The clock on my bedroom wall showed four in the morning when the rendering progress bar on my laptop screen finally reached thirty percent.
The laptop's cooling fan roared so loudly it was practically deafening. The air in my room, usually chilly in the predawn hours, now felt warm and stuffy from the heat released by the processor running at one hundred percent without stopping. My eyes stung, red and gritty from not having closed them once since last night.
My bedroom door was slightly ajar. Gastan stood there, holding a glass of steaming instant black coffee.
"Bro... here's your coffee," he said quietly, setting the glass in the corner of my desk with extreme care, as if he were afraid of disturbing my concentration.
I glanced at him, then nodded. "Thanks. Just put it there."
Gastan didn't leave right away. He stood awkwardly by the door, rubbing the back of his neck over and over. "Bro... I'm sorry. It's because of me that you have to go through this, Ghani."
I let out a long sigh. "Gas, I don't need your apology right now. I only need one thing from you: watch the house today. Don't let anyone touch this laptop, don't let anyone bump the cable, and most importantly, don't let Mom and Dad find out about that twenty-five-million-rupiah debt. Got it?"
Gastan nodded quickly. "Got it, bro."
"All right, get out of here. I need to get ready for work."
After Gastan left, I took a sip of the black coffee he'd made. It was too sweet, but the caffeine was enough to force my eyelids to stay open. I had to leave the laptop running to render the three remaining exterior images while I went to work at the warehouse. All I could do was pray that our home's electrical system wouldn't suddenly trip or blow a fuse under the laptop's heavy power load.
By seven in the morning, I was already on Red.
My body felt light from lack of sleep, and my head grew slightly dizzy when the morning wind hit me. Still, I had to stay focused. Mr. Bambang had scheduled the annual inventory audit for today, which meant I couldn't be a single minute late if I didn't want to get chewed out in front of the rest of the warehouse staff.
I twisted Red's throttle, cutting through the increasingly insane traffic on the main road. Black smoke from city buses and dust from the LRT construction made it hard to breathe.
But as it turned out, today's disaster wasn't coming from the office. As I was crossing a completely gridlocked overpass, an incredibly loud metallic clanging suddenly came from beneath Red's engine.
At once, the motorcycle's throttle went slack. The engine made a strange roaring sound, and then, a second later, thick white smoke began billowing from around the exhaust, enveloping my legs. The motorcycle lost all power and died in the middle of the uphill overpass.
"Hey, bro! Move over! You're causing a traffic jam!" shouted a ride-hailing driver behind me, impatiently leaning on his horn.
Panicking, I pushed Red toward the narrow edge of the overpass, ignoring the irritated looks from dozens of other drivers. Cold sweat immediately drenched my back. I tried kick-starting the motorcycle, but the lever felt incredibly stiff and was completely jammed. The piston had seized. The engine was totally dead, either because it had run out of oil or overheated.
I glanced at my watch. It was 7:45 a.m. I was already fifteen minutes late for work.
At the same time, my phone vibrated in my pants pocket. Letta was calling. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my breathless voice before swiping the green button.
"Hey, Let," I said, trying to sound casual as I wiped the sweat dripping from my forehead into my eyes.
"Ghani? Why do you sound so out of breath? Where are you?" Letta asked, sounding worried.
"Oh... it's nothing, Let. I'm climbing the office stairs. The elevator line is crazy long," I lied again, staring at Red, which was now giving off a burnt smell on the hot, dusty overpass. "What's up, Let?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you'd had breakfast. And... Dad asked again about this Sunday. He said he'd like to reserve a table at his favorite seafood restaurant, if you don't mind."
A fancy seafood restaurant. Meanwhile, I was standing on the side of a dusty overpass, staring at my only beat-up motorcycle, which had broken down, with a twenty-five-million-rupiah debt hanging over my head. The contrast felt like it was tightening around my throat.
"Sure, Let. I'll go with whatever your dad thinks is best. I'll let you know later, okay? I have to get into the room," I said, rushing to end the call before she noticed the blaring car horns in the background.
"Okay, good luck at work, Ghani!"
After the call ended, I rested my head against the motorcycle's handlebars in despair. I had to push it down off the overpass and find the nearest repair shop, then take a ride-hailing motorcycle to the office and face Mr. Bambang's anger.
But before I could take a step, my phone vibrated again. This time it wasn't a call but a text message from Ghea, sent entirely in capital letters.
Ghea: "GHAN! COME HOME RIGHT NOW! THE POWER'S OUT, AND YOUR ROOM SMELLS BURNT!"
My blood suddenly ran cold. My laptop. My eighteen-million-rupiah render. Time seemed to stop, and my world collapsed in a single second.