Broken Oaths, Burning World

Hide and Seek transcends its role as a childhood game to symbolise complex psychological behaviors in adulthood. Whether through avoidance, connection, or self-discovery, the dynamics of hiding and seeking play out in relationships, workplaces, and personal growth journeys. Understanding these behaviors can help individuals navigate their emotional and social lives with greater awareness and authenticity.

The man stirred, his consciousness a tangled web of disjointed memories and throbbing pain. His head felt like a leaden weight, every pulse a hammer against his skull. Groaning softly, he blinked into the abyss, his surroundings cloaked in a darkness so thick it seemed to breathe.

His hands and feet were bound, the rough texture of the ropes biting into his skin. He struggled against them, the bindings refusing to yield. The air hung heavy, damp and metallic, carrying the faint stench of rust and despair.

An inexplicable chill crept down his spine, the kind of dread that seeps into the marrow, unbidden and insidious. Then, a sound broke the silence—a rhythm, deliberate and echoing, the unmistakable resonance of footsteps.

A metallic click echoed sharply as a distant door was unlocked, its grating sound reverberating like the prelude to a sinister overture. The hinges groaned as the door crept open, spilling a shaft of pale light into the room. The sudden illumination carved jagged shadows across the walls, turning the darkness into an eerie tableau.

A figure emerged from the light, his silhouette tall and unyielding. He stepped forward, his boots clicking with mechanical precision on the concrete floor. The man on the chair squinted, the light too harsh for his unadjusted eyes.

The stranger's voice, cold and deliberate, sliced through the tension like a blade. "It's time," he intoned, his words as final as a judge's gavel.

The seated man's heart thundered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of panic. His mind raced, clawing for answers, for clarity, but found only fragments—splinters of fear and confusion.

"Time for what?" he croaked, his voice hoarse, as if dredged from the depths of a parched throat.

The figure didn't answer, merely tilting his head slightly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His face was obscured, but his presence was oppressive, a storm cloud looming in a room already suffocating.

At that moment, the man realised the truth—he was the protagonist in a story he didn't understand, and the curtain was rising on a scene he wasn't prepared to face.

The sun-bathed the SSCBF headquarters in a golden hue, yet the atmosphere inside was far from serene. Reporters crowded the press room, their faces a blend of curiosity and scepticism, cameras flashing like lightning in a storm. Chief Wen-Li stood at the podium, composed yet guarded, the weight of the Bliss Carnival incident evident in her eyes.

Behind her, the screen displayed images of the four teenagers: Isabella, Nora, John, and Timmy. The words "Safe and Sound After Ordeal" scrolled across the ticker. Reporters clamoured, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of questions.

"Chief Wen-Li," called one reporter sharply, "can you elaborate on how you managed to rescue the children from such a perilous situation?"

Wen-Li nodded, her hands resting lightly on the podium. "Our priority was the children's safety," she began, her tone calm and measured. "The SSCBF acted swiftly, utilising all resources to ensure a successful operation. The team's efforts in navigating the dangers and neutralising threats were commendable."

She skillfully omitted any mention of the shadowy SDF agents, Agent-90 and his men, or the unlikely aid of the outlaw duo, Katoge and Kazuki. The truth was a labyrinth she wasn't ready to untangle for the press.

A younger reporter, clearly new to the field, raised his hand. "Chief Wen-Li, how did you not lose your composure facing those dreadful monsters? Do you have some sort of secret bravery potion?"

The room fell silent for a beat before Wen-Li chuckled, her hand reflexively scratching the back of her head. "If only it were that simple," she replied with a wry smile. "No potions, just a lot of training and a strong team. And maybe a bit of luck."

The room erupted into polite laughter, breaking the tension momentarily.

Later, in her office, Wen-Li switched off the television. Now she is wearing a high-collared, tailored coat or jacket in deep navy blue or black, signifying authority and professionalism. The coat is accented with gold or silver trim, emphasizing her rank and the prestigious nature of her role.

Beneath the coat, she wears a sleek tactical vest or fitted shirt with subtle armor plating, showing her readiness for combat or emergencies. The material appears durable yet elegant, like leather or reinforced fabric.

The left shoulder could bear the insignia of the SSCBF, embossed in metallic thread or a badge.

Form-fitting black tactical pants, reinforced with utility pockets and subtle armor around the knees for practicality. The pants feature gold or red accents, matching the trim on her jacket.

A belt with utility pouches and a sleek holster for a sidearm or other essential tools, showing her preparedness for fieldwork despite her high rank. Knee-high, laced combat boots with a polished finish, blending a rugged aesthetic with sophistication. The boots are adorned with a small SSCBF emblem near the ankle.

Long, fingerless gloves or gauntlets in black leather, providing protection while maintaining dexterity. A flowing, floor-length cape or sash in deep crimson or royal blue, symbolising authority and adding a ceremonial flair to her otherwise practical outfit. Gold chains or pins connecting the cape or sash to her jacket, adding elegance to her look. Dominantly dark shades like navy, black, or deep gray, with vibrant accents in gold, crimson, or silver. These colors reflect power, mystery, and her connection to justice. A stylish beret or hat with a metal insignia of the SSCBF, worn during official events or when she is in her full formal attire, the screen fading to black as Krieg entered, clapping his hands slowly. "Well done, Chief. Quite the performance."

Robert followed, his arms crossed but a faint smile on his lips. "You handled those vultures better than I would've."

"Thank you," Wen-Li replied, her voice weary. "It's not easy balancing the truth with what the public can digest."

Nightingale leaned against the wall, her arms folded. "They don't need to know everything, do they? Let them believe it was all SSCBF."

Lan Qian added, "As long as the children are safe, that's all that matters."

Lingaong Xuein nodded in agreement but glanced at Wen-Li with a hint of concern. "You're carrying a lot, Chief. Don't let it consume you."

Wen-Li sighed. "I'll be fine. Let's focus on the next step."

