The Black Cat Chronicles

The restaurant was busy, as expected for lunch hour. Most of the crowd came from the offices around the area. People arrived in groups, scanned the room briefly, and settled into large tables together. Jackets were draped over chair backs, laptops slipped into bags, phones placed face down on the table.

It was the kind of place where colleagues met regularly not special enough to feel like an event, but good enough to justify coming back. The buffet price was higher than average. Everyone knew that. Still, it didn’t seem to bother anyone.

People came for the variety multiple cuisines in one space, enough choices that no one had to compromise. Plates were filled generously, conversations relaxed, and no one looked at the bill. The atmosphere stayed steady. Busy but not rushed. Loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to talk without raising voices.

Groups sat close to one another, similar in size, similar in purpose. No table stood out. No one paid attention to anyone else. Just another lunch crowd, enjoying good food and a long enough break before returning to work.

Madam was already there, seated at the corner table reserved for ten. It was a round table. No head. No hierarchy built into the furniture. Her laptop was open in front of her. A glass of chendol sat to one side, the ice already starting to melt. She stirred it slowly, took a sip, then returned her attention to the screen.

Her fingers moved easily across the keyboard, steady and focused. Siti and Putih walked in together. Madam didn’t look up immediately. She finished the line she was typing, took another sip of the chendol, then raised her eyes. A nod. Nothing more. It was enough. She went back to her laptop without a word.

Siti placed her bag under the table. Putih did the same. They didn’t wait for instructions. They knew the routine. Eat first. Make their way to the buffet spread, picked up their plates, and walk around looking at the dishes.

Madam continued working, occasionally stirring the chendol, the room moving around her as if she were part of the furniture. Keris walked in neither hurried nor delayed, as if time adjusted itself to her pace. This wasn’t the first time they had gathered here.

It was one of their preferred meeting points as the food was good, the setting predictable, and no one would expect to see them here. She did likewise, place her bag on the chair and head towards the buffet. Her favourite spot : the seafood. Her eyes glitters as she look at the prawns and the lobster.

As far as they were concerned, there was no need to think about payment. That had never been their concern. Everything was already taken care of. Madam’s personal assistant would handle the arrangements quietly, as always. Their role was simple. Be present. Be on time. Everything else would fall into place.

Batu, Bagheera, Jett, and Salem arrived together. Four of them. Unhurried. As if being the last group to walk in was part of the routine. They moved like a unit, quick scan of the room, confirmation of the corner table, then straight toward it without breaking stride. A flock instinct, familiar and efficient. Bags were dropped onto chairs without ceremony, greet the madam causally and walk towards the buffet.

Plates were picked up immediately. If they were going to be the last to arrive, they were at least going to make sure nothing good was gone.

Once Madam saw that everyone seated with their respective food, she closed her laptop, pushed her chair in neatly, and made her way toward the buffet spread. She didn’t browse. Didn’t hesitate. She stopped at her usual spot the biryani rice section and helped herself, that is when her eyes roam towards them. Seven in total.

They were spread out around the table, plates in front of them, chatting easily with one another. She called them her Black Cat, not out loud, but in her own mind. What always struck her was how naturally they got along. No forced camaraderie, no obvious tension. Their age gap wasn’t significant. Keris, of course, was the oldest the de facto leader of the pack. She carried herself like a big sister, steady and assured.

The others listened to her, not because they were told to, but because it made sense. Madam still found it strange, sometimes, to think of herself as their mentor. Head of operations for Malaysia had never been part of any plan she remembered making. It had happened almost by accident.

The position needed to be filled. Her name surfaced. Someone reached out. There was no formal interview. No office. No panel seated across a polished table asking rehearsed questions. Instead, she was told to show up at a location she had never been to before. A quiet place. Neutral. Unexpected. He was already there when she arrived. They talked for hours. Not about qualifications. Not about titles.

They talked about judgment. About pressure. About loyalty. About what she would do if forced to choose between results and people. He asked very little directly. But he watched everything. How she answered. How long she paused. What she didn’t say.

By the time the conversation ended, no formal offer had been made. Yet somehow, the decision had already been taken. She couldn’t even recall the exact moment she agreed. There had simply been a need. And she had stepped into it. The Black Cats came later.

