Leaving the electric matrix of Tokyo and the distant echo of metropolitan sirens behind, Abir's custom **Suzuki Hayabusa** glided into the restricted underground hangar, its high-performance blocks ticking as they cooled.
Arisa dismounted, immediately interfacing her laptop with the central mainframe. The moment she integrated the matte-black hardware drive seized from Kenji Sato's vault, a massive, system-wide decryption protocol initiated across her monitors.
"Abir! These arrays don't just contain Draco's standard mirror-files," Arisa stated, her eyes widening as hidden sectors began to partition. "Sato had hidden a legacy encrypted root folder within the cluster. The geolocation source code of this file leads directly back to... Bangladesh!"
Abir shed his heavy leather rig, dropping it over a steel chair. He unholstered his twin chrome Desert Eagles, laying them flat on the conference table before locking his gray eyes onto her. A suffocating silence descended upon the space.
"Bangladesh? What operational intelligence was a Yakuza boss buffering from my hometown, brother?" Abir muttered, his voice dropping into a dark register.
Right on cue, the isolated 3D holographic aperture in the corner of the deck flickered into life. Cutting through the green light matrix, the digitized silhouette of **'The Oracle'** materialized, his voice carrying through a heavy acoustic modifier.
"Impressive execution, Abir Khan," The Oracle spoke, the digital avatar tracking Abir's stance. "You systematically disassembled the cartel networks of Mexico, Russia, and Japan. But you are still blind to your true architect, brother."
Abir advanced, stopping inches from the projection. "Cut the riddles, Oracle. Name the target."
"Five years ago, on the banks of the Buriganga river in Dhaka, your entire black-ops cell was ambushed and burned alive inside a secure safehouse," The Oracle revealed, lines of redacted records blinking around his avatar. "You operated under the assumption that Draco orchestrated that purge. You were wrong. Draco was merely a field asset. The prime architect is someone who still operates out of your own city, controlling the entire country's black market from the shadows."
Abir's jaw locked, his fists clenching so hard the veins mapping his forearms threatened to rupture. The phantom memory of that raging inferno and the dying screams of his frontline brothers flashed across his consciousness like a visual scar.
"Give me a name," Abir growled, the untamed wrath of a demon pulsing through his veins.
"Kenji Sato's drive contains the encrypted digital thumbprint of that master," The Oracle answered. "His designation within the global shadow index is **'The Ghost King'**. A high-tier politician and underworld kingpin operating in your country. Abir... Interpol is searching the globe for your shadow, but your final reckoning lies where your legend began. You must return home."
The holographic signal vanished into thin air. Simultaneously, the terminal screen behind Arisa flashed a green confirmation cue, displaying a bold, singular operational destination—**"Dhaka, Bangladesh"**.
Abir reached down, snapping his twin Desert Eagles back into his chest harness with an absolute metallic finality. The exhaustion vanished from his features, replaced entirely by a cold, merciless thirst for retribution. He turned his gaze toward Rider, who had been listening from the threshold.
"Rider! Prime the long-range private cargo transport immediately, brother," Abir whispered, his gray eyes burning with the fire of an impending execution. "We've painted foreign nations in crimson. Now, it's time to return to our own soil and show 'The Ghost King' exactly what happens when the Devil returns from the grave to collect his blood-debt!"
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