In a dimly lit room cluttered with maps, weapons, and the faint aroma of incense, Mr. Amou sat at a large desk, his fingers steepled as he watched the news. The screen displayed Wen-Li addressing the reporters.

"Hmph," Noda grunted, sharpening a steel pin with deliberate care. "You guys risk your necks, and the credit goes to SSCBF. That's bloody nonsense." He glanced at Wen-Li's image on the screen, his voice dripping with disdain. "Look at her, acting like she pulled it off single-handedly."

Katoge, who had been seated nearby, snapped. "She's the daughter of the late Chief, show some respect!"

"That doesn't make her infallible," Noda shot back, his tone sharp. "She's just another politician in a fancy suit."

Before the argument could escalate further, Mr. Amou slammed his fist onto the table. "Enough!"

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Mr. Amou's gaze first landed on Katoge. "Katoge, focus on the mission, not her lineage. Respect is earned in action, not in words."

Then he turned his piercing eyes to Noda, his tone colder than steel. "And you—watch your tongue. Wen-Li may wear a badge, but she stands for something. If I hear you spouting such rubbish again, I'll personally remind you of the respect this organisation demands."

Noda muttered an apology, the pin stilling in his hand.

Mr. Amou leaned back, exhaling deeply. "Now, enough of this childish bickering. Prepare yourselves. There's more work to be done, and it won't tolerate egos or distractions."

The morning sunlight filtered through the half-drawn blinds of Wen-Li's office, illuminating the stacks of crime reports and dossiers scattered across her desk like the remnants of a battlefield. She sat with her usual composure, her pen scratching methodically against paper, the weight of justice reflected in her furrowed brow.

A soft knock broke her concentration. "Come in," she said without looking up, her voice calm but commanding.

Yuri Teruya stepped inside, her demeanor formal yet urgent. "Chief, a client wishes to see you."

Wen-Li paused, capping her pen with precision before giving a slight nod. "Show her in."

The door opened wider, revealing a young woman in her early twenties. She was clad in a black-green salwar kameez, its intricate embroidery catching the sunlight in fleeting glimmers. Her face was pale, framed by soft curls, and in her trembling hands, she clutched a small wooden frame.

"Please, take a seat," Wen-Li offered, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

The woman sat, clutching the frame as if it were her lifeline. Her voice, though soft, carried an undertone of desperation. "My name is Riya Hossain," she began, her Bengali accent lilting each word. "I need your help, Chief. My husband—he's gone missing."

Wen-Li leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes studying the young woman. "How long has he been missing?"

"Three days," Riya replied, her voice breaking. She placed the frame on Wen-Li's desk, revealing the photograph of a man.

The image was of Zubaid Hossain—a man in his early thirties, with a sharp jawline softened by a trimmed beard, intelligent eyes framed by thin spectacles, and a hint of a dimple etched into his left cheek. He wore a buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled up as if he were always ready to work.

Wen-Li's gaze lingered on the picture. "What does your husband do for a living?"

"He's a journalist," Riya replied, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk. "A crime journalist. He often investigates dangerous cases, but he's never disappeared like this before."

"And where was he last seen? When did you last speak to him?"

Riya inhaled shakily. "He went to investigate a lead in Kumortuli. He called me that night, just before heading deeper into the area. He said he'd be home by morning, but…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Wen-Li nodded, her expression softening slightly. "I promise you, Mrs. Hossain, we'll do everything in our power to bring your husband back."

A wave of relief washed over Riya's face as she exhaled deeply, clutching her hands together. "Thank you, Chief. I'll wait for him—safe and sound."

As Riya stood and left the room, Wen-Li watched her retreating figure, the burden of the case already settling onto her shoulders.

Once the door clicked shut, Wen-Li picked up the phone and dialed. Moments later, Robert and Lingaong Xuein appeared, their footsteps brisk and purposeful.

"We've got a missing person case," Wen-Li began, handing them the photograph of Zubaid Hossain. "Crime journalist, last seen in Kumortuli. Missing for three days. His wife, Riya Hossain, just left—she's desperate to find him."

Robert studied the photograph, his brows knitting together. "A journalist, huh? Could've stumbled into something bigger than he bargained for."

Lingaong Xuein nodded, her eyes sharp as a blade. "Kumortuli isn't exactly a tourist spot. If he's been there for three days, he's either hiding or…"

"We're going to assume he's alive," Wen-Li interjected firmly. "Start with his usual contacts. Check with local informants. Follow the breadcrumbs, no matter how faint they are."

Robert grinned faintly, his confidence unshaken. "You've got it, Chief. We'll find him."

Lingaong Xuein pocketed the photograph, determination etched into her face. "Consider it done."

As they exited the office, Wen-Li leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the photograph of Zubaid Hossain. A journalist chasing shadows in a city of secrets, she thought, her mind already racing through the possibilities.

The air inside the dimly lit room was heavy with the scent of Nihari and the acrid undertone of despair. The only illumination came from a flickering tube light overhead, its stuttering glow casting uneven shadows on the cracked concrete walls. Zubaid Hossain, bruised and disheveled, was dragged forward, his wrists bound, his feet scraping the floor like a defeated gladiator being led to the arena.

In the centre of the room stood a long, mahogany table, polished to a sinister gleam under the harsh light. At its head sat Salman Fazrul Khan, a man who wore his power like a second skin. His figure, though weathered by age, carried an unyielding authority, his kurta-pajama immaculately pressed, and his silver hair combed back with military precision. A neatly trimmed beard framed his stern visage, and his piercing eyes, magnified slightly by rimless glasses, surveyed Zubaid with a predator's patience.

Before him lay a brass plate, the remnants of Nihari glistening like a pool of molten gold. He dabbed his lips with a pristine white handkerchief, folding it meticulously before placing it beside his plate.

"Ah, Mr. Hossain," he began, his voice smooth yet cutting, like a velvet glove concealing a dagger. "You must be famished after such an arduous journey. Come, eat with me. Nihari tastes best when it's still warm."