One by one. Not as a batch. Not as a unit. They were recruited gradually by the department most of them plucked fresh from the Academy. Young. Capable. Observant. Some stood out for their discipline. Others for their instincts.

A few simply had the right temperament under pressure. They didn’t arrive as “Black Cats.” They arrived as trainees, as officers, as names on evaluation sheets. She watched them first. Not in formal assessments. But in corridors.

In field simulations. In the way they handled mistakes. In how they treated people when no one was scoring them. The department assigned them where needed. She selected quietly from those who survived the first filters.

Gradually, the pattern formed. Seven of them. Different backgrounds. Different temperaments. Similar edge. They moved quietly. Adapted easily. Landed on their feet. The nickname came much later. She had called them that once, half in jest after one of them slipped in and out of a situation without leaving a trace.

“Black Cats,” she had said. It stuck. None of it had been formally planned. No branding. No ceremony. And yet, here they were, each with a code name, each carrying their own history, moving as something larger than what they had started as. Conversation was going on around the table, light, casual, the usual lunch talk. Nothing loud. Nothing that would draw attention to them.

They blended in easily with the rest of the restaurant just another group having lunch, no different from the other tables around them. Madam set her plate down, took her seat and looked at Siti and asked, “How’s your mother?” Siti didn’t hesitate.

“She’s good. Keeping up with her regular medication and doctor’s appointments.”

Madam nodded. “Good. I’ll visit her one of these days.”

Siti acknowledged with a small nod of her own. She knew this about Madam. Before work, before plans, before anything else, she always asked about family. The welfare of those under her mattered not as a formality, but as a habit.

Madam turned to Keris. “How’s your sister doing with her O levels?” Keris answered without hesitation.

“She’s managing. A bit stressed, but keeping up with her revision.”

Madam nodded. “That’s normal. The exams will pass. Make sure she gets enough rest.” Keris acknowledged with a small nod.

“Your parents still staying at the JB house?” Madam asked, turning her attention to Putih.

Putih was halfway through her chicken rice. The roasted chicken was nearly finished the soup remained untouched, the kailan pushed aside. She looked up and nodded, unbothered.

“Yes. They’re still there,” she said. “The house is really running down. I’ve been asking them to renovate it, but they refuse. They keep saying they’re happy with it the way it is.”

Madam listened without interrupting. They bought it years ago, when Putih’s father finally got his CPF out. It was a big deal for them then. Big house, quiet area. Space. But Putih dosent like the house. It’s too big and empty. And everything is far. Her parents prefer JB, slower pace. Cheaper. Familiar. They’re comfortable there. Putih instead prefer Singapore. Everything’s close. Transport, food, hospitals. Easier to manage.

So whenever she making the trip to KL, she will drop by at JB to see them. Different generations and ideas of comfort. The conversation drifted back into the room, as Putih returned to her lunch, the matter settled at least for now.

Madam turned to Batu. “How’s your father?” Batu’s expression shifted slightly, but his voice stayed steady.

“Still the same. The dementia’s progressing.” Madam nodded. Batu’s father had been diagnosed with dementia. The condition was progressing, slowly but steadily. His unmarried sister had taken on the responsibility of caring for him and was at home most of the time.

Whenever Batu was back in Singapore, he stayed with them, filling in where he could. His mother died few years back of Lung cancer. Ever since then Batu’s been the main person managing the family. His family didn’t know what he actually did for a living. It was never discussed.

As far as they were concerned, he travelled frequently for work, mostly to Kuala Lumpur on assignments, projects, nothing more specific than that. They didn’t ask, and Batu didn’t explain.

As long as there was enough income to support his father and sister, that was all that mattered. The rest was left alone, unspoken and unquestioned.

It was the same for the others too: Putih, Keris, Siti, Jett, and Saleem. They kept family and work separate. Each of them carried their own family issues, their own complications and responsibilities, but those stayed outside the room. When it came to work, personal matters were not discussed freely.

Boundaries were maintained not purely out of secrecy, but out of care. Some things were easier left unspoken. And so life continued that way, quietly understood. Bagheera was still a bachelor, in his early twenties. He had left home after a fallout with his father, a pious Muslim who insisted that he marry his cousin. Bagheera refused.

