"You’re kidding me, right? Budi, tell me you’re kidding."Zayyan Mahardika adjusted the straps of his insulated delivery backpack, staring up at the obsidian glass monolith that was the Villareal Global Headquarters. A massive digital sign above the revolving doors scrolled a continuous, cold message: NO UNSCHEDULED DELIVERIES. NO COURIERS BEYOND THIS POINT. ALL PACKAGES MUST BE DROPPED AT LOADING DOCK C."I wish I was, Zay," a crackling voice replied through Zayyan’s earpiece. "But the client added a hundred-dollar tip on the app. The note just says: 'Deliver to the 52nd floor boardroom. Do not let it get cold. If you fail, I’m giving you a one-star review and a formal complaint to the health department.'"Zayyan let out a sharp, jagged laugh, checking the timer on his phone. "One star? Man, my 4.9 rating is the only thing keeping my ego alive. And she’s threatening the health department over a bowl of laksa?""Not just laksa, Zay. That’s Madam Chen’s 'Inferno Special.' If that soup

Zayyan had his hand on the heavy brass handle of the office door, his mind already racing through the shortcuts he’d take to reach the docks. He could almost feel the wind against his face and the roar of a Ducati engine between his legs.But the door didn’t wait for him to turn the handle. It exploded inward, forcing Zayyan to hop back with the grace of a startled cat to avoid getting his nose flattened."Keisha! Tell me the rumors are lies!"A man stormed in, flanked by two towering mountains of muscle in black suits. The newcomer was dressed in a white linen suit that screamed 'I own a yacht and I’ve never worked a day in my life.' His hair was slicked back with enough pomade to constitute a fire hazard, and his face was twisted in a look of profound offense.Zayyan blinked, glancing at the empty delivery bag still slung over his shoulder. "Man, this office has more traffic than the highway at rush hour. Do you guys even do work here, or is it just a revolving door for dudes in exp

Zayyan watched Keisha march toward the bike, her silhouette framed by the amber glow of the kitchen’s service lights. He shook his head, a lingering chill still dancing on his skin, but his heart was doing a completely different kind of shivering."You’re really serious about that sidecar, aren't you?" Keisha asked, pausing by the Ducati. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes softer than they had any right to be after nearly becoming a human popsicle."Hey, it’s about safety, Boss," Zayyan replied, tossing her the matte-black helmet. "And aesthetics. Imagine a leather-lined sidecar with a built-in espresso machine. We’d be the most caffeinated Special Ops team in history."Keisha caught the helmet with one hand, a small, genuine smirk tugging at her lips. "I think the espresso might fly out at the speeds you drive. Now, quit stalling. My internal temperature is finally back to human levels, and I’d like to keep it that way.""Right. Extraction phase part two: The Getaway.

Zayyan stood on the edge of the balcony, the burner phone a cold, dead weight in his hand before he dropped it into the trash. The sun was a bruised purple-orange, bleeding over the Jakarta skyline, but all he could see was the "cage" Malik had mentioned.He took a deep breath, smoothing his expression into the trademark smirk that had served as his armor for years. He couldn't let her see the ghost. Not yet.He stepped back through the sliding glass doors. The penthouse was silent, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the woman in the bed."You're awake," Zayyan said softly, leaning against the doorframe as Keisha stirred.Keisha pushed her hair back, looking remarkably composed for someone who had just spent the night with a 'delivery boy.' She blinked at him, her eyes tracking the scars on his chest before meeting his gaze. "You’re up early. Checking the perimeter, Head of Special Ops?""Habit," Zayyan lied easily, tossing a clean t-shirt over his head. "And I figured if I didn

"I’ve decided. This isn't a suit, Keisha. It’s a sophisticated torture device designed by people who hate breathing."Zayyan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the Villareal penthouse, tugging violently at the silk bowtie that felt like a velvet garrote. The black tuxedo was hand-tailored, Italian, and cost more than his last three motorbikes combined, but to Zayyan, it was just a very expensive straightjacket."Stop fidgeting, Zayyan. You’re going to fray the silk," Keisha’s voice drifted from the dressing room, followed by the rhythmic click-clack of her heels."Fray the silk? I’m more worried about it fraying my soul! How do rich people do this every night? Is there a secret breathing technique? Do I need to join a cult?""It’s called 'posture,' Zayyan. Something you’d know about if you didn't spend your life hunched over a pair of handlebars."Keisha stepped into the living room, and Zayyan’s complaint died in his throat. She was wearing a floor-length gown the color