A dull ache still lingered in my chest. No tears were left, just a rumbling in my heart, as if every breath was a knife twisting from within. The world had already taken everything from me, and now, without mercy, it added another wound.
A firm knock came at the door. One, two, three—like a sledgehammer trying to break into my consciousness. I moved closer, peeking through the small crack. An elderly man in a neat suit stood calmly on the porch, surrounded by four large men with shoulders as wide as the door itself. Their eyes were empty, black like glass without a reflection.
"Who are you?" my voice cracked, hoarse from unshed tears.
The old man didn't answer. He simply held up two fingers, a brief signal. Two of the large men immediately kicked the door in; the wood creaked loudly before splintering into my narrow home. Their eyes swept every corner of the room, sharp, calculating, choosing. In seconds, my parents' documents were in their hands, a shoebox filled with family photos also snatched up.
"Hey! Don't touch that!" My scream broke as my body lunged toward them. But my resistance was quickly broken. A rough arm held my chest, and my body was shoved against the wall with a brutal jolt. A punch struck my temple. The world shook. The light dimmed. Darkness crept in like ink dripping into water.
When I opened my eyes, the world had changed. I was bound, sitting in a gently swaying car seat. The two men on my left and right restrained my movements. The road outside the window sped backward; the city I knew receded, replaced by hills and trees, until a tall iron gate slowly opened. The car drove inside.
At the end of the road, a building appeared: a grand mansion with a pale white facade, tall windows that stared out coldly, and a yard the size of a small field. The wind there smelled of wet soil, but there was no life. Just a suffocating silence.
I was led through the back door. A long corridor with thick carpet muffled every step. Crystal lamps hung, casting a cold light on the white walls. It felt like walking into the belly of a large creature, ready to swallow everything whole.
In front of a tall door, two guards stood. When the door opened, the scent of old wood and tobacco filled the room. A round table stood in the center, surrounded by several figures sitting quietly. At the head of the table, the same old man looked at me. His face was serene, almost gentle, but his eyes... I couldn't be mistaken, they were the eyes of someone accustomed to giving orders.
"Welcome to the Alister family home," he said, his voice calm yet cutting the air like a knife. "My name is Effendi Alister."
My blood boiled. "What is this? Kidnapping?!"
A man on the right—his jaw hard, his face fierce—slammed a hand on the table. "Watch your mouth, boy! You don't know who you're talking to!"
"Silence, Gibson," Effendi glanced at him, calm like a father reprimanding his child. "Let him speak."
The man named Gibson immediately went quiet, obedient, though his face still burned with anger.
I hardened my voice, though my body trembled. "Why did you bring me here? If you wanted something, you should've said so at my house. Don't drag me in like this!"
Effendi simply crossed his arms. His faint smile didn't change. "Because you need protection. And starting today, you will live here."
I let out a bitter, almost insane laugh. "You don't even know me!"
"Sometimes," he answered, calmly, "protecting someone doesn't require a reason you can understand right now."
From across the table, three pairs of eyes stared at me.
A woman in a simple dress, yet as firm as a rock, her eyes cold and calculating.
A bespectacled man with a serious face, his expression unreadable, as if his mind was always working behind his calm gaze.
And a younger boy, with a mischievous grin he couldn't hide, looking at me like a new toy.
"Take him to his room," Effendi finally ordered.
"I'm not finished—" My voice was cut short as the door was opened again, and I was led out.
Another corridor swallowed my steps. Until we arrived in front of a large room. When the door was opened, I froze. My breath caught.
Inside, was my entire life. The shoebox of photos that had just been stolen was now neatly placed on a shelf. My old books were arranged on a desk. Even my old blanket that still held the scent of sunlight was laid out on a plush chair by the large window.
I stood frozen, unable to move.
"How could you..." I whispered, my voice scattering like dust.
One of the men who had escorted me gave a brief look. "We're fast." Then they left, leaving the door closed.
Now there was only silence. A great, pressing silence.
I stood in the middle of that room, alone, my body stiff, my mind spinning wildly. It felt like I was trapped in a dream that was too real, a strange house that suddenly knew too much about my life.
And behind every white wall, I could feel eyes watching.
The Name That Finally Left My Lips
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The door slowly opened again. Light from the corridor slipped in, pushing back some of the darkness in the large room. The three figures from before appeared: the youngest boy, whose eyes were lively and restless; the woman with a gentle face and firm posture; and the bespectacled man, who seemed more mature, quiet, but full of authority.
"Hey," the boy greeted casually. He stepped inside, hands in his pockets, his eyes exploring every corner of the room. "Not bad, huh. They brought your stuff here so fast."
