CHAPTER 4 ROOM 219
The rain fell harder as Raka turned off the car engine.
Outside, the street was almost empty.
The lights of closed shops reflected across the wet asphalt, breaking into streaks of light that shifted whenever rainwater flowed over the road's surface.
Naya was still holding her phone.
Dimas's last message still hadn't changed.
Room 219 contains photographs of Raka.
Raka didn't open the car door right away.
His hands remained on the steering wheel.
"Don't get out," he said.
Naya turned toward him.
"Why?"
"Because if the person who took those photographs is still watching us, he wants us to go into the hotel."
"And if we don't go in?"
"He'll know we've read his message."
Naya looked through the rear window.
There was no one there.
"Raka..."
"I know."
"What?"
"We're already too late."
Naya fell silent.
Raka pointed at the side mirror.
A motorcycle had just passed through the intersection.
The rider was wearing a black raincoat.
It didn't stop.
But a few seconds later, the motorcycle appeared again from the opposite direction.
Raka started the engine.
"We're leaving."
"Where?"
"The hotel."
Naya stared at him in disbelief.
"You just said we shouldn't go in."
"I said don't get out."
Raka shifted gears.
"We'll go in through another door."
12:04 a.m.
Aruna Hotel looked different after midnight.
By day, it looked like an ordinary old hotel.
At night, the building became something much quieter.
The corridor lights had been dimmed.
The lobby was lit by only a few yellow bulbs.
The air-conditioning sounded like a long, steady hum.
The old carpet swallowed almost every footstep.
Raka and Naya entered through the side door normally used by hotel staff.
Dimas was already waiting.
He wasn't wearing his uniform.
Just a dark shirt and a light jacket.
His face looked tired.
"Room 219 has been secured," he said.
"Who found it first?"
"A security guard."
"What time?"
"11:56 p.m."
"Why did he go in?"
Dimas looked at Raka.
"Because there was a phone ringing."
"A phone?"
"Inside the room."
Raka stopped.
"The phone was ringing?"
Dimas nodded.
"Even though the system said the room was vacant."
"And after it was opened?"
Dimas didn't answer immediately.
"There was a phone."
"Was it still on?"
"It was dead when we went in."
Raka walked toward the elevator.
"Up."
The elevator doors opened on the second floor.
A long corridor stretched out before them.
The ceiling lights came on at irregular intervals.
Several of them flickered.
The air felt colder.
Room 217 was at the end of the corridor.
218 was next to it.
219 came immediately after that.
Raka stopped several yards from the door.
He didn't go in right away.
He looked at the floor.
There were traces of water.
Extremely faint.
As if someone had walked through with wet shoes.
The trail stopped in front of Room 219.
"How many people went in?" Raka asked.
Dimas answered.
"Four."
"Who?"
"Me, two officers, and the security guard."
"Their shoes?"
Dimas gave him their sizes and types.
Raka stared at the trail.
"These aren't yours."
Dimas nodded.
"We found that, too."
"The trail leads into the room."
"Yes."
"Does it lead out?"
Dimas shook his head.
"No."
Raka crouched.
He touched the floor's surface through his glove.
It was still damp.
"Not rainwater."
"Then what?"
"Air-conditioner condensation."
Dimas pointed at the ceiling.
"The AC drain is leaking."
Raka stood.
"So anyone could have made these tracks."
"Exactly."
"Including someone who deliberately walked beneath the dripping AC."
Dimas looked at him.
"To make us believe someone came in from outside."
Raka nodded.
"Exactly."
Naya stood several steps behind them.
"So every clue in this place was made to lead us in the wrong direction?"
Raka looked at the door to Room 219.
"Not necessarily."
He touched the doorknob.
"What's more dangerous is if the clue is real but deliberately given to us too soon."
The door opened.
Room 219
The smell in the room was immediately different.
It wasn't like an ordinary hotel room.
There was the scent of old paper, dust, and something faint that smelled like cleaning chemicals.
The main light was on.
The curtains were closed.
The bed hadn't been used.
There were no suitcases.
No clothes.
No food.
Yet the wall across from the bed was covered with photographs.
Dozens of them.
Maybe more than a hundred.
Raka stopped in the doorway.
He said nothing.
Naya entered slowly.
The first photograph showed Raka leaving the police station.
The second showed Raka entering a coffee shop.
The third showed Raka standing in front of Maya's house.