The disagreement escalated, and eventually he chose to move out rather than comply. He relocated to Putrajaya and began living on his own. It gave him distance, independence, and a sense of control he hadn’t had before.

Whenever he was back in Singapore, Bagheera stayed with Batu. The arrangement was informal and unquestioned. They had been friends since their training days at the Academy, a bond built early and strengthened over time.

Some connections didn’t need explanation, they simply endured. Madam looked around the table. “Any problems coming in today?” Keris answered first. “Siti and I came in by flight. No issues.” Bagheera spoke next. “Batu and I took the bus.” Madam glanced briefly at the two of them but didn’t comment. She already knew.

Flights were never an option for them. Everyone at the table understood that some things didn’t need explaining. Madam finish her last spoon of Bryani rice, sip the balance of the chendol and glanced at her watch.

“Take your time with the food. Don’t rush,” she said. “We’ll meet at level two the usual meeting room in forty five minutes. I’ll meet all of you there. I have someone else to see first.” She stood, excused herself briefly, and left the table.

The others continued eating and talking among themselves. There was a lot to catch up on, but the conversation stayed light family updates, small daily inconveniences, harmless stories from the road. At a lunch table, especially in public, certain topics were off-limits.

Everyone at the table understood that. There were things they simply didn’t discuss over food, in a room full of strangers. That understanding didn’t need to be stated. It had been learned a long time ago.

At 2:30 p.m., they were all at level two. The meeting room was small and enclosed, comfortably sized for about twenty people. A round table sat at the centre, already set notebooks neatly placed, pens aligned, water bottles spaced evenly. A projector stood ready at one end of the room, screen lowered, cables checked.

Everything was prepared. The Black Cats took their seats without discussion. There was no assigned position, no preferred arrangement. They sat where it made sense at the moment. That had always been the way. They never had an office of their own. There was no need for one. Meetings happened wherever they chose, a hotel room, a rented space, a restaurant corner, even a back alley if circumstances required it. Their meeting points were never fixed. They changed constantly. Predictability was unnecessary.

Madam was already seated when they entered. Across from her sat another woman unfamiliar to some, known to others. The two of them were mid-conversation, voices low, focused. Madam didn’t stop speaking when the room filled. She simply acknowledged the arrivals with a brief glance.

The Black Cats settled in quietly. Bags were placed on the floor. Notebooks opened. Pens picked up. The room closed in around them insulated, private, deliberate. This was no longer lunch. This was work. Once everyone had settled in, Madam looked at Batu.

“Close the door,” she said. “Lock it from the inside.”

Batu stood, did as instructed, and checked the lock before returning to his seat. Madam continued, calm and matter-of-fact. “If anyone needs to come in, they’ll use the doorbell.” No explanation followed. None was needed.

She didn’t like interruptions or gatecrashes. If anything was required water, documents, equipment, she would call for it. Someone would bring it in. The door would open only when she allowed it. That was how meetings were conducted. The room settled into silence, insulated from the rest of the building. Notebooks lay open. Pens were ready. The projector hummed quietly in the background. This was no longer a casual gathering. This was the working space temporary, controlled, and secure.

Madam stood. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. She turned slightly toward the woman beside her. “Team, I’d like to introduce Itam,” she said. “You’ll address her as Itam”

There was no elaboration or backstory. That was how they operated. No real names. Only code names chosen, assigned, and used without question. It wasn’t a dramatic rule. It was simply practice. The group’s attention shifted to the woman. Blackie acknowledged them with a small, professional smile. That was enough. Names, like meeting points, were temporary.

Functional. Used only for as long as necessary. Madam resumed her seat Itam was dressed simply all black. A T-shirt and black pants, layered with a soft grey jacket that looked more functional than decorative. Her hair was braided neatly and pulled back, keeping it out of her face. She wore spectacles, thin-framed, the kind chosen for comfort rather than style. There was nothing about her that demanded attention, and that seemed deliberate. She looked like someone who preferred to blend in, observe, and speak only when necessary. She met their gaze calmly, her earlier smile already gone, replaced by quiet focus.

Madam turned to Putih. “What have you got for us?” Putih straightened slightly before speaking.

“I went to Penang and met my contact there,” she began. “She’s the woman I mentioned earlier, met her at the night market, with two young girls” She paused briefly, organising her thoughts.