Zubaid straightened himself, defiance etched into every line of his face. "I'm not hungry," he spat, his voice hoarse yet unwavering.

Salman raised an eyebrow, his expression oscillating between amusement and irritation. "Oh, then," he said softly, leaning back in his chair. He cleaned his hands with deliberate care, the white handkerchief absorbing the traces of grease like the erasure of guilt. "You're wondering why you're here…" His voice trailed off as he clasped his hands together, leaning forward slightly.

"It is to give you a task," Salman continued, his tone deceptively cordial. "A simple task, really. And in exchange, you will receive one hundred forty-nine million, seven hundred eighty thousand dollars. A sum that could turn your life—and your family's—into a paradise."

Zubaid's lips curled into a sneer. "Why would I take orders from you, Salman Fazrul Khan?" His voice rose, each word a shard of glass. "The man who hoards wealth for his own greed, the dog who licks Hasina's boots. Don't you feel any shame?"

The words struck like a thunderclap. Salman's calm veneer shattered as his palm slammed onto the table, the force reverberating through the room. His eyes burned with a controlled fury. Before Zubaid could react, one of Salman's hulking bodyguards stepped forward, his fist colliding with Zubaid's face in a sickening crunch. Blood trickled from Zubaid's nose, painting a crimson trail down his cheek.

Salman rose slowly, his movements deliberate, his shadow stretching long and menacing. "I told you," He said, his voice now a low growl, "to work for me. If you refuse, you know exactly what will happen to your family."

Zubaid's head snapped up, his bloodied face twisted in defiance. "Yes, you drag my family into this to silence me," he said, his voice laced with venom. "But I won't stop. I won't bow to you or your threats."

Salman's jaw tightened as he moved closer, gripping Zubaid's hair with his bare hand and yanking his head upward. Their faces were mere inches apart, the older man's eyes blazing like twin furnaces. "Because of you," Salman hissed, his breath hot against Zubaid's face, "we lost Hasina—our leader! She dared to conspire with outsiders to leak our secrets. Do you think I'll allow you the same liberty?"

With a sudden burst of fury, Salman released Zubaid, who slumped forward, gasping. Another slap rang through the room, leaving a vivid red imprint on Zubaid's cheek.

"Take him away," Salman barked to his guards, his voice a whip crack of authority.

As the guards dragged him toward the door, Zubaid turned his bloodied face back toward Salman, his eyes blazing with undying resistance. "You'll pay for your crimes, Salman. Mark my words—you will fall."

Salman didn't respond, merely watching as Zubaid was hauled out of the room. For a moment, the flickering tube light cast eerie shadows across his face, his expression inscrutable yet foreboding, like a judge waiting to deliver his final verdict. Then, with a deliberate motion, he picked up his handkerchief once more, wiping an invisible speck from his fingers, and resumed his seat.

Kumortuli stands as a unique tourist hub, blending traditional artistry with advanced technology. Known as the "City of Clay and Culture," it is a dazzling testament to human creativity and perseverance. Situated near a shimmering, eco-designed riverfront, Kumortuli is a district renowned for its artistic heritage and vibrant atmosphere. 

At the heart of Kumortuli lies its charm—a living gallery where past and future merge seamlessly. The city is a kaleidoscope of color and culture, buzzing with activity day and night. During the day, the streets are alive with artisans crafting clay idols, sculptures, and futuristic art installations. Tourists roam the narrow, picturesque alleys, soaking in the intricate detailing of the masterpieces, many of which incorporate holographic projections and augmented reality to tell stories. 

It's architectural style is a harmonious fusion of classical and avant-garde designs such as- open, pavilion-style structures with sustainable materials such as graphene-reinforced bamboo and bioluminescent concrete. Transparent walls showcase artists at work, offering a peek into the craftsmanship process. Some studios feature interactive holographic displays where visitors can virtually mold their own sculptures

Dome-shaped galleries and museums exhibit traditional clay art alongside futuristic 3D-printed sculptures. Floating cafes and restaurants on the river, serving local delicacies, are powered by solar energy. Traditional homes with rooftop gardens coexist with high-tech apartments featuring dynamic LED facades. Streets are paved with self-cleaning tiles, with embedded light strips that glow softly at night. A grand plaza serves as the hub for festivals and events, surrounded by digital billboards showcasing artistic achievements.

Moreover, there are key attraction that engage tourist about the city such: A massive outdoor amphitheater where artisans perform live sculpting demonstrations using both traditional tools and robotic arms. A holographic monument honoring the legacy of Kumortuli's artisans, symbolizing the city's enduring spirit. A futuristic museum highlighting the intersection of art and technology, featuring AI-generated sculptures and augmented reality exhibits. The riverside is adorned with glowing pathways and illuminated boats, offering a romantic setting for evening strolls and rides.

As it's tradition Kumortuli retains its roots in clay artistry, honoring its age-old traditions. Festivals are celebrated with grandeur, showcasing colossal idols enhanced with glowing effects and interactive storytelling. Despite its modern advancements, the city's soul remains deeply connected to its artistic lineage, making it a beacon of cultural heritage in the ever-evolving landscape of Nin-Ran-Gi.

Kumortuli is not just a city; it is a living, breathing testament to the power of art and innovation, attracting dreamers, creators, and travelers from across the globe.

The bustling streets of Kumortuli were alive with a cacophony of clanging rickshaw bells, hawkers' chants, and the rhythmic pounding of artisans shaping clay idols. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and fried snacks, blending into a heady concoction of the old and the vibrant. Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein led their motley group—Tao-Ren, Demitin, Sakim, and Daishoji—through the maze of narrow alleys, their footsteps echoing against ancient brick walls.

Robert adjusted his navy beret, his keen eyes scanning the crowded lanes. "Well, Kumortuli, the artist's haven," he remarked, his tone dripping with irony. "And here we are, hunting for a journalist as if we're chasing a lost goat in a fairground."

