“His name is Jefri,” Naya said quietly.
The man was still standing at the end of the hallway, his eyes red and his breath reeking of alcohol. He didn’t look like the kind of person who usually caused trouble. His clothes were too neat for a drunk, his hair was combed back, and a pricey leather bracelet circled his wrist—completely at odds with his flip-flops.
“He’s a collections agent from the warehouse where I work,” Naya continued. “Mr. Arga, just go inside. This is my problem.”
“Your problem doesn’t include being forced to stand while you’re injured.”
Jefri sneered. “You sure talk a lot for someone who only moved in last night.”
“And you’re awfully brave for someone who comes to collect money while drunk.”
Naya shot Raka a sharp look, as if warning him that the remark could make things worse. Raka knew. In the boardroom, he could always tell when a decision was about to turn into a loss. The difference was that here, there was no long table separating angry people.
Jefri stepped forward. “Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Good. Then you don’t know who you should be afraid of.”
Doors began to crack open along the hallway. The residents of the apartment complex peeked out without really wanting to be seen peeking. Raka recognized that look. It wasn’t curiosity. It was closer to calculation: who would win, and whom would they have to apologize to tomorrow morning?
Jefri reached out to grab Naya’s arm.
Raka caught him by the wrist.
The movement wasn’t forceful, but it was fast enough to wipe the smile from Jefri’s face. A moment later, Raka realized he had no idea what to do after successfully catching someone’s hand. At the company, threats usually ended with a single phone call. Human bodies didn’t have a “cancel” button.
“Let go,” Jefri hissed.
“If you leave now, I will.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll talk when you’re sober.”
Jefri tried to pull his hand free. Raka tightened his grip. At the same time, his knees began shaking violently. He hoped the hallway was dark enough to hide it.
Naya saw.
“Mr. Arga,” she said quickly, “that’s enough. I’ll pay tomorrow.”
Jefri gave a small laugh. “Hear that? She said she’ll pay.”
“She said she’d pay,” Raka replied. “That doesn’t mean you can treat her however you want.”
The sound of dragging sandals came from beneath the stairs. Mr. Harun, the apartment complex caretaker, appeared carrying a large flashlight. He was around sixty, but his back was still straight. He looked at Jefri’s wrist, clenched in Raka’s grip, then turned to Naya.
“What is it this time?”
“This new kid is sticking his nose in,” Jefri said.
Mr. Harun sighed. “Jefri, go downstairs.”
“Sir, the warehouse wants the payment tonight.”
“If you want to collect, come during the day. Don’t scare the residents.”
Jefri tore his gaze away from Raka. “You still want to defend her, Mr. Harun? She hasn’t even paid three months of security fees.”
The hallway suddenly fell silent.
Raka turned to Naya. She lowered her face.
It wasn’t just the payment she owed. She was also carrying housing debt, her younger sibling’s medical expenses, and the security fee. Different people demanded each payment, but they all fell on the same body.
Raka released Jefri’s hand.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Jefri said, rubbing his wrist. “If the money isn’t there, I’m taking the things in that room.”
“Go ahead and try,” Mr. Harun shot back.
Jefri stared at him for a long moment, then went downstairs without another word.
The hallway doors closed again. Everyone returned to their rooms, carrying a little courage that wasn’t theirs.
Naya leaned against the wall.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you report him?”
Naya gave a hollow laugh. “Report him to whom? Jefri’s just someone else’s lackey. If he doesn’t come to collect, someone else will.”
Raka fell silent.
“Mr. Arga?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t get involved again.”
“Why?”
“Because people who look brave on their first night usually don’t know the price they’ll have to pay.”
The words reminded Raka of himself. For years, he had made major decisions because he had never seen the price other people paid. He called it courage. To someone like Naya, it might just be stupidity wearing an expensive suit.
The next morning, Raka woke to the sound of a pot being struck in the hallway. It was five twenty. He opened his eyes and saw the water-stained ceiling. Until now, he had always woken before his alarm, in a bed far too comfortable to make his body feel any need to move. In Room Seven, the sound of a leaking pipe was more effective than any technology.
His cheap phone had seven new messages.
Four from his secretary. Two from Dimas. One from an unknown number.
The last message contained only one sentence:
Don’t trust anyone at Melati Apartments.
Raka read the number. It wasn’t saved. He immediately pressed call, but the number was already inactive.
Someone knocked on his door from outside.
“Mr. Arga! If you want work, come with me!”
It was Naya.
Raka opened the door. Naya stood there with one foot still wrapped in cloth, wearing a loose T-shirt and black pants. She looked pale, but she didn’t look like she wanted anyone’s pity.
“What kind of work?” Raka asked.
“Unloading goods at the warehouse. One hundred thousand rupiah a day.”
“You’re injured yourself.”
“That’s why I need someone to replace me.”
Raka looked at his hands. The hands that usually signed billion-rupiah contracts had never lifted a box weighing more than five kilograms.
“What if I fail?”
“Don’t drop anything.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Naya studied him a moment longer. “Mr. Arga, everyone here fails every day. The difference is, we still go to work the next morning.”
She turned away before Raka could answer.
Raka grabbed his light jacket and followed Naya downstairs. On the ground floor, a small truck was waiting. Beside it, Mr. Harun was speaking with a woman in a red jacket. She held a brown folder and stood far too straight for someone visiting an apartment complex so early in the morning.
The moment she saw Raka, she stopped talking.
“Who’s this?”
“A new resident,” Naya replied.
The woman looked Raka up and down, from the top of his head to his canvas shoes. “What’s his name?”
“Arga.”
“Arga who?”
Raka almost answered with his real full name.
“Arga Pratama.”
The woman gave a faint smile. “A simple name.”
“Isn’t that what people are looking for?”
“Not everyone.”
She handed the folder to Mr. Harun, then walked away. Before getting into the car parked by the side of the road, she glanced back at Raka one more time.
That wasn’t the look of someone who had just seen a cargo worker.
It was the look of someone who had just confirmed that the prey they were hunting truly existed.
On Raka’s cheap phone, the message from the unknown number was still open.
Don’t trust anyone at Melati Apartments.
For the first time since assuming his false identity, Raka wondered whether he had really come to that place to find the truth.
Or whether someone had been waiting for him to arrive all along.