"Vian," the woman chided in a calm but firm voice. "Mind your manners."
The boy grunted, pretending not to care, then dropped into a chair.
The woman then looked at me, coming closer. "I'm Una Varischa Alister, the second child. This is Deon Ivander Alister—the eldest brother. And the one acting too familiar is Jovian Narindra Alister, the youngest. Oh, and our father earlier... Gibson Theodore Alister. If he seems fierce, don't be afraid. Believe me, underneath it all, he's the one who's easiest to soften."
I nodded slowly. I could only swallow. Una's words were calming, but my chest was still filled with awkwardness and fear.
"What do you want with me? Why was I brought here?" My voice was faint, almost a plea.
"Starting today, you'll live here," Deon answered flatly, his voice steady but not sharp. "There are rules, there's a schedule. You'll be told more tomorrow."
I bit my lip. "Why me? Why your family?"
Jovian immediately smirked, his chin raised. "Because Grandfather just decided to take you."
"That's enough, Vian." Una chided him again, this time with a piercing look. Then she turned back to me, her gaze soft, as if she wanted to comfort me. "You're safe here. That's all you need to know for now."
A brief silence. Then Una asked again in a low voice.
"Then... what should we call you? Your name?"
That simple question made my heart race even more. For a moment I felt cornered, as if the entire room was waiting for my answer. For some reason, fear suddenly overwhelmed me. My shoulders tensed, my forehead broke out in a cold sweat. In a voice that was almost inaudible, I answered, "I... Yohanes Andhikari. Just call me Yohanes."
Jovian let out a small laugh, patting his knee. "Finally! I thought your name was a state secret."
Una turned to her brother, her look a mix of fond exasperation. "Jovian."
Then she looked back at me. "Yohanes. It's a nice name. From tonight on, this is your home too."
A strange warmth flowed from her words. For the first time since this morning—since that news shattered my life—I felt a little lighter.
Deon, who had been silent all this time, finally spoke again. "Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow morning, I'll introduce you to the routine of this house." His voice was firm, but there was a sincerity behind it.
Jovian stood up, walking toward me. He patted my shoulder quickly, like a child trying to be friendly. "If you need anything, just scream. Don't be surprised if I'm the first to show up. I'm usually the fastest at running around the house."
I could only stare at him, confused. But there was something in their behavior—the gentle Una, the dignified Deon, the playful yet warm Jovian—that slowly eroded my fear.
They then left. Una turned one last time, giving a faint smile, as if to say, you are not alone anymore.
The door closed. Silence returned. But this time, it wasn't as tense as before. Something was different.
For the first time, I didn't feel completely alone.
Between Sleep and Awakening
After they left the room, I could only stay still, frozen on the plush, unfamiliar bed. My eyes stared at the high ceiling with its wooden carvings that glimmered faintly in the light from the hanging lamp. My breathing was heavy, as if the air in this room wasn't enough for my lungs.
I tried to understand, to piece together the events from the morning: the shouting, the rough grip, the dignified unfamiliar faces, and the unilateral decision that dragged me into this big house. Everything spun in my head without a clear shape, just a thickening fog.
My body began to feel weak. My stomach was empty, my head throbbed. I didn't know when exactly my eyelids gave up. All I knew was that darkness came not as a choice, but as a compulsion.
When I regained consciousness, the color of the sky outside the window had changed. The pale blue of morning was replaced by the soft orange of evening. The thin curtain swayed gently, blown by the wind from a small vent. The scent of flowers from the garden outside slipped in, mixing with a faint smell of antiseptic.
I blinked slowly, trying to get up, but my whole body seemed to refuse. My gaze caught two women in maid uniforms standing in the corner of the room. One of them hurried out as soon as she saw me move, while the other approached carefully, carrying a glass of water.
"Slowly, Mr. Yohanes," she said gently, her voice soothing. She held the glass out to my hands, supporting it so it wouldn't spill. The water felt like new life flowing into my body.
Soon after, the sound of many people approaching echoed in the corridor. A synchronized, steady tread of footsteps. The door opened, and several figures entered: Effendi, Deon, Una, Jovian—and a man in a white coat with a doctor's bag in his hand.
"Thank goodness you're conscious," Effendi said, with a genuine sense of relief. His smile was faint, but real.
The doctor immediately took over. "Hand," he requested briefly. I held it out, though a little shaky. He checked my pulse, then came closer, shining a small light into my eyes. His face was serious but calm, like someone used to dealing with fragile bodies.