Lingaong Xuein, her sleek hair tied in a high ponytail, smirked. "A goat, Captain? I'd say more like a fox that slipped into the henhouse. Zubaid Hossain's trail isn't going to be an easy one."

Demitin raised an eyebrow, her petite frame nearly swallowed by the sea of bustling passersby. "Do you always make these comparisons, or is it just for today?"

"Only when I'm in good company," Robert quipped, offering a mock bow.

Sakim, ever the pragmatist, interjected. "Focus, team. We're not here for witty banter. We need information."

Spotting a street vendor frying spicy puffed rice by the roadside, Daishoji pointed. "Let's start there. Locals know everything, even what they shouldn't."

The group approached the vendor, an elderly man with a face as crinkled as parchment. His fingers moved deftly, mixing puffed rice with spices, his eyes squinting under the harsh sunlight.

"Excuse me," Lingaong Xuein said, her tone polite but firm as she handed him a photo of Zubaid. "Have you seen this man? Zubaid Hossain. He's a journalist."

The vendor adjusted his spectacles, peering at the photograph. "Ah, Hossain Babu! Yes, yes, I saw him." He scratched his chin, his voice carrying the singsong cadence of the local dialect. "He was here three nights ago. Looked worried, he did, like a man running from the shadows."

Robert leaned in. "Did he say anything? Mention where he was going?"

The vendor nodded, his hand pausing mid-mix. "He asked for directions to Hotel Sarbajaya. Not a fancy place, but quiet. It's by the old ghats. He said he needed to meet someone there."

Tao-Ren exchanged a glance with Demitin. "Sounds like a rendezvous. What kind of journalist works in shadows, Captain?"

"A brave one or a foolish one," Robert replied, smirking. "Either way, he's our fox."

The vendor continued, his tone conspiratorial. "But let me tell you, sahib, strange things happen near the ghats at night. People disappear, whispers of things that don't belong to this world."

Demitin rolled her eyes. "Great. Ghost stories. Just what we need."

As they turned to leave, Robert looked back at the vendor. "Thank you. If Zubaid comes back, tell him Captain Robert sends his regards."

The vendor chuckled, shaking his head. "Sahib(sir), if he comes back, it'll be a miracle."

As the team walked away, Daishoji muttered, "This is turning into a ghost hunt. Next, we'll be chasing shadows."

"And you're scared of shadows?" Tao-Ren teased, nudging him.

"Not scared, just cautious," Daishoji replied, adjusting his jacket with exaggerated dignity. "I prefer my enemies in flesh and blood, thank you."

"Relax, Daishoji," Lingaong Xuein said, her voice carrying a note of amusement. "If it's ghosts, we'll let Robert charm them with his metaphors."

Robert grinned. "And if that fails, I'll let you dazzle them with your sarcasm, Captain Lingaong Xuein."

Their banter echoed through the narrow lanes as they headed toward Hotel Sarbajaya, the scent of mystery thick in the air like a storm waiting to break.

The cityscape of Kumortuli sprawled before them like a chaotic chessboard, the intertwining alleys teeming with life and shadows. Farhan and Roy stood atop a decrepit building, the air thick with the scent of damp concrete and smog. The morning haze clung to the skyline like a ghostly veil, obscuring the far-off bustle of rickshaws and hawkers.

Roy adjusted his binoculars, his sharp eyes slicing through the labyrinthine streets below. "It's a game of hide and seek, mate," he muttered, his tone tinged with both excitement and irritation. "Only this time, the stakes are bloody high, and the seeker has a sniper."

Farhan lay prone beside him, his sniper rifle perched on a rusted ledge, the barrel pointed with the precision of a hunter stalking prey. "And the hider's got guards everywhere," he replied, his voice low and calculated, "like ants swarming a fallen crumb. Salman Fazrul Khan isn't leaving this one to chance."

Roy tilted his binoculars slightly, catching sight of a cluster of armed guards stationed at a nondescript building. "There he is," he murmured, his tone sharpening. "Salman Fazrul Khan, the puppet master himself, surrounded by his merry band of meatheads."

Farhan smirked, adjusting the scope on his rifle. "One shot, and the puppet loses his strings. Madam Di-Xian will be pleased.

Madam Di-Xian's voice echoed in Farhan's mind like the tolling of a bell, clear and commanding. "Find Zubaid Hossain," she had ordered, her gaze as sharp as a blade. "He's not just a journalist; he's a thread in this tangled web of deceit. Salman Fazrul Khan is working for the Syndicate Communist Party. They pull the strings, and he dances. Eliminate him if necessary, but Zubaid must be found. This is a game of hide and seek, gentlemen. Only, the seeker cannot afford to lose."

Farhan steadied his breathing, his finger brushing the trigger lightly, like a whisper of wind through reeds. "Got a clear shot. Say the word."

Roy, still scanning, suddenly stiffened. "Hold fire," he hissed, his voice a razor's edge. "We've got company."

Farhan glanced up from his scope, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

Roy handed him the binoculars, pointing toward the street below. "Captain Robert and his crew. They've just waltzed into the lion's den."

Farhan cursed under his breath. "Madam didn't mention the SSCBF would be involved. Bloody brilliant. Now it's a circus."

Roy snorted, lowering his binoculars. "Well, they're not exactly blending in, are they? Look at Captain Robert, strutting about like a peacock in a henhouse."

Farhan chuckled despite himself. "Peacock or not, if they spot us, the game's up. Madam Di-Xian won't take kindly to us blowing our cover."

Roy nodded, his expression turning serious. "Stay low. We can't let them see us, and we definitely can't let them reach Salman first."

Farhan refocused on his target, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's a game of hide and seek, all right. But this time, the seekers are hunting each other too."

As Roy scanned the scene below once more, his sharp wit returned. "Well, let's just hope Captain's not the type to call out, 'Found you!' when he stumbles upon us."

Farhan smirked, his gaze fixed through the scope. "Let's hope he doesn't stumble at all."

