The humid Saromben air hung heavy, thick with the scent of rotting mangoes and diesel fumes. Rain, a sudden, brutal downpour, lashed against the corrugated iron roof of my tiny office. My computer screen flickered, mirroring the unsteady power supply. A frantic knock shattered the oppressive silence. It was Anya, her face streaked with mud, her eyes wide with terror. "They took him," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The river…the jade miners…they took my brother." The jade, legendary for its emerald fire, was a curse in these parts, a siren song luring men to their deaths. The storm raged outside, mirroring the tempest brewing within me. This wasn't just another story; this was Anya's life, hanging by a thread, woven into the dark, glistening heart of a stolen emerald. My pen, usually a tool of observation, felt suddenly heavy, a weapon against the encro