At 9:17 p.m., the rain was coming down harder when Raka arrived at Dimas's house. The street in front of the house was nearly empty. Water ran along the gutters, carrying dry leaves and bits of trash toward the end of the alley. The porch light at Dimas's house was on, but the living-room curtains were drawn tight. There were no vehicles in the yard. Raka turned off the car and didn't get out right away. He sat for a few seconds, staring at the house through the windshield. For years, Dimas had been one of the few people Raka always trusted. They had faced difficult investigations together, saved each other in dangerous situations, and even slept on the office floor while chasing a case that remained unsolved for days. But tonight, all those memories felt like something that needed to be examined again.
Raka got out of the car and walked to the door. He knocked twice. No answer. Only after the third knock did a voice come from inside.
"Come in."
Raka opened the door.
Dimas was sitting alone in the living room. Only one light was on. A small table stood between them, and on it lay an old photograph wrapped in clear plastic. Dimas didn't stand. He only looked at Raka with an unreadable expression.
"I know why you're here," he said.
Raka closed the door.
"Then you know my first question."
Dimas nodded.
"Was I the one who took the money from your account?"
Raka didn't answer.
Dimas pointed to the photograph on the table.
"Look at this first."
Raka moved closer.
The photograph showed a man standing in front of Cakrawala Warehouse. The time the picture was taken was faintly printed along the bottom.
NOVEMBER 17, 2019 — 2:14 A.M.
The man was wearing clothes similar to what Dimas had worn in the security-camera recording. His build was similar. His haircut was similar. Even the way he stood was almost identical.
But something was different.
There was a long scar beneath the man's right ear.
Raka raised his head.
"Dimas."
"Yeah."
"You don't have this scar."
Dimas shook his head.
"Never have. Not since I was a kid."
Raka looked at the photograph again.
The Dimas in the picture had a clearly visible scar. An old wound stretching from beneath his ear to his jaw.
Raka stared at Dimas.
"Who is he?"
Dimas let out a long breath.
"His name isn't Dimas."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know."
"You know him."
"I've seen him before."
"Where?"
Dimas fell silent.
Raka's patience began to wear thin.
"Don't make me draw my own conclusions."
Dimas rose slowly.
"I'm not trying to protect him."
"Then what?"
"I'm trying to explain how, seven years ago, someone could live using my face."
Raka fell silent.
Dimas picked up the photograph and turned it over.
There was handwriting on the back.
THE PERSON YOU KNOW AS DIMAS DIED THAT NIGHT.
Raka read the sentence.
Then he looked up.
"Who wrote this?"
Dimas answered quietly.
"I did."
Raka took a step back.
"Explain."
Dimas sat down again.
"I wrote it three years ago."
"Why?"
"Because I found something then."
"What?"
"A death certificate."
Raka went silent at once.
Dimas pulled a file from beneath the table.
"This isn't my death certificate."
He took out a sheet of paper.
"It's the death certificate of someone named Dimas Pranoto."
Raka stared at the name.
"Your name?"
"Yeah."
"And you're still alive."
Dimas gave a bitter smile.
"That's the problem."
Raka took the document.
The date of death was recorded as:
NOVEMBER 17, 2019.
Time of death:
3:20 A.M.
Place:
Cakrawala Warehouse.
Raka read it over and over.
"This is impossible."
"That's exactly what scares me."
"Who created this document?"
"I don't know."
"How did you get it?"
Dimas looked at Raka.
"Inside the Project 17 case file."
A chill ran up the back of Raka's neck.
"So before the Cakrawala case was closed, there was a document stating that you were already dead?"
"Yes."
"And after that?"
"I kept working as usual."
"In Dimas's name?"
"In Dimas's name."
Raka shook his head.
"How is that possible?"
Dimas stared at him for a long moment.
"Because the people who created that document had the power to make my death look like an administrative error."
Raka walked to the window.
The rain was coming down harder.
He tried to put everything together rationally.
One person used Dimas's identity.
One person opened an account in Raka's name.
One person controlled Project 17.
One person erased Camera 6.
One person made sure Yusuf appeared to be dead.
Too many identities had changed.
Too many documents didn't match reality.
But a good investigation couldn't be built on suspicion alone.
Raka turned around.