The dimly lit lobby of Hotel Sarbajaya carried an air of faded grandeur, its crimson carpets threadbare and walls adorned with peeling gold wallpaper. A faint scent of damp mingled with the aroma of cheap incense burning at the reception desk. Robert and his team strode in with purpose, their presence like a gale disrupting the stillness of the morning.

Robert, dressed in his tailored coat and polished boots, approached the receptionist—a middle-aged woman with a sceptical expression and a faint tic in her brow. His badge, gleaming under the flickering chandelier, caught her attention as he held it up with a confident flourish.

"Captain Robert of SSCBF," he announced, his voice sharp and authoritative. Beside him, Lingaong Xuein silently flashed her own badge, the steel glinting coldly as if to underscore the seriousness of their visit.

The receptionist blinked, taken aback by their brisk efficiency. "How can I assist you, officers?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

Robert wasted no time, sliding a photograph of Zubaid Hossain across the counter. "This man. Does he reside here?"

The woman peered at the photo, her brow furrowing. "Yes, he checked in a week ago. Room 307. But…"

"But what?" interjected Lingaong Xuein, her tone clipped yet firm.

The receptionist hesitated before continuing. "He went out a couple of days ago and hasn't returned since. His belongings are still in the room."

Lingaong Xuein exchanged a glance with Robert. "We need the key to his room," she stated flatly.

The receptionist hesitated, then nodded, retrieving a set of keys from beneath the desk. "Room 307. Down the hall, third floor."

The door creaked open to reveal a modest room bathed in the pale light of the morning sun filtering through a single cracked window. The walls, once white, had yellowed with age, and the faint scent of tobacco lingered in the air. A small desk cluttered with papers and a laptop sat against one wall, and a rumpled single bed occupied the other side of the room. A half-empty teacup rested on the nightstand, its contents long since dried into a sticky residue.

Robert stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the scene. "Quaint," he remarked dryly, donning a pair of gloves as he moved toward the desk.

Lingaong Xuein examined the wardrobe, finding a few neatly folded shirts and trousers alongside a battered leather suitcase. "He didn't pack to leave in a hurry," she noted, her sharp eyes scanning every detail.

Robert, meanwhile, rifled through the papers on the desk. "Notes on local crime lords, contacts in Kumortuli… and this." He held up a torn piece of paper with hastily scrawled numbers and letters. "Looks like a cipher."

Demitin, who had been inspecting the teacup, chimed in, "He was in a rush the last time he drank tea. There's a smudge here where he must've knocked it. Whatever happened, it wasn't leisurely."

Lingaong Xuein checked the laptop, only to find it password protected. "We'll need the tech team for this," she muttered, setting it aside.

Tao-Ren, leaning against the doorframe, frowned. "The bed looks untouched for days. He didn't return here after whatever he left for."

Robert nodded; his expression grim. "Something scared him off or stopped him before he could make it back. Check the trash, the bathroom, anything that might give us a lead."

As they worked methodically, Lingaong Xuein's sharp gaze fell on a small, torn envelope peeking out from under the bed. She retrieved it carefully, her fingers brushing against the faint imprint of a stamp. "This might be something," she murmured, handing it to Robert.

He examined it, his brow furrowing. "It's addressed to someone in Dharmatala Market. A clue, perhaps, or a connection."

"Either way," Lingaong Xuein said, straightening up, "we need to find out what Zubaid got himself into before he disappeared."

Robert pocketed the letter and glanced around the room once more. "Let's regroup. This is just the start of the puzzle, and I have a feeling the pieces are about to get messier."

The dimly lit study of Salman Fazrul Khan's mansion exuded an air of sinister luxury. The mahogany walls were lined with shelves brimming with books that seemed more for show than substance, while the scent of expensive cigars lingered faintly in the air. A massive oak desk, polished to a mirror finish, stood at the centre, its surface cluttered with documents, an ornate dagger, and a vintage telephone.

Salman reclined in his leather chair, a predatory smile playing on his lips as he stared at the glowing monitor before him. The screen flickered with the image of Gavriel, the imposing head of the Syndicate Communist Party (SCP). Gavriel's face, half-shadowed by the dim light of his office, bore an expression of unyielding authority.

"Zubaid Hossain," Gavriel began, his gravelly voice carrying a weight that seemed to press down upon the room, "has become a thorn in our side. His investigations tread dangerously close to unearthing our operations. If he succeeds, our meticulously woven plans will unravel, and we shall be exposed."

Salman's chuckle echoed in the room, a sound both amused and chilling. "Worry not, sir. Zubaid is but a pawn on my board. I have him convinced that working for me is his only means of survival. Once his utility wanes, I shall ensure that the world sees him as a pariah—a threat so great that even his name will be a curse."

Gavriel leaned forward, his shadowed features darkening further. "This is no time for overconfidence, Salman. The SSCBF has dispatched their agents to your city. Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein are not to be underestimated. They are methodical, relentless, and dangerously perceptive. Should they catch the scent of your operations, they will stop at nothing to dismantle them."

Salman's expression hardened, the smirk fading. "I understand, sir. Their arrival is an inconvenience, but nothing I cannot handle. My men are loyal, my resources vast. They will be watched, shadowed at every turn."

Gavriel's eyes narrowed, his tone growing icy. "Do not underestimate them, Salman. They do not simply follow trails; they create them. If you falter, even for a moment, they will dismantle you piece by piece. Kill Zubaid, eliminate his family if necessary, and ensure no trace of his investigations remains. This is not a request—it is an order."

Salman nodded, his jaw tightening. "Understood, sir. Zubaid will cease to exist, along with any shred of evidence he's unearthed. The SSCBF will find themselves chasing ghosts."

Gavriel's image flickered, his gaze piercing. "See to it that you do not fail. The Syndicate's future depends on your competence." With that, the screen went dark, leaving Salman alone in the oppressive silence of his study.

Salman leaned back, lighting a cigar and exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled like a serpent around his head. The glow of the ember illuminated his face, which now bore a sinister determination.

