The rain came down hard tonight, soaking the asphalt streets of Jakarta—usually alive with the roar of traffic and the glow of neon. Now, the only sound was the steady patter of raindrops, syncing with Arya's hurried steps as he moved through the outskirts of the city.
In his right hand, he gripped a modified Glock 19—suppressor attached, every step calculated.
In his left, a glowing phone screen lit his pale knuckles.
Bayu's last message blinked on the screen:
"They got me. Old Cilincing Warehouse. Don't call anyone."
A red dot pulsed on the digital map.
A lone beacon in the dark.
Arya's thumb hovered over the screen—shaking.
Bayu. His brother in everything but blood.
A memory hit like shrapnel.
Poso. Eight years ago.
Their unit pinned down by gunfire, trapped in dense jungle. Arya had taken a bullet to the thigh—immobile, bleeding out. Death felt certain.
But Bayu—
He didn't leave.
Through bullets, smoke, and screaming radio commands, Bayu threw Arya over his shoulder and ran. Six kilometers through hell, disobeying direct orders.
"We go home together… or not at all," Bayu had whispered.
Blood from a fresh gash ran down his temple. But his grip on Arya never loosened. His face—usually smirking, joking—was carved in iron.
Arya blinked, snapping back to the present.
Not again. Not this time.
This time, it was his turn to save Bayu.
He wouldn't let him die.
Not like this.