The fourth showed Raka talking with Dimas.
The fifth showed Raka with Naya.
All of them had been taken from a distance.
Some had been taken with a long-lens camera.
Others appeared to have come from a phone camera.
There were photographs taken during the day.
Others at night.
Some in the rain.
Some of Raka alone.
Naya approached the wall.
"Oh my God..."
Raka didn't move.
His eyes were fixed on a photograph at the very bottom.
That photograph was different.
It was older.
The paper had turned yellow.
Raka picked it up.
It showed a much younger Raka.
A police uniform.
Shorter hair.
A face not yet as hard as it was now.
He stood in front of a building.
Police tape stretched behind him.
Raka recognized the place immediately.
"This is..."
Dimas stood beside him.
"You know it?"
Raka nodded.
"Cakrawala Warehouse."
Naya looked at him.
"The case that made you leave the force?"
Raka didn't answer.
Dimas took the photograph.
On the back was a date.
November 17, 2019.
And a sentence.
Written by hand in black ink:
I'VE BEEN WATCHING YOU SINCE THAT DAY.
Dimas looked at Raka.
"Who wrote it?"
Raka didn't know.
But his expression changed.
For the first time since they entered the room, Raka looked genuinely afraid.
Not afraid of the murderer.
Not afraid of the person watching him.
He was afraid of something more personal.
A past he'd spent years trying to bury.
Seven years earlier
Cakrawala Warehouse caught fire at 2:16 a.m.
The fire consumed nearly the entire building.
A dead man was found inside.
His name was Bastian Rahardjo.
The owner of a distribution company.
The case was initially considered an accident.
But the victim had suffered an injury to the head.
Raka was still a young investigator at the time.
He found something that didn't fit.
The warehouse door had been locked from the outside.
The security camera had gone dead exactly twenty minutes before the fire.
And someone had called the police eleven minutes before the flames were seen.
Raka was certain the fire had been deliberately set.
The investigation continued for nearly six months.
Then an employee named Yusuf was named a suspect.
The motive was strong.
He had financial problems.
He had once argued with Bastian.
His fingerprints were found inside the warehouse.
And a witness claimed to have seen Yusuf at the scene that night.
Everything looked perfect.
Too perfect.
Raka refused to sign the final report.
He said the evidence wasn't sufficient.
But his superior ordered him to close the case immediately.
The pressure increased.
The media began demanding answers.
The victim's family demanded justice.
In the end, Yusuf was prosecuted.
Raka left the police force several months later.
Not because of that case.
But because he knew someone had lied.
He just never discovered who.
"Raka."
Naya's voice pulled him back.
He was still standing in Room 219.
"Are you all right?"
Raka nodded.
"No."
Naya moved closer.
"Does this photograph mean the perpetrator has been watching you for seven years?"
"Or wants us to believe that."
Dimas looked at the wall.
"Why are all the photographs of you?"
Raka answered:
"Because I'm the target."
Naya shook her head.
"Or the tool."
Raka looked at her.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe you're not the one they're after."
Naya pointed at the photographs.
"They want you to do something."
Raka fell silent.
The idea made far more sense.
If someone wanted to kill him, they'd had plenty of chances.
If someone wanted to frighten him, the messages would have been enough.
But if someone wanted to use Raka...
they needed something much more specific.
They needed his mind.
His experience.
His habits.
And above all—
his guilt over the old case.
Raka examined the desk.
There was a laptop.
It wasn't locked.
The screen displayed a folder.
The folder's name:
ANSWERS.
Dimas was about to touch it.
"Don't."
Raka stopped him.
"Why?"
"If this is a trap, the computer may be connected to another system."
"So?"
"Let's photograph the screen first."
Raka took out his phone.
He took a picture.
The folder was opened after the device had been secured by the information-technology officer.
Inside were several files.
01_ARCAPURA.
02_ARUNAHOTEL.
03_KIRANA.
04_ARKAN.
05_RAKA.
Raka stopped.
"Arkan?"
Naya asked.
"Who?"
Raka stared at the name.
"I don't know."
Dimas opened the first file.
It wasn't a report.
It was a list of names.
Dozens of them.
Some crossed out.
Some marked.
Beside each name was a date.
And a column:
STATUS.
Dead.
Missing.
Safe.
Raka read through the list.
Then his expression changed.
Arman Prakoso's name was there.
Status:
COMPLETE.
Kirana Prameswari:
PENDING.