“The three men are Rasif, Nasir, and Atan,” Putih said. “All locals. But Nasir works in Singapore. He came back to Penang for a short break and returned to Singapore a few days ago.”

“Where does he work?” Madam asked.

“One of the KFC outlets,” Putih replied.

The room stayed attentive. “They were asking specifically about Malaysians working in Singapore,” Putih continued. “Names. Who is there. Where they work.”

“Why?” Batu asked. “My contact doesn’t know,” Putih said. “She only heard that they were collecting names"

"Who wants the names?” Madam asked.

“The person mentioned in the note,” Putih replied. “The same name linked to Permata Timur.”

Silence.

“And what about Permata Timur?” Madam pressed.

“It’s in Singapore,” Putih said. “That’s the impression they gave.” She paused. “She couldn’t get more. The men became cautious. They lowered their voices and shifted topic. She didn’t want to risk being noticed.”

Another pause. “Rasif kept repeating that something big is going to happen. He said it more than once. But never clarified what but it will be in the new.”

Putih leaned back slightly. “That’s what we have for now.”

Madam turned to Bagheera and Batu. “Anything from your side?” Bagheera answered first.

“Nothing concrete yet. We’ve been monitoring our usual channels. No direct hits, but there’s an increase in chatter. Mostly vague.”

Batu added, “Same on my end. A few names resurfacing, but nothing that ties directly to Permata Timur so far.”

Madam nodded, absorbing the information without comment.

Madam then turned to Siti. “What about online?” she asked. “Any noise around Permata Timur?” Siti shook her head.

“Nothing. No chatter. No hints. Not even speculation.” Madam nodded, then added casually, “By the way, you’re still monitoring the MMS Facebook page?”

“Yes,” Siti replied. “I’ve been keeping an eye on it. Interesting discussions. Very high-level.”

Madam smiled faintly. “And Nurulhuda? Still active?”

Siti nodded. “Very. Extremely active, actually. I keep wondering who she really is.” She paused, then added, more thoughtfully, “But as far as I can tell, it’s not just one person.”

Madam looked up, interest sharpening. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve been monitoring the account at different points in time,” Siti replied. “The tone, response speed, and language patterns. I’d say there are at least three people using the same account.”

Madam turned to Itam, a hint of satisfaction in her expression. “See? I told you. She’s good. She will picked it up.”

Madam glanced at Itam, the smile still there. “Should we tell her?”

Itam returned the look, then turned to Siti. “What do you think of Nurulhuda?”

Siti didn’t hesitate. “Oh, she’s something else. The way she responds to the Muslims: sharp, confident. I’d really like to meet her.”

“Really?” Madam asked.

Siti nodded. “Yes.” Madam leaned back slightly.

“Well then,” she said, “this is your lucky day.” She gestured lightly toward Itam.

“NuruIhuda is in this room.”

The table went quiet. A few puzzled looks followed. Eyes shifted. Then settled on Itam.

“Alright,” Madam said, cutting the moment with short distraction “Let’s get back to Permata Timur, shall we.”

She leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the table. “Someone or some people are willing to pay a lot of money for it.” She paused. “That’s the part that concerns me.” Her gaze moved around the table. “We still don’t know what Permata Timur actually is. A thing. A person. A location. Or something else entirely. At this point, we don’t even have a working category.”

The room stayed quiet. “That level of interest doesn’t come without a reason,” Madam continued. “And right now, we don’t know what that reason is.”

There was a tightness in her voice, subtle, but unmistakable. Not anger. Frustration.

She didn’t like working blind. “Our person of Interest” Madam said, shifting her attention. She looked at Batu and Bagheera. “Do we have anything on him?”

Batu nodded. “I tracked his last confirmed location to Kedah. He was there for about a week. Met with several people, different contacts, different places. Then he moved back down to Selangor.” She narrowed her eyes slightly.

“So he’s mobile.”

“Yes,” Batu replied. “He doesn’t stay put for long.”

Madam leaned back. “He went quiet for a couple of months,” she said. “Then his name surfaced again. Where did he disappear to?”

Batu shook his head slightly. “I’m still gathering information. There’s a strong possibility he left Malaysia during that period, but I can’t confirm where he went to yet.”