"Then prove you're Dimas."
Dimas fell silent.
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"After everything we've been through?"
"Because of everything we've been through."
Dimas nodded slowly.
He seemed to understand.
"All right."
Dimas opened a desk drawer and took out a small box.
Inside were an old ID card, a family photograph, a health card, and several personal documents.
Raka examined them all.
None of them were enough.
Documents could be forged.
Photographs could be fabricated.
Administrative data could be altered.
Raka then asked:
"Your father's name?"
"Darmanto."
"Your mother's?"
"Sulastri."
"Where did you go to elementary school?"
"SD Negeri 4 Arcapura."
"Your fourth-grade teacher?"
Dimas gave a faint smile.
"Mr. Hadi."
"Who sat beside you?"
"Agus."
Raka nodded.
Every answer was correct.
But it still wasn't enough.
He asked a question only someone who truly knew Dimas could have answered.
"Why don't you ever drink coffee when you're investigating a case?"
Dimas gave a small laugh.
"Because coffee makes my hands shake."
"Why do you always check the door twice before going to sleep?"
Dimas didn't answer.
Raka looked at him.
"That's not an ordinary habit."
Dimas sighed.
"Our house was broken into when I was a kid. I still remember my father checking the door three times that night."
Raka fell silent.
The answer made sense.
And yet there was still one problem.
Someone who had watched Dimas for years might already know all his personal information.
Raka realized that the case had entered a far more dangerous territory.
It was no longer about finding out who was lying.
It was about determining which truth had been deliberately made to look real.
Dimas then opened his laptop.
"There's something you need to see."
He opened a hidden folder.
Inside was a video recording.
Recording date:
NOVEMBER 17, 2019.
1:58 A.M.
Raka stared at the screen.
The video showed a cramped room.
Dimas was sitting in a chair.
His face was clearly visible.
A man stood behind him.
A man with a scar beneath his ear.
A man whose face was nearly identical to Dimas's.
Raka moved closer to the screen.
In the video, the man said:
"You know what will happen if you refuse."
Dimas in the video answered:
"I'm not afraid to die."
The man laughed.
"You're not the one who's going to die."
Dimas fell silent.
"Raka."
Raka froze.
His name had been spoken.
The video continued.
"If you don't do what we ask, Raka will die."
Dimas clenched his fists in the video.
"What do you want?"
The man placed a file on the table.
"Use your identity."
"For what?"
"To make someone look guilty."
"Who?"
The man answered:
"Raka Adhyatma."
The video stopped.
Raka looked at Dimas.
"Me?"
Dimas nodded.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Raka stared at the frozen screen.
There was Dimas's much younger face.
The same face.
The same voice.
There was no doubt.
It really was Dimas.
But if the video had been recorded at 1:58 a.m., how could Dimas have appeared at Cakrawala Warehouse at 2:14 a.m.?
Raka pointed at the screen.
"Where was this video filmed?"
"The old warehouse."
"So you were there?"
"Yes."
"And the photograph shows someone who looks like you at Cakrawala at the same time."
Dimas nodded.
"That's how I knew they were using someone else."
Raka fell silent.
"That person replaced you."
"Yes."
"To make me believe you were involved."
"Yes."
"And my account?"
Dimas looked at Raka.
"To make you look like you received the money."
Raka felt his head growing heavier.
"Who controls that person?"
Dimas answered:
"The same person who controls Project 17."
"Surya?"
Dimas didn't answer.
"Answer me."
"I don't know."
Raka gave him a hard look.
Dimas finally said:
"Surya isn't at the top."
The night grew later.
11:38 p.m.
Raka asked Dimas to explain everything from the beginning.
Dimas took a deep breath.
"On November 12, 2019, Surya was in an accident. Afterward, he contacted me in secret. He said there was a major investigation that no one else could know about."
"Project 17."
"Yes."
"What was the purpose of the project?"
"To trace the flow of money and the network of companies using the identities of legitimate corporations to move funds."
"Money laundering?"
"It goes beyond that."
Dimas opened a document.
"Those companies were only the outer layer."
"And behind them?"
"People with access to government projects, contracts, procurement, and several major transactions."
Raka fell silent.
"Who?"
Dimas shook his head.
"I never got the full name."
