The heavy thud of the door echoed through the office, leaving Bima standing in a puddle of flickering yellow light. Outside, the low, predatory rumble of diesel engines grew louder, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling the glass jars of specimens on the high shelves.
"Stay inside," Bima whispered to himself, his voice shaking. "Right. Stay inside while the house burns down. Great plan."
He looked down at the leather-bound document in his hands. This single piece of paper was the only thing standing between Rangga’s legacy and a fleet of bulldozers. If the lawyers or their security detail got their hands on it, it wouldn't just be lost, it would be incinerated.
"Okay, think. You’re the city boy. You know how these sharks work," he muttered, his eyes darting around the small room.
He lunged for his designer suitcase. It sat near the desk, its pristine surface now scuffed and pathetic-looking in the dim light. He unzipped the inner lining, his fingers fumbling with the tiny zipper. With a quick, frantic motion, he shoved the ancient map and the sovereign grant deep into the space between the fabric and the hard shell. He smoothed the clothes back over it, two crisp white shirts and a pair of trousers and zipped it shut just as the front gate screeched open.
The sound of voices carried through the humid air, sharp and intrusive against the jungle's natural hum.
"We’ve got a court order, Rangga!" a smooth, high-pitched voice called out. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
"I don't care if you have a letter from the Pope, Hardono!" Rangga’s voice was a roar. "It’s three in the morning. You’re trespassing."
Bima crept toward the window, pulling the moth-eaten curtain back an inch. Down in the courtyard, flooded by the harsh white glare of jeep headlights, stood a small man in a charcoal-grey suit that looked absurdly expensive for the mud beneath his feet. This had to be Hardono. Beside him were two men in tactical vests, their arms folded, faces obscured by the shadows of their caps.
"It’s not trespassing if the bank has already initiated the seizure," Hardono said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "We’re just here to secure the assets. Let us in, and we can go over the paperwork in the kitchen. I even brought coffee."
"You brought mercenaries and a padlocked chain," Rangga spat. "I'm not signing a damn thing tonight."
"We’ll see about that," Hardono replied. He gestured to one of the guards. "Secure the perimeter. Check the office. Make sure none of the files 'go missing' conveniently."
Bima bolted away from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs. He dove back to his chair, frantically scattering a handful of old fuel receipts across the desk to cover his tracks. He grabbed a pen and began scribbling nonsensical numbers into a ledger just as the office door swung open again.
It wasn't Rangga. It was one of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a neck thicker than Bima’s thigh. He stepped into the room, his boots tracking fresh, wet clay across the floor Bima had just spent hours clearing.
"Who are you?" the guard asked, his voice a gravelly monotone.
"I... I'm the clerk," Bima said, forcing his voice into a high, nervous pitch. He looked up, wide-eyed and blinking, doing his best impression of a terrified intern. "I'm just doing the entries. Did someone call for a guard?"
The guard didn't answer. He began walking around the perimeter of the room, his eyes scanning the shelves. He stopped near the row of metal filing cabinets. "The boss said there's a lot of old junk in here. You see anything that looks... legal?"
"Everything looks legal," Bima stammered, holding up a yellowed slip of paper. "I mean, look at this. It's a receipt for twelve liters of diesel from 2014. Is that legal? I don't know. I’m just supposed to categorize them."
The guard looked at him with clear disdain. "You're from Jakarta?"
"Yes! I just got here today. Well, yesterday? I think I've lost track of time. This place is... it’s very hot, isn’t it?" Bima wiped sweat from his upper lip. "Is everything okay outside? I heard a lot of shouting. I'm not really good with shouting."
"It's just business," the guard said, moving toward the corner. He kicked the chain hanging from the grey cabinet Bima had opened earlier. "This one's locked up tight. What's in it?"
"Oh, I wouldn't touch that," Bima said quickly, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. "Mr. Rangga said the humidity in there has turned everything into a sort of... grey mush. He said if we open it, the mold spores might get into the air conditioning. I have allergies, you see."
The guard looked at the rusted lock, then back at Bima’s trembling hands. "Mold spores, huh?"
