Lord Yin stood.
The room fell silent—not because he demanded it, but because his presence bent the air around him. Conversations died mid-breath. Even the masked figures who had learned not to flinch under gunfire straightened unconsciously.
"Now," he said, his voice calm and perfectly measured, "let's begin this meeting."
Saif al-Rahaman did not rise to meet him. Instead, he leaned back into his chair, one ankle resting casually atop the opposite knee, projecting an ease he did not feel. His fingers drummed once against the armrest before going still. Around the long timber table, masked figures—some superior, some merely obedient—kept their attention locked on Lord Yin.
No one dared look away.
The lights shut off without warning.
A soft mechanical hum filled the darkness as the projector mounted to the ceiling flickered to life.
A massive image of the African continent spread across the front wall, glowing blue against the shadows. Borders sharpened. Coastlines became clear.
"Somalia," Lord Yin said, his tone firm.
The camera zoomed inward.
"One of the most important regions for our African operations."
Red dots appeared across the country—dozens of them—each pulsing faintly, like open wounds scattered across the map.
Lord Yin clasped his hands behind his back as he paced slowly before the projection.
"The dots you're seeing represent our bases. Supply routes. Training facilities. Command outposts."
He stopped walking.
Without another word, the red dots began to change.
One by one, they turned blue.
A murmur rippled through the room—quiet, restrained, but unmistakable.
"American and European forces," Lord Yin continued, "have officially taken control of these locations."
Saif al-Rahaman's posture shifted.
Lord Yin turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him.
"We anticipated this outcome," he said. "After the Freedom Tower attack, retaliation was inevitable. The United States does not forgive humiliation. It eradicates it."
He raised a single finger.
"Their objective is no longer containment. It is extermination."
Silence pressed down on the room.
"Every remaining member of this organization is now a target," Lord Yin added.
He paused.
"And especially its head."
Saif leaned forward abruptly, his elbows landing on the table. He clasped his hands together tightly, bringing them up to his face—not in prayer, but to hide it.
Because shame is loud when left uncovered.
The projector clicked off.
Light flooded back into the room, harsh and unforgiving. Lord Yin turned, pulled out his chair, and sat. He leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the table, fingers spread, owning the space between them.
His eyes found Saif's.
Cold. Calculating. Unmoved.
"Now," Lord Yin said, "here's where we discuss the deal."
Saif did not respond.
"In our previous agreement," Lord Yin continued, "I was granted access to your bases and your men. I could observe. I could advise. I could walk your corridors like a guest."
His voice sharpened.
"But I could not command."
He lifted one hand slightly.
"No authority over resources. No control over logistics. No permission to redeploy soldiers or alter assignments. I couldn't even reroute a convoy without waiting for approval."
Lord Yin leaned back.
"That arrangement is no longer acceptable."
Saif finally looked up, disbelief flickering across his face.
"What are you saying?" he demanded.
Lord Yin stood again, smoothing the front of his coat.
"I want a new deal."
Saif's eyes narrowed.
"What deal?"
Lord Yin exhaled slowly, as though explaining something painfully obvious to a child.
"You will hand over full operational control of all African bases to the Balance of Red," he said. "Your men. Your weapons. Your resources. Every command, every function—ours."
He tilted his head.
"What do you think?"
The reaction was instant.
"That's bullshit!"
Saif exploded to his feet, the chair screeching backward before crashing to the floor. He slammed both palms onto the table, veins bulging along his forearms, his face burning red.
"You've crossed the line, Yin!" he roared. "We may be allies, but this—this is theft! You're demanding half my power!"
He leaned forward, spittle flying.
"It's the most idiotic deal I've ever heard!"
Lord Yin did not react.
He glanced at his watch.
Sighed.
"That's unfortunate," he said calmly. "Because in less than a month, half of those bases will be gone regardless."
Saif froze.
"The White House already knows their locations," Lord Yin continued. "Every single one. Satellites. Informants. Digital trails."
He looked directly at Saif.
"If you give them to me, you retain the Middle Eastern operations. The ones that actually matter."
Saif's jaw clenched. Sweat rolled down his temple. He shut his eyes, breathing deeply, fighting the chaos tearing through his thoughts.
"…What do I get?" he asked finally.
Lord Yin smiled faintly.
"You keep your Middle Eastern bases," he said. "You remain their leader."
He paused.
"A king."
Another pause.
"We will be just the puppet king of your Africans bases, real authority will still be yours "
The words sank deep.
"And if you refuse," Lord Yin added softly, "our friendship ends."
Saif's chest tightened.
"In two or three years, you'll be in an American facility. Waiting. Do you honestly believe they'll accept the idea that some mysterious organization orchestrated that attack?"
Lord Yin's voice dropped to a whisper.
"They won't even believe a non-Muslim did it."
Saif grabbed at his chest as if struck. His eyes widened. His gaze fell to the floor, thoughts colliding violently.
"…Can I answer later?" he asked weakly.
"No," Lord Yin replied instantly.
Saif looked up.
"You're hesitating," Lord Yin said. "Which means you're already defeated."
He raised three fingers.
"Three."
Saif pressed his hands to his face.
"Two."
"…Permission granted," Saif whispered. "You can."
Lord Yin lowered his hand and gestured calmly.
"Superiors stay. Everyone else may leave."
Masked figures moved in silence. Saif was escorted out, his shoulders slumped.
Only five remained.
Rabbit.
Crow.
Lioness.
Mengu. (The one who fought Noah first during his meeting to Lord Yin")
Saint.
Noah was ushered out next, confusion gnawing at him as the doors closed behind him.
————
A lamp shattered against the wall.
"What does he think he is?!" Saif screamed.
Luxury surrounded him—soft bedding, polished furniture—but none of it mattered. He punched the wall until his knuckles burned.
"One day," he snarled, "you'll beg. Poison in your veins. Crying for mercy."
His voice fell.
"And when you die, even your bones will be eaten."
He collapsed onto the bed.
—
Noah lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
"The sixth superior," he asked quietly. "Do you know who that is?"
The masked figure beside him turned a page.
"Do you know," he said calmly, "that information like the White House knowing every Al-Qaeda base isn't public?"
Noah went still.
Behind the mask, his blood ran cold.