"Why not?"
"Every time the investigation got close to that name, the documents disappeared."
Raka looked at the file.
"So Bastian?"
"Found something."
"Yusuf?"
"Found something else."
"Kirana?"
"She found something too."
"And Arman?"
Dimas nodded.
"They all saw different parts of the same network."
Raka began to understand.
This wasn't one case.
Not one murder.
Not one perpetrator.
There was a network that made each victim look as if they had problems of their own.
Bastian seemed to have been killed over business.
Kirana seemed to be involved because of a personal relationship.
Arman appeared to be the victim of a financial dispute.
Yusuf was made to look like a suspect.
Meanwhile, all attention was directed at individuals.
When in fact, something much larger stood behind them.
At 12:21 a.m., Dimas took out one final photograph.
This photograph was different from the others.
It showed a room with a long table. Six people were sitting around it.
Several faces had been deliberately crossed out with black ink.
But one person was clearly visible.
Raka moved closer.
He recognized the face.
His heart seemed to stop for a moment.
"This..."
Dimas nodded.
"Yes."
"Him?"
"The person we're looking for."
Raka stared at the photograph.
The person wasn't Surya.
Not Bastian.
Not Arman.
Not Yusuf.
And not the man with the black ring.
It was someone who had been very close to the center of the investigation all along.
Someone everyone had trusted for seven years.
Someone Raka had never had any reason to suspect.
But before Raka could say his name, the lights in the house suddenly went out.
Darkness.
Dimas immediately stood.
"Don't move."
Raka heard something fall in the direction of the kitchen.
Then came the sound of breaking glass.
Someone had gotten inside.
Dimas pulled Raka behind the wall.
"How many?"
Raka whispered.
"I don't know."
Footsteps sounded.
Slowly.
One step.
Then they stopped.
Raka saw a shadow moving beneath the door.
Someone was standing in the living room.
Then the voice came.
"Raka."
Raka froze.
He recognized the voice.
A voice he'd heard for years.
The voice of a colleague.
The voice of a friend.
The voice of someone who shouldn't have been in Dimas's house that night.
Dimas looked at Raka.
His expression changed.
Because the voice was Dimas's own.
"Come out, Raka."
The voice came again from the living room.
"We need to talk."
Raka looked at Dimas standing beside him.
Then he looked at the shadow beneath the door.
Two identical voices.
Two identical people.
One of them was beside him.
The other was outside.
For the first time, Raka truly understood the meaning of a term that until then had seemed like nothing more than a small clue:
TWO FACES.
The bedroom door was suddenly slammed.
Once.
Twice.
On the third impact, the door began to crack.
Dimas whispered:
"If we go out the front door, he'll see us."
Raka looked at the window.
"What about the back?"
"He might already be waiting."
"Then we have one option."
Dimas nodded.
"The roof."
They moved.
But before Raka could open the window, his phone vibrated.
A message came in from an unknown number.
DON'T TRUST DIMAS.
Raka stopped.
A second message arrived.
THE PERSON NEXT TO YOU ISN'T DIMAS.
Raka slowly turned.
Dimas was standing only three feet away.
Their eyes met.
Dimas said quietly:
"Don't trust that message."
Raka didn't answer.
Because at that same moment, he saw something beneath Dimas's right ear.
A thin scar.
The scar that had never been there before.
The exact same scar as the man in the photograph.
Raka took a step back.
Dimas noticed.
His expression changed.
"Raka..."
The door was slammed again from outside.
And this time, the person behind it said:
"Don't listen to him."
Raka looked at Dimas.
Then at the door.
Two voices.
Two faces.
One truth.
But for the first time in this case, Raka was no longer sure that the person standing beside him was the person he'd known all along.
END OF CHAPTER 8
Next in Chapter 9 — WHO IS DIMAS?
The door finally gave way.
Two men entered from opposite directions.
Both had the same face.
Both wore silver rings with black stripes.
And when one of them saw Raka, he said:
"I'm Dimas."
The other man answered:
"Don't trust him. I'm the real Dimas."
Between the two of them, Raka saw one small difference.
One had a scar beneath his ear.
The other didn't.
But then Raka realized something far more horrifying:
The scar had once belonged to the real Dimas—and had been deliberately removed through surgery.