The holographic spreadsheet floating above Tama’s desk was bleeding an angry, toxic shade of neon magenta.
"Explain this to me like I’m a five-year-old who just lost his allowance in a crooked lemonade stand," Tama demanded, jabbing his translucent finger at a plunging line graph that looked less like a financial projection and more like a cliff dive. "Why is our ectoplasm conversion rate dropping faster than a tech stock after an SEC raid?"
Senior Pocong, who was currently trying to ease his aching spectral vertebrae by leaning against a filing cabinet, let out a long, wheezing groan. "Maybe because mortals aren’t designed to process premium-grade terror through their smartphones while doom-scrolling TikTok at three in the morning, Tama. Energy depletion is real. Even ghosts get burnout."
"Burnout is a myth invented by middle-management entities who don't want to hustle for their quarterly bonus," Tama snapped, his jaw tightening as he scrolled furiously through the telemetry data. "We didn't scale our terror delivery model across Sector Four just to watch our liquidity evaporate because Pak Joko decided to take a nap behind a dumpster."
"Hey! That dumpster is historically significant," Pak Joko mumbled from the corner, his civil servant uniform glowing faintly in the dim office light. "And my knees aren't what they used to be since the Dutch blew up my bridge in forty-five. You try haunting an alleyway on an empty stomach."
"You don't even have a stomach, Pak Joko! You’re literally seventy percent ectoplasm and thirty percent bureaucratic spite!" Tama rubbed his temples, feeling a phantom migraine throbbing behind his eyes. "We need answers. Kuni! Where is our lead influencer? She should be driving traffic through the funnel, not ghosting our internal Slack channel."
The office temperature dropped sharply, smelling faintly of jasmine and crushed graveyard lilies, as Kuntilanak smoothly phased through the concrete wall. She adjusted the emerald folds of her kebaya, tossing her long, jet-black hair over her shoulder with an expression of pure, unadulterated disdain.
"Do not test me today, CEO darling," Kuntilanak purred, checking her reflection in a polished brass paperweight. "My latest viral campaign hit two million impressions, but the algorithm is shadow-banning my weeping aesthetic because some millennial reported my audio as 'too emotionally distressing.' I am a brand, Tama, not a public utility."
"I don't care if you're a luxury brand or a discount clearance rack, Kuni. Impressions don't pay the server fees in the cloud," Tama retorted, slamming his palm flat against the desk. "Look at these metrics! The conversion anomaly isn't coming from the top of the funnel. It's happening right at the point of possession. Mortals are getting scared, but they aren't converting their terror into digital tokens. They’re just... running away without buying our premium merchandise or subscribing to our monthly curse protection plans."
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Even the Senior Pocong stopped massaging his linen-bound shoulders, sensing that the founder's manic corporate optimism had finally crossed the line into genuine desperation.
"So what’s the play, boss?" Senior Pocong asked quietly, his hollow eye sockets narrowing. "Do we pivot? Do we lay off half the graveyard shift?"
"Lay off ghosts? In this economy?" Tama scoffed, a manic grin slowly stretching across his pale, translucent face. "No. We don't downsize. We optimize. If the mortals aren't converting their fear into tokens organically, we force-feed them a subscription model they can't refuse."
"A subscription model for haunting?" Kuntilanak raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, a dangerous, amused glint sparkling in her dark eyes. "Are we talking about a freemium tier where they get mild sleep paralysis for free, but have to pay ninety-nine cents to unlock their own bedroom doors?"
"Precisely," Tama laughed, typing furiously into his console as lines of green code began to cascade down the floating display. "We introduce Gentayangan Prime. Unlimited terror, zero ads, and guaranteed paranormal activity delivered straight to your smart-home devices. If they don't pay up, Pak Joko will whisper depressing tax audit statistics into their smart-speakers every night at midnight."
Pak Joko’s eyes widened in genuine horror. "Even for me, Mas Tama, that’s just cruel. Tax audits? That’s worse than a bayonet charge."
"War is hell, Pak Joko, and capitalism is worse," Tama declared, straightening his invisible tie with absolute conviction. "Now get back out there. Sector Two is waiting for our targeted haunting blitz, and the King of Tuyul expects a positive ROI on my desk by sunrise. Let's make some unholy revenue."