"Deadly ones. Probably. My grandmother died of a respiratory thing, so I’m very cautious."
The guard snorted, clearly satisfied that Bima was too much of a coward to be a threat. He turned his attention to Bima’s suitcase. "What’s in the fancy box?"
"My life," Bima said, with a forced, pathetic whimper. "My ironed shirts. My specialized soap. Please don't tell me you need to seize my soap. It’s pH balanced."
"Keep your soap, kid," the guard sighed, shaking his head. "Stay in your chair. Don't go near the windows, and don't touch the phone. Got it?"
"Crystal clear," Bima squeaked. "I’ll just... stay here. With my receipts. Should I keep counting? I'm on October 2015."
"Do whatever you want," the guard said, turning his back. He leaned against the doorframe, keeping one eye on the hallway and the other on Bima.
Hours seemed to crawl by. Outside, the low drone of negotiation continued. Bima could hear snippets of conversation floating through the thin walls, Hardono’s persistent, oily tone and Rangga’s fierce, desperate rebuttals.
"You’re finished, Rangga," Hardono’s voice drifted in. "Your yields have dropped forty percent since the new irrigation law passed. You don't have the capital to fight this in court."
"I have enough to buy a few rounds of ammunition," Rangga countered. "Try me."
"Don't be dramatic. It's just a plantation. Take the payout and go back to the city. Buy a nice condo. Spend your time at the mall."
"This isn't just trees and dirt to me, you corporate hack. You wouldn't get it."
The voices eventually moved further away, likely toward the main house’s porch. Bima sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the ledger but his ears straining for every sound. The guard at the door had grown bored, now scrolling through his phone, the blue light reflecting off his indifferent face.
Bima felt a strange shift inside himself. Twelve hours ago, he had been terrified of the mud and the humidity. Now, he was sitting five feet away from an armed man, lying through his teeth to save a man who had done nothing but insult his shoes since he arrived.
Finally, the sun began to bleed through the jungle canopy, casting long, bruised shadows of indigo and orange across the office floor. The engines outside roared to life again.
"We’re leaving, for now," Hardono shouted from the courtyard. "But we’ll be back with the official bailiff at noon. If the gates aren't unlocked, we won't be so polite."
A few minutes later, the jeeps growled down the path, the sound gradually fading into the distance. The guard at the door stood up, stretched until his spine popped, and walked out without a word.
Bima waited until the dust had settled before he dared to stand up. His legs felt like jelly. He waited another minute, then another, until the door to the inner office creaked open.
Rangga stepped inside. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, and his face was streaked with a mixture of sweat and engine grease. He looked like he had aged five years in a single night. He stood in the middle of the room, his shoulders slumped, his eyes searching Bima’s.
"They're gone?" Bima asked softly.
"For three hours," Rangga said, his voice hoarse. "They're getting the local police to authorize the forced removal."
Rangga looked toward the grey cabinet, then toward the desk. "Did they... did they find it?"
Bima stood up and walked over to his suitcase. He unzipped the lining and carefully pulled out the leather-bound folder. He held it up, the silver key still dangling from the lock he had saved.
"Still safe," Bima said.
Rangga stared at the document, then at Bima. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since the previous evening. He walked over and took the map, his hand resting briefly on Bima’s shoulder. It wasn't a casual tap this time; it was a firm, heavy grip that spoke of a sudden, deep-seated trust.
"You really didn't give it up?" Rangga asked, his voice low. "Even when they were in here?"
"I told them it was grey mush," Bima said, a tired smile breaking through his exhaustion. "And I told them I had a very specific soap that they shouldn't touch."
Rangga laughed—a real, booming laugh that cut through the tension of the morning. "Grey mush and fancy soap. You’re a weird kid, Bima."
"I prefer 'logistically efficient,'" Bima corrected him.
"Right." Rangga’s expression sobered as he looked toward the window. "We’ve got three hours to get to the city and find a notary who can't be bought. It's going to be a hell of a drive."
"I'll get my shoes," Bima said.
"Leave 'em," Rangga said, heading for the door. "You’re going to need something with more grip where we’re going."