Dimas:
WATCHED.
Naya:
POTENTIAL.
Raka:
ACTIVE.
Naya saw it.
"Active?"
Raka nodded.
"That means I'm being monitored."
"More than that."
Raka pointed to Kirana's name.
"She's not finished."
Naya stared at him.
"You mean she's still alive?"
Raka didn't answer.
Dimas suddenly opened the next file.
Photographs of Kirana.
Lots of them.
But one photograph was different.
Kirana stood at a train station.
A man stood behind her.
His face couldn't be seen.
But his hand was clear.
A black ring.
Raka zoomed in.
"Stop."
Dimas froze the image.
Raka studied the man's hand.
Then he saw something.
A scar.
The same one.
"This is the same person."
Naya asked:
"As the man at the hotel?"
"Yes."
Dimas looked at the screen.
"Then he's real."
"Yes."
"And Kirana knows him."
Raka shook his head.
"Not necessarily."
Naya frowned.
"Why not?"
"Because this photograph was taken from behind."
"So?"
"He could have been following Kirana."
Raka pointed to the man's position.
"He's too far away for a conversation."
Then he pointed to another photograph.
"Look at these three photographs."
The second photograph.
Kirana walking through a market.
The man was far behind her.
The third.
Kirana entering a store.
The man was across the street.
The fourth.
Kirana leaving the store.
The man was still there.
Raka leaned back in his chair.
"He's not a friend."
Naya said:
"A stalker."
Raka nodded.
"But who's following her?"
1:18 a.m.
The information-technology officer found something.
"Mr. Raka."
A young man entered carrying a laptop.
"We found metadata in some of the photographs."
Raka moved closer.
"Locations?"
"Most of them."
"Where?"
"The photographs of Raka were taken from several locations."
The officer opened a map.
Red dots appeared.
Raka's house.
The office.
The coffee shop.
The police station.
Maya's house.
Aruna Hotel.
And one final point.
Raka stared at the screen.
"That's not my place."
The officer nodded.
"Correct."
"Where is it?"
"The victim's house."
"Arman?"
"Yes."
Raka fell silent.
The final photograph had been taken from Arman's house.
Two days before the murder.
The time:
2:11 a.m.
Raka looked at the time.
He remembered something.
The night before Arman died, the camera at the back of the house went dead at 7:32 p.m.
But someone had been in the yard at 2:11 a.m.
That meant the camera hadn't gone out because of a malfunction.
Someone had deliberately turned it off.
And that person had taken a photograph of Raka.
The question was:
Why was Raka on the watch list before Arman's death?
2:03 a.m.
They were still in Room 219.
The rain outside had begun to stop.
The hotel grew quieter.
Raka stood in front of the window.
He opened the curtain slightly.
The city was visible from the second floor.
Streetlights.
Trees.
Rooftops.
Wet roads.
Nothing looked suspicious.
Then he saw a car.
Parked across the street.
Its lights were off.
Raka watched it for several seconds.
"Turn off the lights."
Dimas understood immediately.
The room lights went out.
They stood in the dark.
Raka peered through the gap in the curtains.
The car remained still.
"Whose car is that?" Naya whispered.
"I don't know."
A few seconds passed.
Then the car's lights came on.
Raka saw the license plate.
He memorized it.
The car moved.
But it wasn't driving away from the hotel.
It entered the back lot.
Raka opened the door at once.
"Dimas."
"I saw it."
They ran for the stairs.
2:07 a.m.
The hotel's back door stood open.
The night air was cold.
The rain left behind the smell of earth and asphalt.
The car was already gone.
But the back gate was still swinging slowly.
Someone had just left.
Raka ran after them.
They passed through a narrow alley.
Raka's shoes struck puddles.
Water splashed onto his pants.
At the end of the alley, someone's shadow appeared.
Raka shouted:
"Stop!"
The shadow ran.
Raka chased after it.
They were about twenty yards apart.
The person turned into another alley.
Raka followed.
The alley was narrow.
The walls on either side were only about six feet apart.
There was nowhere to hide.
Yet when Raka reached the end—
the person was gone.
Dimas arrived a few seconds later.
"Where did he go?"
Raka looked around.
There were three possible routes.
One led to the main road.
One led to the market.
One led to the residential area.
It was impossible for someone to disappear that quickly.
Unless—
Raka saw a small door beside a building.
The door was open.
He went inside.
A staircase led downstairs.
