CHAPTER 96: CHAPTER 96 LOYALTY

The eighth floor of the apartment building, unlike the seven floors below, didn’t have separated rooms. The entire eighth floor was a factory exclusively owned by Tama Riyadi.

Inside the spacious area, the cement walls were mottled with age. All windows were tightly closed; instead of curtains, brown plastic sheets were stuck to them. Long fluorescent tubes dangled from the ceiling, and beneath these tubes were rows of workbenches. The building’s power supply had been cut off. Consequently, women, adolescents, and children, wearing very old full-coverage respirators, had no choice but to work diligently at the workbenches, aided only by the scant light filtering through the brown sheets. Around the work area, gang members armed with machetes patrolled. Along the walls stood various large plastic drums. On the shelves at the back of the room, numerous white square plastic containers marked with a black skull and crossbones were stacked.

"Faster! Everyone, faster!"

The dark-skinned, stout man clapped his hands and called out, "All this merchandise must be bagged by tonight!"

As one of the factory’s supervisors and a trusted subordinate of Tama Riyadi, he was well aware of the importance of this batch of goods.

A few months ago, Santos Aquino, representing the rebel forces, approached Tama Riyadi. He claimed they had a new compound formula and a blueprint for its production process, needing Riyadi to undertake the manufacturing. Tama Riyadi was initially skeptical. With so many new compounds on the market, he had never heard of anyone willing to share a new formula or exclusive manufacturing processes. Such a thing was a priceless treasure, one that couldn’t be bought even with silver and gold. Out of respect for Santos’s brother, Tama Riyadi still had his men try to produce a batch. To his surprise, this new compound was pure in flavor and incredibly potent, making all other products look like trash.

Most importantly, according to the chemical experts Riyadi had hired, this compound miraculously caused no visible harm to the human body. It was harmless. It didn’t make people look gaunt, cause their skin to deteriorate, or their minds to languish until they resembled ghosts. Even more, frequently tasting it could invigorate the spirit, clear the mind, and significantly improve one’s condition. Like... Coca-Cola? Or chewing gum? Red Bull? The only downside was that not tasting it daily caused discomfort throughout the body. It made one intolerant to minor temperature changes, and any gentle breeze could trigger intense itching all over the skin.

The short, stout man wasn’t a chemical expert, but he was the factory manager. After many years, he had seen countless human tragedies caused by compounds and knew very well that no matter how harmless these products seemed, they would eventually pull people into the Abyss.

Nonetheless, Tama Riyadi still had his subordinates secretly sell the new product on the market. The feedback was excellent, and many addicts were even willing to pay ten times the price of similar products to obtain this new one. As things progressed, the two parties struck a deal. Tama Riyadi became responsible for producing this new product for Santos. (Sometimes, he would also secretly set aside some of the product for chemical analysis, process improvement, sales, and bribes.) While the latter took care of overseas transport, marketing, and other aspects.

As a confidant, the stout man knew that as the cooperation continued and their relationship grew increasingly close, Santos Aquino brought Tama Riyadi another blueprint. This blueprint was an improved version of the original, with a more complicated production process and more stringent preparation conditions. But the potency of the product was greatly enhanced, potentially unmatched in the world. The product created from this new blueprint was named "Datura." As per Santos’s request, its production and packaging became even more secretive, conducted entirely in a hidden room on the tenth floor. Even the stout man had no clue about the full process.

He only knew that these "Datura" products were sold around the world. Aside from the Philippines, regions on other continents were also producing and selling Datura. It was as if some person or organization was fully driving this effort. Whatever their ultimate goals, they certainly didn’t care much about money. They hadn’t set a high price for Datura or its secondary products; otherwise, such "harmless" compounds would have been enough to build them a vast empire.

Pulling his thoughts back, the stout man looked around the factory. He called over a few gang members armed with machetes to help the women pack the secondary products of Datura. Even if the effects were slightly lesser, these goods could still be sold at a high price.

On the factory perimeter, Tama Riyadi’s right-hand man, Chacha, yelled into his walkie-talkie, "Hello? Hello? Big Ghost, can you hear me?!"

The walkie-talkie was filled with static, and no response could be heard.

Chacha cursed and clipped the walkie-talkie back to his belt. The stout man walked over hesitantly and asked, "Chacha, what’s wrong? Did Big Ghost run into trouble?"

Chacha turned his head and stared expressionlessly at him for a moment, making the stout man’s scalp tingle and his whole body uncomfortable.

Chacha was Tama Riyadi’s top enforcer. He had learned Pencak Silat, a Southeast Asian traditional martial art originating from Malay culture, widely spread throughout Southeast Asia with many variants, and characterized by speed, dexterity, and ferocity. He had once taken down ten opposing gang enforcers in an alleyway with his fists and a Tiger Claw Knife.

When Chacha’s gaze fell on him, the stout man felt as if a tiger ready to pounce was eyeing him, his heart pounding non-stop and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

After a while, Chacha looked away and commanded indifferently, "The rest of the goods don’t need to be packed for now. Have those women deliver the packaged ones to the warehouse. Call over all the men who can fight."

"Ah?"

The stout man was stunned. He only knew that a special operations squad had breached the building, but Tama Riyadi had already received the news and arranged for his men to ambush them. The man asked, puzzled, "Didn’t we already scatter them, ready to finish them off? Why do we still need to prepare for combat?"

Chacha said calmly, "You talk too much."

The stout man shuddered and lowered his head, not daring to say another word. He ran back into the room, directed the women to transport the goods, and had all the enforcers ready their guns.

Chacha stood alone in the corridor. The subordinates he had sent downstairs had all lost contact; not even a bit of useful information had been sent back. He grabbed the walkie-talkie and spoke briefly with Tama Riyadi, advising the gang leader to whom he was loyal to make preparations for escape.

As for himself...

Chacha looked toward the distant corridor, dark and seemingly sunken into perpetual blackness. A smile emerged on his nondescript, gaunt face. He was willing to swear his undying loyalty to Tama Riyadi, right down to offering his own heart.