"You were unconscious for three days," he explained afterward. "Your body crashed. Lack of sleep, lack of food, and maybe too many blows. It's normal to have collapsed."
Three days? My chest fluttered in surprise. I had been out of consciousness for three days, and the world had gone on without me.
"How do you feel?" Effendi asked, leaning slightly toward me.
I let out a long sigh. "Light... but also heavy," I answered honestly. The words came out on their own, without me thinking.
"If he faints again, does that mean—" Jovian interjected, his expression a mix of worry and curiosity.
"Vian," Una chided, her voice soft but firm. Her look silenced her brother, though he still grumbled in annoyance.
"I was just asking," he muttered quietly. "Why is everyone suddenly defending him?"
Una didn't turn to him, just answered calmly, "Because from today, he's part of the family."
Effendi added, in a calm but undeniable tone: "Grandfather has decided."
I looked at them one by one, feeling both like a stranger and a part of a new destiny. How could a decision from someone I didn't even know change my life so easily?
The doctor packed up his tools. "For now, complete rest. Eat porridge tonight, no hard food yet. We'll evaluate again tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Doctor," Deon said curtly, full of authority.
One by one they left, leaving a silence that was lighter than before. But Effendi didn't leave right away. He lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, sitting at a safe distance. Up close, I could see the fine wrinkles on his face, not just a sign of age, but also a trace of life's long journey.
"I know you're confused," he said slowly. "If you're angry, it's natural. You have the right. But know one thing: no one came to your house to steal. We came so you wouldn't disappear."
I turned, staring at him sharply. "From whom?"
He was silent for a moment, weighing his words. "From those who feel they have a right to your life," he finally answered, vaguely, like a shadow unwilling to show its face.
I wanted to ask more, but my body was still weak, and my voice was caught in my throat. Effendi stood up, stroking the back of the chair with a small motion that seemed to hold unspoken feelings. "Sleep. We'll talk again tomorrow."
The door closed softly after his departure.
I looked at the vast ceiling again. In this house, there was a soft bed, a warm blanket, and fragrant air. But inside my chest, a storm was still raging, refusing to calm down.
Father. Mother.
I promised myself in my heart, almost silently: I will find out what really happened. And why this family chose me.
Outside, a clock chimed softly, breaking the night into small pieces I could swallow.
For the first time in a long time, I fell asleep without a dream.
Binding Rules, A Shaking Warmth
I woke up in a room that was too big for the sound of my own breath. The curtain swayed gently, letting the morning sunlight come in and pool on the marble floor that was too clean. On the table, there was a tray: warm porridge still steaming faintly, a hard-boiled egg cut neatly in half, and a glass of pristine white milk. Beside it, a small card with neat handwriting made my heart beat strangely.
Eat well. At 9:00, Deon will meet you to explain the rules. – U
That "U" was clearly Una's. So simple, yet it left the impression that someone was truly paying attention to me, even when I wasn't sure I deserved it.
I ate slowly. The porridge tasted ordinary, even bland, but my empty stomach accepted it like a gift. I couldn't remember the last time someone had prepared food specifically for me. Usually, I just grabbed leftover food from the table or cheap instant noodles from a stall.
At exactly nine o'clock, there were two knocks on the door. A steady knock, not hurried but not hesitant. Deon Ivander entered with a brown folder in his hand. His shirt was simple, sleeves neatly folded, his face calm like someone who was used to dealing with complicated things without losing control.
"Morning," he said briefly. His voice was deep, but not loud.
"Morning," I replied softly.
"Can you walk a bit? We'll talk while we look around the house."
I nodded. My body still felt both light and heavy, as if my bones had just been re-welded, but I forced myself to stand. Deon walked slightly ahead; his steps were precise, as if every movement had been calculated.
"This is the east wing," he explained, pointing toward a long corridor. "Guest rooms, the library, the music room. The basic rules in this house are simple: first, never open a locked door. Second, ask first if you need something. Third, if a stranger comes, don't talk to them without us."
I frowned. "It sounds like I'm a prisoner."
"You are a guest we are protecting," he replied, calmly, almost without emotion. "There's a difference."
We passed a corridor whose walls were covered with black-and-white photos. In one frame, I saw a young Effendi standing in front of an old building, with a large sign that read: Pointless. From the photo, it looked like a cafe or a meeting place. I stopped for a moment, staring longer.
"Pointless?" I asked.
Deon looked back too. His face didn't change much, but his eyes seemed more cautious. "That was a long time ago. It's been closed for a while."
"Why do you... care about me?" I dared to ask.