He pressed a button on his desk, summoning his trusted lieutenants into the room. The door creaked open, and three men entered, their faces hard and expectant.

"Zubaid Hossain," Salman began, his voice cold and commanding. "Keep him under constant surveillance. Should he attempt anything beyond the ordinary, eliminate him and ensure no trace remains. His family, too, if necessary, spare no one."

The men nodded silently; their expressions grim.

"And the SSCBF officers," Salman continued, his tone growing darker. "Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein are in the city. They are to be watched as hawks watch prey. If they come too close, deal with them swiftly and decisively. We cannot afford any meddling in our affairs."

One of the men, a burly figure with a scar running down his cheek, asked, "What if they catch wind of us, sir?"

Salman's gaze turned icy, his words cutting like a blade. "Then they die. This is not a game; it is war. And in war, there is no room for mercy."

As the men left to carry out his orders, Salman extinguished his cigar with deliberate force. He stared at the now-dark screen, the weight of Gavriel's warning lingering in the air.

"Let the game of hide and seek begin," he muttered, his voice dripping with venom. "But this time, I will not be the one hiding."

The bustling SSCBF headquarters was alive with the rhythmic clatter of keyboards, the low hum of machinery, and the occasional murmur of officers exchanging information. Amidst the controlled chaos, Chief Wen-Li strode through the corridors with the authority of a storm gathering strength. Her sharp eyes scanned the room until they landed on Lan Qian, who was hunched over her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard like a pianist in a frantic crescendo.

Wen-Li approached silently, her presence like a shadow creeping in unnoticed. When she finally stopped just behind Lan Qian, she folded her arms, her stern gaze fixed upon the screen.

Lan Qian, sensing someone looming over her, glanced sideways. When her eyes met Wen-Li's unwavering stare, she let out a shriek akin to a startled cat.

"Oh, blimey, Chief!" Lan Qian exclaimed, nearly tipping her chair backwards. "You've the stealth of a blooming ghost! A little warning wouldn't hurt, you know!"

Wen-Li arched a brow, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Lan Qian, if a simple presence startles you, I'd wager you wouldn't last five minutes in the field."

Lan Qian muttered under her breath, sitting upright and regaining composure. "Not everyone's built for theatrics, Chief."

"Enough dramatics," Wen-Li interrupted, her voice firm. "I need Zubaid Hossain's data analysed—everything from his movements to his contacts. Cross-reference it with recent activity logs. I want his location pinpointed and reported to Captain Lingaong Xuein and Captain Robert immediately."

Lan Qian gave a quick nod, her hands resuming their rapid dance across the keyboard. "Consider it done, Chief."

Wen-Li lingered for a moment, then turned on her heel and strode away.

From a distant building, Kenji, a gaunt man with a calculating expression, adjusted his headphones and smirked. The sound recorder planted in SSCBF's headquarters had worked flawlessly. He heard every word exchanged between Wen-Li and Lan Qian, the dialogue crisp and clear in his earpiece.

"Chief Wen-Li wants Hossain's location," Kenji muttered to himself, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his desk. Picking up his phone, he dialled Gavriel.

Gavriel's calm but menacing voice answered. "Speak."

"The SSCBF is on the move," Kenji reported. "Chief Wen-Li has her techies digging into Zubaid Hossain's data. If they locate him, he'll fall through our fingers like sand in a sieve."

Gavriel's silence was heavy, a calculated pause that preceded his composed reply. "Keep an unblinking eye on Lan Qian. Ensure her progress is monitored at every turn. Any data she uncovers must be intercepted."

"Yes, sir," Kenji responded.

"And Kenji," Gavriel added, his tone now laced with an edge of warning, "if they get too close, act. There is no room for error."

The line went dead.

Within the opulent confines of his mansion, Salman Fazrul Khan listened intently as Gavriel relayed the update. He leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face like a snake unfurling in the sun.

"So," Salman mused, "the SSCBF thinks they can meddle in my affairs. Foolish."

"Salman," Gavriel's voice crackled through the phone, "do not underestimate them. Prepare your men. If they come for Hossain, they must be eliminated before they connect any dots."

Salman stood, adjusting the cuffs of his finely tailored sherwani. His gaze hardened, and he barked orders to his guards. "Deploy additional men to shadow Hossain. Double security at all checkpoints. And if any SSCBF officer so much as breathes in the wrong direction, make them regret it."

He paused, a sinister smirk curling his lips. "And bring me Lan Qian's data trail. If she's so keen on unravelling our plans, let's ensure she finds herself in a web she cannot escape."

As the guards scurried to execute his commands, Salman poured himself a glass of whisky, raising it in a mock toast to the chaos unfolding.

"To the game of cat and mouse," he murmured, his voice dripping with venom. "And may the best predator win."

The bustling Dharmatala Market was a cacophony of colour and sound, with vendors hollering their wares and shoppers jostling for bargains. The scent of freshly fried pakoras mingled with the aroma of vibrant spices, creating an almost intoxicating atmosphere. Rows of makeshift stalls lined the streets, their tattered canopies flapping in the breeze like restless birds.

Captain Lingaong Xuein, her brow furrowed, paced the crowded lanes alongside Captain Robert and their crew. With Zubaid's photo in hand, they approached vendors, street hawkers, and passers-by, each inquiry met with shaking heads or vague shrugs.

"This is a goose chase," Lingaong Xuein muttered under her breath, her frustration simmering beneath a composed exterior. "Strange, where on earth is this man hiding?"

Robert, ever the tease, smirked. "Maybe he's gone invisible. Or perhaps he's joined the circus—you know, juggling secrets instead of balls."

Lingaong Xuein shot him a sharp look but couldn't entirely stifle a grin. "Robert, if you're not careful, I'll juggle your ribs with my elbow," she said, punctuating her words with a jab to his side that made him yelp dramatically.

Their banter was interrupted when they approached a clothes seller, an elderly man with a weathered face and sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. They showed him the photo of Zubaid.