Madam nodded once. “Find out,” she said. Itam leaned forward slightly. “Do you think we can get that information?” she asked. “Entry and exit records when he left Malaysia and when he came back. Out of Malaysia to where? Fly or via land. If flight, which airline? Roughly we will know his destination”

She glanced briefly at Batu. “Malaysia Immigration would have access to that, right?” The question hung there, not as pressure, but as a logical next step. “Once we have that information,” Itam continued, “we’ll be able to map his movements when he left, where he went, and how long he stayed away.”

She looked around the table. “That should tell us whether his disappearance was intentional, and who he might have met during that period.”

The room stayed focused. Patterns mattered. Bagheera answered this time. “He’s in Selangor now. Shah Alam, specifically.”

Replied Batu Madam didn’t respond immediately. “And what’s he doing there?”

“Meeting people,” Bagheera said. “Mostly business figures. Nothing public-facing.”

She tapped a finger lightly on the table. “Anyone specific?”

Bagheera hesitated just long enough for the name to matter. “The Mustapha Group. He was last seen in a closed-door meeting with the head.” Madam looked up.

“The Mustapha Group head?”

“Yes,” Bagheera confirmed. “The father himself.”

“Find out what was discuss. I am sure they’re not alone. There will be bystanders around. They listen and if given enough reward will talk. I want to know what’s their interest. That guy is up to something and we need to know what”

Madam absorbed that for a moment, then turned to Saleem and Jett. “If he enters Singapore, you’ll be the first to know,” she said. “Stay close. Quietly.” She shifted her gaze back to Bagheera. “The moment he crosses over, inform Saleem and Jett. I want eyes on him immediately.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. “We need to know who he meets here as well. Business, personal, social all of it. No assumptions. Just facts. You said he met different people at different location. Find out as much as we can who these people are.. what’s their link with him.”

The room acknowledged that without a word. That wasn’t a causal connection. That was money, influence, and reach all wrapped together.

Madam exhaled and leaned back slightly. “Alright. This is what we have so far,” she said. She spoke slowly, deliberately, as if laying the pieces out on the table. “Permata Timur is in Singapore. That much we’re confident about. What it actually is we don’t know. It could be an object, a person, a place, or something else entirely.” She paused. “There’s a large sum of money being offered for it. Not pocket money. Serious money.”

Her gaze moved from one face to another. “We don’t know where that money is coming from, and we don’t know why someone is willing to pay that much for Permata Timur. The money trail coming from Malaysia. Who is financing it? ” She let the silence sit for a moment.

Then she turned to Itam. “What do you think?” Itam spoke without hesitation. “We need to keep monitoring him,” she said. “Track his movements closely, who he’s meeting, where, and how often. That information matters.” She continued, looking briefly at Batu and Bagheera.

“The three men in Penang Rasif, Nasir, and Atan we need to know more about them individually. Their backgrounds, their connections, and how they came to hear about Permata Timur. And especially Nasir the one working in Singapore. Who is he mixing around when he’s not working. I am sure he hang out with some group.

Find out who they are. Where he is staying and all” She paused. “I suggest Batu and Bagheera head up there. Blend in. Befriend them. Find out what they actually know, not just what they repeat.” Itam leaned back slightly. “If Permata Timur is drawing money and attention at this level, then these are not random names. We need to understand the network before it moves again.”

Madam turned to Siti again. “Nurulhuda,” she said. “You wanted to know more.” Siti nodded. Madam shifted her gaze to Itam.

“Want to show her?” Itam gave a small smile Madam nodded once. “Alright. Let’s put it up.”

She gestured toward the projector. The screen lowered, and the MMS Facebook page filled the wall : still active, comments scrolling, new posts appearing in real time. Itam opened her laptop and asked Siti “what do you want me to post”

“its raining cats and dogs out there” Itam type the word. They watched the screen. There it was. Posted by Nurulhuda. “It’s raining cats and dogs”

"Do you want me to post an image of raining cats and dogs" asked Itam. Siti smile…. A brief pause. The image appeared on the screen cats and dogs falling from the sky, exaggerated and playful. Then a few soft laughs around the table amused, not surprised.

Siti laughed too, shaking her head. Itam turned to her. “We’ll talk later, okay?” Siti nodded, still smiling. Some questions were better answered off-screen.

