Mei didn't waste a single, precious second. The temporary peace was fragile, an intermission in a play far too dangerous for such levity. She moved with purpose, grabbing the courier by his polyester janitor's uniform and dragging his unconscious bulk behind the large, ornate ceremonial drum. The drum was a towering piece of lacquerware, its side depicting a ferocious tiger, providing a suitable, if precarious, screen.
James followed, keeping a solicitous eye on his caddy. He sat cross-legged near the edge of the drum, looking entirely too relaxed for a man who had just used an heirloom as an airborne projectile.
"We need to know who He is," Mei stated, her voice a low, hard rasp that vibrated in the drum's hollow space. She held the microchip close, turning it over between her thumb and forefinger. "The mastermind. The one who orchestrated the retrieval from the Stone Tortoise. Our courier wasn't working for himself."
"The Noodle Enthusiast," James supplied helpfully, examining the rim of his caddy. "He did mention a lifetime supply, which suggests an organization with significant long-term financial planning. Or at least, a very optimistic marketing team."
Mei ignored him with the practiced ease of an operative who had survived years of his eccentricities. "When he wakes up, he has to talk. And quickly." She reached into a small, interior pocket of her jacket—a compartment James had never noticed—and pulled out a slender, black metallic syringe-like device. The needle tip was almost invisible.
"We will use a chemical truth serum," she explained, holding the device steady. "It's fast-acting and temporary. Much more reliable than your 'baked goods' strategy."
"Ah, the chemical approach," James mused, nodding. "A shame. Nothing loosens the tongue quite like the promise of a perfectly dunked biscuit. It's the ritual of tea—a moment of peace in the storm—that makes people confess their sins. Still, if we're short on time..."
He was interrupted. The sound was deliberate, slow, and utterly chilling.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
A rhythmic, measured applause, resonating off the high, wooden beams of the temple ceiling. It wasn't the spontaneous noise of an accidental tourist; it was a performance, an introduction.
Mei froze, the syringe poised inches from the courier's arm. Her head snapped up, her body instantly shifting into a defensive posture, her eyes scanning the massive, dust-motes-dancing hall.