The Black Cat Chronicles

They all met at the restaurant in a hotel located at the outskirt of the capital city. Not by announcement. Not by text. Just the way Black Cats always met, with the quiet certainty of those who know where they belong.

The hotel was known for its Malaysian international buffet : an empire of flavours that could calm a tyrant and start a rebellion, depending on what you plated. Here, laksa steamed beside sushi.

Roti jostled politely with roasted lamb. Dodol wrapped in banana leaves sat like secrets between mille-feuille and chocolate lava cake. It was late afternoon. The lunch crowd was thinning, leaving behind the soft clatter of cutlery, low jazz, and the lingering fragrance of curry leaves and lemongrass drifting beneath chandeliers.

They chose the farthest booth, tucked behind decorative palms, close enough to the action to stay informed, but far enough for no one to hear what mattered. This was their ground. Familiar. Neutral. Luxurious.

Siti was the first to arrive, as always. Punctual, composed, already seated at the far corner of the dining area, just beyond the dessert station.

Next came Bagheera broad-shouldered, steady, still wiping oil from his hands like he’d come straight from a roadside brawl. He said nothing as he slid into his usual seat. He simply nodded at Siti, then make his way to the buffet spread.

Batu arrived shortly after, moving through the room with that same unreadable stillness he always carried. No one noticed him enter.

Then came Keris, sharp-eyed and fluid in movement, her shawl trailing behind her like a ripple in silk. She didn’t walk. She glided. By her side was Putih, face calm, footsteps light but firm. She carried no bag, but you knew she had everything she needed. Ash still clung to the edge of her scarf.

None of them greeted loudly. They didn’t need to. They all just drifted to their respective seats 6 altogether, the one behind the row of indoor palms, near the window no one looked through.

The table was already laid. The napkins folded in the shape of quiet attention. It was their spot. It always had been. And though the world above moved fast and loud, here beneath the scent of sambal, past the reach of questions The Black Cats gathered.

Not to catch up but to begin. They will begin the first order of the agenda : Eat. It was law. Because if the world was about to burn, you’d better face it on a full stomach, and preferably after dessert.

As they sat, the clinking of spoons and soft footsteps around the buffet carried on like a polite orchestra in the background. And the food : oh, the food was a story on its own.

Siti, already seated, picked daintily at her ulam with sambal belacan, the fire on her plate matching the fire in her glance. Her fingers folded a daun kaduk with precision, dipped it just so, then placed it gently onto her tongue. She didn’t rush. She tasted everything like it might contain a message.

Then came Bagheera, carrying a mountain of satay ten sticks piled with quiet authority, accompanied by cucumber slices, sharp onion wedges, and neatly cut lontong. Muscles relaxed but ears always tuned, he placed his plate, sat down, and immediately began no delay, no distractions. For Bagheera, satay was both shield and signal if he was eating, the world could wait.

Keris arrived next with effortless poise, her tray a vision of colour and spice. She carried her usual: nasi biryani with chicken curry, golden grains soaking up thick, red gravy. Beside it, acar timun sparkled in vinegar and heat, and a small dish of dalcha sat like a quiet promise. She ate slowly, deliberately, each bite cut with purpose.

Batu, ever unreadable, returned with an elegant contradiction Laksa Nyonya, steam rising in creamy swirls of coconut and spice, and for dessert, a perfect bowl of chendol, shaved ice glistening, green strands floating in sweet gula melaka.

And finally, Putih, whose appearance still carried the dust of travel, placed her tray down with quiet certainty. Her choice: nasi ayam penyet—crispy skin, sambal volcano on the side, and rice that smelled like someone’s mother had made it with a warning and a blessing.

They all dug in. There was no small talk. No mission briefings yet. Just the click of spoons, the slow tearing of satay, the rhythm of forks against porcelain. Because even in urgency, the Black Cats eat well and first. It was not indulgence. It was discipline. Madam would want it this way.

Siti, The Medic and the Persian, Long-haired, graceful, so still she seemed made of silk and memory. She moved like smoke in the sun: slow, elegant, impossible to hold. Seemingly aloof, but beneath those calm eyes was a mind sharper than any scalpel she carried. She smelled faintly of jasmine and lavender, with a trace of something older, it was the kind of scent that made you pause mid-thought. Not for romance for recollection. Like something from your grandmother’s room. Or the quiet before a storm you remember surviving. Siti didn’t rush. She didn’t need to.

When she spoke, it was after three other people had already said too much. And when she touched you, it wasn’t comfort. It was certainty. Inside her modified sling bag place under the table were tools no one asked about.

She carried healing like other people carried weapons. And if she ever looked you in the eye and said, “You’ll survive,” you didn’t need second opinions.

“Our Madam joining us?” Asked Batu, the question floated lightly, like a leaf on broth. But everyone heard it. Keris, ever the sharp one, didn’t lift her eyes from the plate.

