Rain fell when Raka Adinata saw the building burning.
It wasn't the building that made him stop in the middle of the road, but the flames pouring from the third floor of the Arkapura Procurement Archives. Fire was always honest. It couldn't be bribed, didn't recognize rank, and never signed a fake contract. Yet tonight, someone was trying to make fire lie.
Raka shut off his motorcycle beneath the overpass. Police sirens sounded in the distance. His phone vibrated once in his hand.
A message from Naya: Come alone. Don't trust anyone from the office.
Raka stared at the sentence for two seconds. Then he slipped the phone into his pocket and ran through the rain.
The building's back door was already open. The alarm wailed, but there were no security officers. On the ground floor, document boxes lay scattered everywhere. Some had been doused with gasoline. Fire crawled from the hallway toward the stairs, devouring years of tenders, receipts, and signatures that could bring down half the city government.
Raka covered his nose with his arm. He knew the procedure. Wait for the fire department. Secure the perimeter. Call the team.
He also knew one other thing: in seven minutes, the evidence that remained would be ash.
Raka climbed the stairs.
Heat slammed into his face on the second floor. A shelf collapsed. He ducked, rolled, then got back up just as the window shattered under a blast of wind. At the end of the hall, someone ran past carrying a black bag.
“Stop!”
The person turned. Dark jacket. Helmet. Face covered.
They fired.
The bullet struck the wall beside Raka's head. He threw himself behind a desk, feeling concrete shards scrape his cheek. The shooter didn't wait for a second shot. They ran toward the fire escape.
Raka gave chase.
They passed through the third floor, which had turned into a furnace. The shooter kicked the door open. Raka burst through behind them and found the fire escape slick with rain. The figure descended three steps at a time.
Raka leaped.
His hand clamped onto his opponent's jacket collar. They slammed into the iron railing. The black bag came loose, sprang open, and spilled plastic folders across the floor. One folder slid all the way to Raka's feet.
Printed on its cover were the words: North Line Subway Project.
Beneath the title was a number that stopped Raka's breath.
Contract value: 48.7 trillion rupiah.
The shooter drove an elbow into his ribs. Raka staggered. His opponent rose and pulled a short knife. The movement was trained—not some ordinary hired thug. Raka read the motion of their shoulder, dodged, then locked their wrist. The knife fell and buried itself in the floor.
“Who sent you?”
His opponent laughed behind the helmet.
“Someone whose salary you pay.”
They pressed something in their palm.
A small explosion shook the fire escape. Raka was thrown into the wall. When his vision cleared, his opponent had already vanished through the roof door.
Naya emerged from behind the smoke, coughing. Her hair was wet, her glasses cracked, but her hand still gripped an evidence bag.
“You're thirty seconds late,” she said.
“Still alive, aren't I?”
“Being alive doesn't mean you're safe.”
Naya tossed him the bag. Inside was a restaurant receipt, soaked with rain and soot.
Raka frowned. “This is what you saved?”
“Read the back.”
He flipped the receipt over. A series of numbers had been written in blue ink, like an ordinary shopping list. But Naya pointed to three circled transactions.
“The North Line project's advance payment went into a front company called Eastern Lantern. Two hours later, the same amount moved to a foundation owned by Adrian Karsa.”
“This evidence could be forged.”
“It could. If not for one thing.”
Naya took a short breath. Beneath the roar of the fire and sirens, she said, “Eastern Lantern wasn't registered until today. The company was created using the identity of one of our investigators.”
Raka stared at her.
“Who?”
Naya didn't answer right away. She pulled a photograph from the evidence bag. It showed the company's incorporation documents, complete with a signature and ID number.
The name printed there was Bram Wicaksana, their own boss.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded below.
Many. Measured. Not firefighters.
Naya went pale. “Internal team.”
“Isn't that good news?”
“They got here too fast.”
The third-floor door was slammed from outside. Someone shouted, “UIS! Put down your weapons and come out!”
Raka grabbed the project folder and held it tight. Outside, the fire continued devouring the archives. Inside, armed men were climbing up to take the remaining evidence—or them.
He looked at Naya.
“Can you run?”
“I can.”
“Can you trust me?”
Naya looked at Bram's photograph, then back at him.
“Not yet.”
Raka smiled faintly. “Good. Means you're still thinking.”
The door began to crack under the first impact.
Raka grabbed a fire extinguisher, smashed the window, and saw the roof of the neighboring building two meters away. Below them, the highway gleamed with rain, three floors down.
Naya stared at the gap. “That's not a plan.”
“Correct.”
“Then what is it?”
“An exit.”
The second impact made the door hinges shriek.
Raka took three steps back, tucked the evidence folder beneath his jacket, then ran toward the window. Naya cursed and followed him.
They jumped as the door burst open.
In midair, Raka caught a glimpse of armed men entering the hallway. One of them raised a rifle.
A bullet tore through the billboard directly above their heads.
Raka landed on the neighboring building's roof shoulder-first. Naya hit beside him. They rolled until they came to a stop near a water tank.
Behind them, the Arkapura Procurement Archives blazed like a torch.
Naya opened the rescued folder. The first page was burned along the edges, but one sentence remained legible:
Final recipient of funds: not recorded.
Raka stared at the words, then at the city glittering beneath the rain.
Tonight, they had lost almost all the evidence.
But someone had burned the archives to erase a single name.
And Raka knew that the most dangerous name was usually not the one that disappeared.
It was the one deliberately left in plain sight.