Dimas followed.
They went down.
There was no one there.
Only an empty room.
And a chair.
An envelope sat on the chair.
Raka picked it up.
There was no name.
He opened it.
A single photograph.
An old photograph.
Cakrawala Warehouse.
Date:
November 17, 2019.
But this time, something was different.
The photograph showed the warehouse before it burned.
Three people stood in front of it.
A young Raka.
Bastian Rahardjo.
And a third man.
The man's face had been crossed out with black ink.
Raka stared at the photograph for a long time.
"Who is the third person?" Naya asked.
Raka shook his head.
"I don't remember."
Dimas looked at the photograph.
"Then why were you there?"
Raka answered quietly:
"Because this photograph was taken before I arrived."
Dimas frowned.
"How do you know?"
Raka pointed to Bastian's watch.
"1:48 a.m."
He looked at the time in the photograph.
"I arrived at the warehouse at 2:16."
Dimas fell silent.
"That means..."
"The person who took this photograph knew I was coming."
Raka turned the photograph over.
Written on the back were the words:
YOU'RE ALWAYS LATE, RAKA.
The hairs on Naya's neck rose.
"Who wrote it?"
Raka didn't answer.
He looked at the third man again.
Something about him felt familiar.
Not his face.
Not his clothes.
His hand.
The man was wearing a ring.
A silver band.
A black line.
Raka slowly raised his head.
"Dimas."
"What?"
"The Cakrawala Warehouse case."
"Yes?"
"Who found Bastian's body first?"
Dimas thought.
"The fire department?"
"After that."
"The investigation team."
"Who was the first person to touch the body?"
Dimas fell silent.
"I don't know."
Raka looked at him.
"I do."
Dimas frowned.
"Who?"
Raka answered:
"The forensic doctor."
"His name?"
Raka remembered.
Then his expression changed.
"Dr. Arman..."
He stopped.
Dimas stared at him.
"Arman who?"
Raka didn't answer.
Because he had just realized something.
The name he'd always thought was only a coincidence—
Arman Prakoso.
3:11 a.m.
Raka returned home.
He didn't turn on the lights.
He stood in the dark living room.
The photograph of the warehouse was still in his hand.
He looked at Bastian's face.
Then Arman's.
Then the third man.
A thought occurred to him.
If Arman really was connected to the Cakrawala Warehouse case, then his murder might not have been because of the company.
Not because of an inheritance.
Not because of family problems.
Arman might have been killed because of something he'd known seven years ago.
Raka's phone rang.
An unknown number.
He answered.
There was no voice.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then a man's voice came through.
Low.
Hoarse.
"Don't reopen that case."
Raka stood straight.
"Who is this?"
"That case is closed."
"No, it isn't."
"For you, it should be."
"Who are you?"
The voice gave a short laugh.
"The person who saved you."
Raka clenched his fist.
"From what?"
"Yourself."
The call ended.
Raka stood alone.
A few seconds later, a message arrived.
A single photograph.
A photograph of him when he was still a police officer.
Cakrawala Warehouse stood behind him.
But this time, the photograph showed something he had never seen before.
Behind a second-floor warehouse window—
someone was standing there.
Photograph date:
November 17, 2019.
Time:
2:09 a.m.
Seven minutes before the fire.
Raka enlarged the image.
The person's face couldn't be seen.
But his hand was clear.
A ring.
A silver band.
A black line.
Raka stared at the screen.
Then a second message came in.
"Now you know why Arman had to die."
A third message followed.
"But you still don't know who killed Bastian."
Raka closed his eyes.
For the first time in seven years, he reopened the door to the past he'd kept locked tight.
And behind that door, there wasn't just one corpse.
There was a secret.
A name deliberately erased from every report.
And someone who had spent seven years waiting for Raka to come looking for him.
END OF CHAPTER 4
Coming in Chapter 5 — THE ERASED CASE
Raka reopens the Cakrawala Warehouse case file.
But something is impossible.
The original case file was never kept in the police archives.
Someone replaced it.
Inside the official folder, only a blank sheet of paper remained.
But when Raka held a light behind the paper, faint handwriting appeared:
"Three people entered the warehouse that night."
Three names were written beneath it.
The first name: Bastian Rahardjo.
The second name: Raka Adhyatma.
The third name:
crossed out until the paper was nearly torn through.
And beneath the blacked-out name was a single sentence:
"The third person never came out."