“Yes,” said Siti “She’ll be coming.”

No one pressed further. No one needed a time. When Madam said she would come, she would. A quiet understanding settled over the table. Bagheera, who had just begun working on his second plate of satay, muttered with satisfaction, “Good. Then we eat. This is what she’d want.”

Batu nodded. “Madam never liked unfinished meals.” And so they did what they always did when time was uncertain and missions loomed. They enjoyed their food. Not out of indulgence, but discipline.

Because if there was one thing the Black Cats understood, it was that hunger clouds judgement. And Madam would never forgive a mission launched on an empty stomach.

They ate quietly, letting the flavours settle and the conversation flow in small, deliberate threads.

There was no small talk. No mission briefings yet. Just the click of spoons, the slow tearing of satay, the rhythm of forks against porcelain. Because even in urgency, the Black Cats ate well—and first. It was not indulgence. It was discipline. Madam would want it this way.

Suddenly a plate of mee goreng was placed on the table. All five of them paused.

Siti’s spoon hovered mid-air. Bagheera’s fingers tightened on a satay stick. Batu looked up. Keris blinked once. Putih, who never startles, looked straight ahead.

There she stood. The Madam. Casual jeans. Black T-shirt. No jewellery. No fanfare. Just a plate of noodles in one hand, and a smile that meant nothing and everything.

“Enjoying your food?” she asked. The tone was light, but the undercurrent was steel. Her signature arrival without warning. No footsteps. No advance notice. She always showed up just after you stopped expecting her. She took her seat like it belonged to her, because it did.

“Good,” she said, before anyone answered. “Keep eating. We talk after.”

No one objected. Because The Madam didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t use flowery words. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. She was the type who once shut down a mission with three words and a raised eyebrow. The type who walked into high-security meetings with no invitation and walked out with everyone’s loyalty.

Some said she had military ties. Others swore she used to run a humanitarian op in conflict zones until she decided she’d rather prevent the war than clean up after it.

No one knew for sure. But when she sat down, people listened. The Madam stirred her mee goreng once with a fork, then looked up directly at Putih.

“Talk.” Putih didn’t flinch. She placed her glass down. Cleared her throat, softly. Then began. “I received a tip-off. From one of my sources on the Bayan Lepas circuit.”

“Trusted?” Siti asked without looking up.

Putih nodded. “Trusted. She doesn’t spook easy. But this time... her tone was off.” Her voice was low, steady. “She said there’s movement something brewing under the radar. But the message was... muddled. No name, no clear target” She paused, recalling it exactly. “‘Something big is going to happen.’”

Bagheera set down his satay stick. His jaw clenched slightly. Keris was the one to repeat it.

“‘to Happen,’” she said slowly.

“Where?” Putih exhaled. “They didn’t say. Just that it’s planned. That it’s meant to look natural. Like it was always going to happen. But it’s not.”

The Madam didn’t blink. Didn’t interrupt. Just waited. The table went quiet.

“I met her in person, as always” Putih added. “At a women’s clinic just outside Bukit Jambul. She passed me a note” She reached into her coat and laid a small folded paper on the table.

The Madam didn’t touch it. She just read it upside down. She knows that name in the note. Been tracking him for sometime, then he went missing. Suddenly disappear from the radar. Last she heard he’s in Trengganu. So now he resurface with a mission apparently.

“She said there’s going to be a meeting. Soon. No flyers, no posters. It’s not on Telegram or even the usual WhatsApp circuits. Invitation-only. Word-of-mouth. Cloaked as a private da’wah session.”

Bagheera’s jaw tightened. “Da’wah session... Religious angle?” Putih nodded.

“They might be using this dak’wah session as cover so as not to appear obvious” Keris leaned in.

“Where?” Bagheera asked.

“The meeting itself is in Penang,” Putih said. “Location not confirmed. But they’re gathering people” Putih exhaled and spoke slowly, as if weighing every word before releasing it.

“Before she left, asked what does “Permata Timur” means. She kept hearing this phrase several time” The others listened in.

Siti looked up sharply.“The Eastern Jewel?” Keris frowned.

“Could be a code” Putih shook her head.

Bagheera finally broke his silence. “Singapore. Or Penang itself” No one disagreed.

The Madam exhaled, slow and sharp. the phrase ‘Permata Timur’ was first used by a colonial officer... But the first to whisper it with awe was an old poet from Palembang describing the tiny city that glowed even when the sea was dark.”

“So this is what we need to do. Each and every one of you, used your sources to get more information about this. Your contact Putih, go back to her and asked : where she heard this? And from who? We need a name. Where she got that name in the note, find out where is he now. Somebody might know. Last I heard he’s in Trengganu. All of you mobilise your contacts to get more information about this guy and listen as people do talk in whispers.

We will meet again in Singapore… together with the others in 2 weeks. I will send in the location via our usual communication channels. ​​