The vendor squinted at the image, then nodded slowly. "Ah, yes. Saw him just a couple of evenings back. He was wandering the market, looking rather anxious. Soon after, a black car pulled up—men in black suits stepped out and spoke with him."

Robert leaned closer, his voice low and direct. "What were they discussing?"

The vendor shrugged. "Didn't hear much, sir. But I recognised the men—they belong to Salman Fazrul Khan."

Lingaong Xuein's brow arched. "And Salman is…?"

The vendor hesitated, then beckoned them to step aside, away from prying ears. In a hushed voice, he continued, "Salman is a wealthy businessman, owns most of this city. People say he controls everything from this market to the black market. Rumor has it he works for Wajidul Hasina, that dictator from Glaciergrave Isle. Salman silences those who stand against him—either with money or… other means."

Robert's expression darkened. "Where can we find him?"

The vendor glanced around nervously before whispering, "He owns a gambling house called Golden Mirage, over on Moulali Lane. But tread carefully; his men don't take kindly to strangers."

Lingaong Xuein nodded her thanks, her expression resolute. "It's time to catch the devil."

The quaint house on Taratala Road stood amidst a cluster of modest residences, its paint peeling and garden untended—a testament to lives preoccupied with survival. Inside, Riya Hossain hummed softly as she prepared dinner, her children giggling in the living room, their laughter filling the home with warmth.

Outside, a black car rolled to a stop under the cover of dusk. Four men emerged, their movements deliberate, their eyes scanning the area like predators stalking prey. With practised precision, they planted a time bomb at the door.

The explosion shattered the evening calm, sending debris flying. Riya screamed, rushing to the source of the noise, only to find her children crying in terror. Before she could react, the men stormed in, grabbing her and her children.

"Not a sound, or your brats will be the first to go," one of the intruders hissed, pressing the barrel of his gun to her temple.

Riya's voice trembled as she pleaded, "Please, take me—spare my children!"

The leader sneered. "Your husband's been poking his nose where it doesn't belong. If he doesn't shut up, we'll silence him—and you."

Before he could continue, a gunshot rang out, and one of the men crumpled to the ground. Standing in the doorway was Agent Jun, his face stoic, his movements fluid like a predator ready to strike.

The remaining men opened fire, but Jun moved with deadly grace, his shots precise and devastating. Each movement was calculated, each kill a masterpiece of efficiency. He twisted, ducked, and fired with the finesse of a choreographed dance, eliminating the attackers one by one.

The last man standing grabbed Riya, pressing a knife to her throat. "Drop your weapon, or she dies!"

Jun's jaw tightened as he slowly lowered his gun, his sharp eyes assessing every angle. From a distant building, Masud steadied his sniper rifle, his target locked. With a single breath, he pulled the trigger.

The bullet sliced through the air like a comet, shattering the window and finding its mark. The attacker fell, lifeless, releasing Riya. She ran to her children, gathering them in a protective embrace, tears streaming down her face.

Jun approached, his voice calm but firm. "Are you hurt?"

Riya shook her head, then looked up at him. "Are you from the SSCBF?"

Jun's lips quirked into a faint smile. "No. You can call me a hidden hero."

As he glanced around, his gaze fell on a vibrating phone in the pocket of one of the dead men. He picked it up and answered.

"Did you kill them?" Salman's voice demanded.

Jun's expression darkened, his voice a chilling whisper. "You think you can escape? You Gǒu"

He ended the call, his eyes lingering on Riya and her children before turning away.

At the SDF hideout, Gonda burst into Madam Di-Xian's office, his face grave. "Madam, Salman has sent men to assassinate Zubaid's family."

Di-Xian's eyes narrowed, her composed demeanour giving way to a cold fury. "Jun and Masud have their orders. They'll ensure no harm comes to the family."

Her tone was final, her gaze steely. "This monster thinks he's untouchable. Let's show him what true fear looks like."

The Golden Mirage was a symphony of excess, where neon-drenched debauchery met the rhythmic thrum of a bassline that reverberated through the very bones. Gambling tables sprawled across the room like a gambler's paradise, while disco lights pirouetted above, casting shifting hues over the gyrating crowd on the dance floor. Smoky tendrils curled upward from cigars, blending with the aroma of spilled whiskey and cheap cologne.

Zubaid Hossain, his face a portrait of dread, clutched a leather briefcase as though it were Pandora's box. Beneath his jacket, a time bomb snugly clung to his torso, a ticking reminder of Salman's omnipresent threat. Salman's men loomed like sentinels, their eyes scanning the crowd with predatory precision.

At the entrance, Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein sauntered in with their squad, their demeanours cool but their eyes razor-sharp. The disco lights bathed them in intermittent flashes, their silhouettes cutting through the vibrant chaos.

Robert leaned towards Lingaong Xuein, his voice low. "Salman's men are thicker than thieves in here. Stay sharp, and let's dance when the music drops."

"Let's hope the rhythm suits your two left feet," Lingaong Xuein quipped, her lips curving into a smirk.

The team split up, moving like ghosts through the revelry. Meanwhile, Farhan and Roy watched from the shadows, their attention riveted on Salman, lounging amidst a harem of young women, his laugh echoing like a hyena's cackle.

Zubaid approached, his steps hesitant, the briefcase trembling in his grip. Salman's mocking eyes landed on him. "Ah, the reluctant mule arrives," Salman jeered, his voice slurred with arrogance. "Tell me, Zubaid, what's it like being a puppet on my strings?"

Before Zubaid could muster a response, a gunshot cracked through the din. Farhan, swift as a shadow, had fired at a guard aiming at Daishoji, who'd been tailing Zubaid. Chaos erupted as Robert's voice boomed over the cacophony.

"Weapons free! Take them down!"

The room descended into bedlam. Salman's men drew their guns, bullets ricocheting off walls and shattering glasses. Patrons screamed, scrambling for the exits like startled sheep.