“Another one I want to show you,” Blackie said. She tapped her keyboard again. The screen changed. A different page appeared: Fisabullah. The banner was unmistakable: Arabic script spelling out Muhammad, the Prophet of Islam. Clean. Bold. Familiar. A few of them straightened in their seats.

“You’re the admin of this page?,” Bagheera said, disbelief edging into the statement. Itam smiled.

“We thought it was some Islamist group from Malaysia,” Batu said slowly.

“It’s supposed to look that way,” Itam replied.

Batu frowned. “Purpose?”

“Information gathering,” Blackie said. “And disinformation, when needed.”

“You don’t learn anything if people know who you are,” she added. No one disagreed. The room went quiet. This wasn’t theory. This was practice. They exchanged glances not shock, but recalibration. They were looking at the terrain differently now.

Blackie closed her laptop partway. Bagheera didn’t look at the screen this time. He looked at Itam. “You know who created those images, don’t you?” he asked quietly. “The Lady Gaga on the Kaabah and the pig one too. MMS pushed them hard. Police reports were filed. Half of Malaysia is demanding arrests.”

A small pause. “You’re one of the admins. You’d see the backend.”

Itam didn’t flinch. “Yes,” she said. “But I can’t reveal the name. Better for me to say I dont know who"

A brief pause. “And I’m not in a position to stop them,” Itam added calmly. She folded her hands on the table. “They’re angry. Frustrated. You’ve seen how some of the Muslim groups go after them the moment they declare themselves murtad. Public shaming. Threats. Police reports.” No emotion in her tone. Just fact. “As I see it, what they’re doing is shock therapy. Push the boundary hard enough, often enough, until the reaction exhausts itself.”

Siti frowned slightly. “Or escalates.”

“It might,” Itam said. “But from their perspective, silence hasn’t protected them either.”

The room was quiet again. This wasn’t endorsement. It was assessment.

Then she added, almost matter-of-factly “Right now, I have their complete trust.” That landed differently. “I’m in their core group. Eight people. That’s it.” Bagheera’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“The mastermind is in that circle,” he said. “Yes.”

“And the strategist behind the amplification cycles.” A small nod. “I sit in the same chat.” No one spoke for a moment. This wasn’t infiltration at the surface level anymore. This was proximity.

Madam studied her carefully. “And they don’t suspect?”

“No,” Itam replied. “Not yet.”

Madam leaned forward slightly. “How deep are they planning to go?”

Itam’s expression didn’t change. “They’re not just reacting anymore. They’re shaping narrative.” A beat. “And they’re watching who reacts.” Silence again not shock. Recalibration.

Then the reply Madam been waiting came through

Angin senyap menyisir selat,
Layar besar tidak kelihatan.
Bukan seorang berdiri mengikat,
Ramai berbayang di balik perantaraan.

Emas mengalir tanpa bernama,
Jejaknya hilang dalam pusaran.
Tangan berkuasa tidak bersua,
Segala urus berselindung bayaran.


She showed it to Itam… she facial expression look serious. In deep thought.. reading and digesting the information just came through. Madam read the pantun again. Slowly. Her fingers did not tremble but her jaw tightened. Itam stood beside her, watching the shift in her face.

The playful sharpness she usually carried was gone. In its place was calculation. Layers within layers turning behind her eyes. She did not speak immediately. The room felt smaller.

The word Permata Timur hung in the air like something alive. She closed her laptop. The soft click echoed louder than it should have. That was the signal.

The Black Cats straightened. Madam stood. Then she looked at the Black Cats, one by one Her voice was calm. Too calm.

“Okay… there’s a lot we need to do.” A pause. “We need to go deeper.” No drama or raised tone. Just instruction. That was enough.

The Black Cats did not ask questions. They never did at this stage. Batu was already reaching for his phone. Siti adjusted the strap of her bag, the silent signal she was moving. Bagheera cracked his neck once and headed for the door. Keris and Putih likewise, making preparation to leave.

Itam gave Madam one last look searching, but not challenging. Within seconds, the room emptied but left only the two of them. Only the faint sound of footsteps fading down the corridor remained. And for the first time she looked concerned. Not afraid but concerned, because if the money trail was that clean…then the people behind it were not new players.

And this was no longer a small game.