The HR department of Gentayangan.co smelled strongly of rotting jasmine and cold institutional coffee.
Tama slammed a thick, spectral binder onto the metal desk, the loud thud echoing off the damp concrete walls of the basement office. Across the desk slumped a middle-aged ghost in a blood-stained civil servant uniform, staring blankly through a hole in his own chest where a bayonet had clearly entered back in nineteen-forty-five.
"Pak Joko, you have zero KPIs for the third consecutive week," Tama said, his voice dripping with the righteous indignation of a startup founder whose seed round was burning faster than a wet wick. "Zero. Not a single mortal terrified. No engagement metrics. Not even a minor poltergeist rattle in the employee cafeteria."
Pak Joko blinked slowly, a small cloud of grey dust puffing from his collar. "I'm retired, Boss. Technically. I died defending a bridge against the colonial militia. Do I really need to hit daily quotas for dropping heavy pots on interns?"
"Yes, you do! Because the King of Tuyul is auditing our burn rate by Friday!" Tama yelled, pinching the bridge of his translucent nose. "You’re an entity, Pak Joko, not a pensioner on vacation! Where is your hustle? Where is your passion for disruption?"
"My passion died with my spleen, Mas Tama," Pak Joko sighed, scratching the back of his rotting neck. "Besides, the kids these days don't get scared of civil servant ghosts anymore. They just take selfies with me and tag the location on Instagram as a aesthetic cafe spot. Yesterday, a college student asked if I could photobomb her aesthetic latte pic."
The office door rattled off its hinges as the Senior Pocong squeezed his bulk inside, carrying a stack of employee grievance forms wrapped in decaying banana leaves.
"We have a massive strike brewing in Sector Three, Tama," the Pocong groaned, dropping the pile with a wet, heavy thud onto the floor. "The gender-segregated floating spirits union is threatening to boycott the midnight crying shifts. They say the app interface causes chronic spectral neck strain."
"Spectral neck strain?" Tama shrieked, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "They don't even have cervical discs! They’re made of unfinished business and regret!"
"Try telling that to a Kuntilanak who spends four hours perfecting her floating angles for maximum click-through rates," Kuntilanak chimed in, gliding effortlessly through the wall with a smartphone clutched in her pale, manicured hand. She pouted, shoving the glowing screen right into Tama’s face. "Look at this comment section, Boss. A mortal literally wrote: 'Smash, ngab. Would let her haunt my apartment rent-free.' This is completely detrimental to my terrifying brand identity!"
Tama grabbed the phone, squinting at the screen before a slow, calculated smirk crept across his face.
"Detrimental? Kuni, babe, do you know what a pivot is?" Tama asked, his eyes gleaming with unhinged corporate optimism. "That’s not a brand crisis. That’s an acquisition strategy. We’re launching a secondary vertical: Simp-Haunts. If mortals want to pay five dollars a month to get emotionally manipulated by a high-engagement spirit, we monetize the simp-economy!"
Pak Joko stared at Tama as if the CEO had just spoken in ancient Sumerian. "Monetize the what now? Back in my day, we just screamed in the dark and scared people into a fainting spell. No algorithms. No subscription models."
"And look where your generation ended up, Pak Joko!" Tama snapped, leaning over the desk and pointing an accusing finger at the civil servant's chest cavity. "Bankrupt, forgotten, and haunting a damp basement with zero equity! We are living in a gig economy now. If you don't adapt, the Grim Reaper’s corporate raiders are going to swallow our market share whole by next quarter."
The Senior Pocong sighed, shifting his heavy shroud uncomfortably. "The Reaper’s acquisition rumors are true, then? I heard his private equity firm buys up distressed haunted houses and strips their ectoplasm for parts."
"Exactly. Which is why everyone in this room needs to pull their weight," Tama said, straightening his invisible tie and adopting his best LinkedIn-thought-leader posture. "I’m instituting a mandatory three-day boot camp called Agile Agony. We’re going to retrain our entire workforce on modern terror delivery systems. No more standing around banyan trees waiting for lost travelers. We’re going omnichannel."
"Omnichannel haunting?" Pak Joko muttered, looking deeply offended. "I don't even know how to use Bluetooth, Mas Tama."
"Don't worry, Pak Joko. We'll set you up with an entry-level position as a background ambient noise generator," Tama said, patting the bewildered civil servant on the shoulder with a cold, translucent hand. "You'll be whispering existential dread into corporate workers' cubicles via smart-speakers. Low physical mobility, high psychological impact. It's synergy."
Kuntilanak flipped her long hair back, a wicked, amused smile touching her lips. "Fine. But if my engagement metrics don't hit one million impressions by the end of the week, I want a company-provided luxury mirror with ring-light illumination."
"Approved. Put it under marketing expenses," Tama said, turning toward the door as his holographic dashboard flashed with incoming notifications. "Big P, get the HR guidelines updated. Pak Joko, log into the employee app and start practicing your high-conversion whispers. I've got a pitch meeting with a venture capitalist demon from the Seventh Circle, and I need our employee retention numbers looking immaculate."
As Tama marched out of the basement office, leaving behind a trail of ozone and unyielding capitalist drive, the Senior Pocong slowly picked up the grievance forms.
"I miss the Dutch East India Company," the Pocong groaned to the empty room. "At least they just wanted your land, not your soul's data metrics."