Lingaong Xuein shielded Zubaid as he tried to escape, but Salman, snarling like a cornered wolf, pulled a pistol from his blazer and fired. The bullet struck Zubaid in the back, sending him sprawling to the floor. Lingaong Xuein retaliated, her aim true, forcing Salman to retreat as his guards covered him.

Meanwhile, Farhan unsheathed his twin swords, their blades gleaming under the strobe lights. He moved with lethal grace, a whirlwind of steel and fury. His strikes were a symphony of precision, each slash a note in a deadly melody. He spun, parried, and sliced through Salman's men with the fluidity of a predator in its element.

As Salman retreated deeper into the club, a sudden, visceral scream cut through the chaos. One of his guards collapsed, his ear grotesquely torn off. From the shadows emerged Agent-90, his presence a harbinger of dread.

Salman turned, pulling his gun to fire, but Agent-90 closed the distance with terrifying speed. Their fight was feral, fists colliding like clashing cymbals, each strike resonating with raw intensity. Agent-90, his face an impassive mask, disarmed Salman and delivered a brutal punch to his jaw, sending him crumpling to the floor.

When Salman regained consciousness, he found himself bound to a steel chair in a dimly lit room. The air reeked of motor oil, its slick residue coating his naked body like a vile second skin. He struggled, but the ropes bit into his flesh, unyielding.

From the shadows stepped Agent-90, his face devoid of emotion, his black-gloved hands clasped behind his back. The dim light caught the edges of his figure, casting him in an almost demonic silhouette.

"You think this is some bloody joke?" Salman spat, his voice laced with venom. "You're nothing but a lackey, a lapdog playing hero."

Agent-90 tilted his head, his voice low and chilling. "And you're a coward hiding behind pawns. You've taken innocent lives, threatened families, and forced a man to carry your sins in a briefcase. Do you feel even a shred of remorse?"

Salman sneered. "Remorse? For what? Zubaid's a nobody. People like him are trash. I'm just doing business."

"Business with the Syndicate, no less." Agent-90's tone was calm but deadly, his posture stiff with controlled rage. He leaned in, gripping Salman's cheek with his gloved hand. "You're just like your master, Hasina—spineless and soulless."

Salman recoiled, his voice rising in a mixture of anger and fear. "You'll regret this! You think you're invincible? You're nothing!"

Agent-90 straightened, his hand reaching into his pocket to retrieve a lighter. Flicking it open, he watched the flame dance for a moment before his eyes met Salman's.

"Send my regards to your goddess," he said, his voice devoid of emotion as he tossed the lighter onto the oil-soaked floor.

The flames ignited instantly, racing towards Salman like a hungry beast. His screams of agony filled the room, a symphony of horror as the fire consumed him, his body writhing in torment. Agent-90 turned on his heel, his steps steady, his face untouched by the chaos behind him.

The last sound was Salman's shriek, fading into silence as the door closed, leaving only the flickering firelight to illuminate the now-empty room.

The sterile air of the hospital clung to the senses, a faint medley of disinfectant and antiseptic wafting like a silent guardian against unseen maladies. Fluorescent lights hummed softly, their cold glow reflecting off the pristine white tiles of the room. Zubaid Hossain lay motionless on the hospital bed, his body wrapped in bandages like a fragile parcel. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor echoed the resilience of his survival, a symphony of life amidst chaos.

His family surrounded him, faces etched with relief and weariness, their collective sigh a testimony to days spent in anguish. SSCBF officers stood like sentinels by the door, their expressions a mixture of victory and determination. Chief Wen-Li, clad in her crisp uniform, stood closest to the bed, her gaze steady yet softened with empathy. Lan Qian, her laptop hugged close, was already muttering calculations, her nimble fingers poised to uncover more truths. Nightingale offered a faint smile, her piercing eyes scanning the room for any sign of lingering threat. Robert leaned against the wall, his usual levity subdued, while Lingaong Xuein held her arms crossed, her composure an impenetrable fortress.

As Zubaid stirred, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing weary but alive eyes. Gasps of relief resonated, his wife Riya collapsing into quiet tears as her children clung to her sides. Zubaid attempted a weak smile, his parched lips moving inaudibly before he whispered, "Am I... safe now?"

Before anyone could respond, the door creaked open. The room fell silent as Agent-90 entered; his imposing figure framed against the sterile hallway lights. His movements were calculated, his presence as commanding as a storm cloud rolling in. He adjusted his spectacles, their glint catching the light, and spoke in a voice that carried the weight of inevitability.

"Salman is no longer a threat," he declared, his tone devoid of embellishment, each word cutting through the air like a blade. His gaze swept across the room, lingering briefly on Wen-Li. "The game of hide and seek is over."

The statement hung heavy in the air, a proclamation that left no room for inquiry. Zubaid's wife exhaled a shaky breath of gratitude, her grip on her children tightening.

Agent-90 turned without further ado and exited, his stride purposeful, as though the shadows themselves recoiled from his path. Wen-Li, startled by his abrupt departure, hurried after him into the corridor. "Agent-90!" she called, her voice firm yet touched with urgency.

He halted, the faintest pause in his step, before glancing back over his shoulder. His spectacled eyes met hers, holding a depth she couldn't quite fathom. He gave a subtle nod of gratitude, an unspoken acknowledgment, before disappearing down the hallway. The echo of his footsteps lingered like the aftermath of a thunderclap, and he was gone, as elusive as smoke on a winter's breath.

Wen-Li stood there, her hand falling to her side, a strange sense of finality settling in her chest. She returned to the room, where the others were quietly celebrating their small but significant victory.

"The hunt is over," Wen-Li announced, her voice steady but tinged with the weight of what they had endured. "But our mission is far from complete. The threads of this conspiracy run deep."

The team exchanged solemn glances; their momentary respite shattered by the reminder of the storm that still brewed on the horizon. Outside, the city buzzed with life, unaware of the shadows that had been cast aside and the ones still lurking in the wings.