-
With ragged breaths, Putra called out to the bodyguards standing outside his door. His voice trembled, but it was loud enough for them to hear.
From the beginning, his father had ordered them not to enter the room no matter what happened inside. But the moment they heard Putra's call, the guards rushed in.
They froze.
Their master was sprawled motionless on the floor, his face pale, while Putra stood there with a cold, unflinching gaze. None of them could have imagined a son striking down his own father with a single punch.
"Take him to the hospital. Now," Putra ordered sharply, his tone dripping with fury. "If you're late, you might as well lose your master forever."
"Y-Yes, Young Master!" one of the guards stammered before they hurriedly lifted the unconscious man and carried him away.
When silence returned, Putra walked unsteadily back to his room.
---
After spending what felt like an eternity crying into the memory of his late mother's embrace, Putra dragged himself into the bathroom. The large mirror reflected a young man who looked far older than his years.
Slowly, he stripped off his shirt.
The sight beneath would make anyone shudder. Countless small stitch marks scarred his pale back, dark bruises and faded wounds carved like a cruel mural across his body. On his chest, just above his heart, ran a long, jagged scar—like the mark of a blade that had once nearly ended him. Fresh bruises from earlier only added to the grotesque sight.
"Mom… look at this," he whispered hoarsely, tears falling again. "This is the cruel art created by the man you always told me to call Father."
In the middle of his grief, his phone rang on the desk. The caller ID flashed a single name: Rangga.
Putra quickly wiped his face, forcing his breathing steady. He swallowed back the lump in his throat and picked up.
"Hello." His tone was flat, cold.
"Put! Are you okay? You didn't fight with your dad again, right? If you need us, just say it. Cristian and I can be there right now! Don't just stay quiet, Put, answer me!" Rangga's voice shook with panic.
Putra let out a weary sigh. "If you keep yapping like that, frog boy, how am I supposed to answer?" His attempt at humor sounded hollow.
There was a pause before he continued more quietly, "I'm fine. Don't worry… but—"
"But what? Stop leaving me hanging, just tell me straight!" Rangga's voice rose, with Cristian audibly anxious beside him.
Putra clenched his fists. "I… I hit that old man. He's in the hospital now."
"What old man?" Rangga froze, then realization struck. "Wait—you mean… your father? Putra, what the hell—"
"You're afraid he'll die?" Putra cut in coldly. "If he does, that's his problem. Not mine. I couldn't care less."
On the other end, Rangga and Cristian fell silent. They knew. They knew the pain Putra had lived through, and they also knew his strength was far from ordinary. Years of relentless training had turned him into something like a machine—someone who could take and deliver blows far beyond a normal man. Just yesterday in class, he had casually blocked the full strike of a Taekwondo champion.
And that was what worried them—not the father, but what would happen to Putra if things went too far.
"Look, stop worrying," Putra muttered. "I'm fine. I'll explain everything tomorrow at campus."
Rangga exhaled heavily. "Alright… if you say so. Cristian and I trust you. Just take care of yourself, Put. See you tomorrow."
The call ended. Putra headed back into the shower, letting the icy water wash over his battered body. He wanted to cool his mind, though his chest still burned with unspoken pain.
---
When he stepped out, he froze.
An elderly woman sat quietly in his room. Her white hair was tied neatly, her wrinkled face wearing an expression of sorrow. Dressed simply, she was no stranger to this house. Bibi Nem—the woman who had been there since before his mother passed away. She was the one who raised him, who cared for him when his mother could no longer.
"Bibi Nem…" Putra blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
The old woman didn't answer right away. Tears welled in her eyes, her lips trembling before she finally spoke in a soft, broken voice. "Young Master… are you alright?"
A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips. "Bibi, I've told you countless times. Don't call me Young Master. Just call me Putra. To me, you're already like my mother."
The woman's tears spilled over as she stood and wrapped him in a tight embrace. "Why must your life be like this, child? Why can't you live happily, like the other kids who grow up in complete families?"
Putra gently patted her back, trying to ease her grief. "I'll be fine, Bibi. As long as you're here, I'll never be alone."
At last, the embrace loosened. Bibi Nem wiped her eyes and placed a tray on the desk. "Here… hot chocolate and meat buns. It's the same recipe your mother entrusted to me, so you can always taste her cooking."
Putra's smile faltered, but he forced it anyway. "Thank you, Bibi. You're the best part of this house."
The old woman gave him a faint smile, then quietly left the room.
---
Putra sat at his desk, staring at the steaming cup and buns that carried the weight of memories. Just as he reached for them, his phone rang again.
This time, it was an unknown number.
"Hello? Who is this?" His voice carried an edge.
"Putra… it's me. Cindy. Your fiancée."
Putra went silent. A cruel smirk flickered across his lips before he spat out two venomous words.
"Crazy bitch."
Click. He hung up.
And once again, silence suffocated the room.
---