman lowered his lens without knowing why.

  They exited the hall.

  The questions remained suspended in the air, never quite reaching the floor.

  Attention shifted almost immediately.

  “Tan Sri! Is it true the government created the KENZ serum?”

  Tan Sri Ghani smiled faintly. A smile sharpened over decades. He shook his head slowly, as if the question were too naive to deserve oxygen.

  “You’ve been watching too many US shows.”

  Light laughter rippled through the crowd. Several reporters smiled, relieved by the casual dismissal. Tan Sri excused himself. The crowd parted.

  He walked out of the hall, each step measured, each smile selected

  A long corridor washed in orange light greeted him. Warm illumination that failed to chase away the chill in the air.

  The elevator doors opened.

  Azazil emerged from the side corridor and joined Tan Sri inside as if summoned by an unwritten script.

  The doors closed.

  The elevator descended with a steady mechanical hum. White ceiling lights reflected their silhouettes against the glass walls.

  “You planned that well, Azazil.”

  Tan Sri spoke while watching his phone screen. Kenz’s video played silently. A body leaping. Purple light erupting. A pelesit collapsing.

  Azazil laughed softly, almost as though the praise embarrassed him.

  “Tan Sri,” he said lightly, giving a small shrug.

  “I just go with the flow. These days anything can go viral. Sometimes luck is bigger than strategy.”

  Tan Sri did not reply. His finger scrolled through the comment section.

  Fear.

  Anger.

  Awe.

  All tangled without direction.

  “People,” Tan Sri murmured, almost to the elevator wall,

  “give them one short clip and they’ll invent a hundred stories.”

  Azazil nodded a little too quickly.

  “That’s normal,” he said casually.

  “When they don’t understand something, they fill the empty space with their own imagination.”

  He slipped a hand into his coat pocket and produced a small red box. His movements were calm, as if offering candy.

  Tan Sri took it and lifted the lid.

  A memory card.

  Silence lingered.

  “Titanium alloy,” Tan Sri said quietly, eyes still on the box.

  “My investment was not wasted.”

  Azazil’s smile widened, almost sincere. Too sincere.

  “Your investments are always precise,” he replied.

  “I just make sure the money lands somewhere… worthwhile.”

  Tan Sri snorted softly. “Don’t smile so much. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  The smile vanished instantly. Azazil inclined his head in silent compliance.

  The elevator fell quiet again.

  “So,” Tan Sri said at last, voice lower,

  “do you know who Kenz really is?”

  Azazil lifted an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise. Just enough.

  “Kenz?” he repeated, as if hearing the name for the first time with weight.

  “I’ve been wondering too, Tan Sri.”

  “Wondering?”

  Azazil nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor.

  “With power like that… he could be anything.”

  His tone was light, philosophical on the surface.

  “A symbol. A threat. Or just an ordinary man who made the wrong move.”

  Tan Sri leaned back, thinking.

  Azazil continued, softer now. Almost speaking to himself.

  “Or…”

  He paused, as if deciding whether the thought deserved air.

  “One of us.”

  Silence.

  The elevator continued downward.

  Tan Sri did not look at him, but his mind was clearly moving.

  Ding.

  The doors opened.

  “Who he is doesn’t matter,” Tan Sri said as he stepped out.

  “What matters is his reputation.”

  Azazil followed half a step behind.

  “Exactly,” he replied gently.

  “Reputation decides everything.”

  Tan Sri entered his car. The door shut. The engine came alive.

  Azazil remained outside, giving a small wave, the smile returning to his face. This time it carried no warmth.

  The car pulled away.

  Azazil lowered his hand. He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a motion that bordered on ritual.

  The smile disappeared.

  His eyes darkened. In the center of that darkness, a tiny red glint shimmered, like a drop of blood refusing to soak into paper.

  Inside the car, Tan Sri received a message.

  American spy detected. Under observation.

  He smiled with satisfaction and locked the screen.

  The car sliced through the city, weaving between light and shadow.

  Carrying a man convinced

  that every decision tonight

  had been born from his own mind.