Deon was silent for a moment, as if weighing his answer. "Sometimes, a family starts with a decision, not with blood." That was all he said before continuing to walk.
He then held up the folder in his hand. "This is your schedule. School will continue, but we'll take care of your logistics and needs. A driver will pick you up and drop you off. As for your job at the market—it's on hold for now."
"Mr. Burhan—" I remembered.
"We've already told him," Deon cut in, calmly.
Something tensed in my chest. Kindness, if it comes too quickly, feels like a trap.
We went down to the lower floor. The dining room was already set. Una sat calmly at the long table, while Jovian appeared in a sports shirt, his hair still dripping with water. The scent of tea wafted through the air.
Una handed me a black phone with a simple design. "It's a new number. Save important contacts. Your old number is temporarily inactive."
I stared at the object for a long time, as if I wasn't sure I was worthy of touching it.
Jovian smirked, his eyes assessing me from head to toe, then stopping at my shoes, which were torn at the tip. "Your shoes... they have history, don't they?" he said in a teasing tone.
"Vian," Una chided, softly but clearly.
He held up his hands, pretending to surrender. "Okay, okay."
Una looked at me again. "There's a spare school uniform in the closet. Don't think of this as charity. It's not pity. We just don't want you showing up with torn shoes and a shabby uniform."
I wanted to say something—maybe thank you—but the words stuck to my tongue. This warmth felt so foreign, so unreal. I wasn't ready to accept attention, especially from people I had just met.
And without realizing it, my tears fell. At first just one drop, then a stream, unstoppable. All the emotions I had held back—anger, exhaustion, pain, loss—came out on their own, without a filter.
They all fell silent. Even the usually talkative Jovian didn't comment. Una leaned in slightly, her face soft and questioning, but she didn't force herself to come closer. Deon watched me silently, his jaw tight, as if he was holding something back.
I covered my face with both hands, my body trembling. I had never cried in front of anyone else. I always held everything in, always tried to be strong, always alone. But now, in this overly luxurious dining room, I crumbled.
"Yohanes..." Una's voice was soft, almost a whisper.
I didn't answer. My voice was gone. All that was left was my broken cry, as if there was finally a safe space for it.
For the first time, I felt I was being paid attention to not as a burden, but as a human being. And that only made me more afraid—because I knew if I got used to this warmth, I would be crushed if one day they also left me.
A New Footprint, Familiar Faces
After that humiliating incident, Jovian never stopped teasing me in his typical mischievous way. Una just smiled, while Deon remained as he always was: calm, silent, but clearly watching.
That morning, they were already neat in their fancy school uniforms that looked like custom-made clothes from another world. Deon briefly told me to change into the prepared uniform. The three of them left first—we went to different schools.
I had just straightened my collar when the sound of soft footsteps echoed. A woman I hadn't seen before appeared from the corridor. She walked gracefully, every movement seemingly measured. Her aura was warm, so warm that it felt in contrast with the silence of the big house.
"Hello, dear. How are you? This is the first time we've met," she said gently. Her smile was friendly, yet her gaze was too piercing, as if trying to read something from me. "I'm Nadine Aurelia Alister. The mother of the three children you've often been with. I hope they haven't been too much of a burden on you, have they?"
There was a serenity on her face, but I felt every word she spoke was the result of a careful choice. Too careful, like someone trying to keep a secret from slipping out.
Before I could answer, a deep voice was heard from the stairs. "Darling, let's go. Why are you chatting with him?"
I turned. The man—I recognized him. He was the one who had scolded me when I first arrived. Gibson, the father of Deon, Una, and Jovian.
He walked closer, his gaze sharp, full of calculation. Then he looked at me. "You haven't left for school yet? Do you think you're smart enough already?" The sentence sounded like a taunt, but strangely, underneath his sarcasm, something difficult to define was hidden—a mix of care and a test.
Nadine briefly turned to her husband, a faint smile still on her face. But there was a momentary flicker in her eyes—a look that lasted for a fraction of a second, but was enough to raise a question in my mind: what were they hiding?
"Let's go to the car. The driver is waiting," Gibson said, his voice flat, as if the decision was final.
I looked down, only able to stay silent, feeling like a kitten that had lost its mother.
The black car was ready in the yard. "Just go. The driver will take you. Don't worry," Gibson said. His words were absolute, leaving no room for refusal.
I wanted to object, to say I could walk, but Gibson's gaze swallowed my voice. There was something behind his look—cold yet full of a plan—that made me feel as if I had been part of this family's grand scheme from the very beginning.
The black car stopped two blocks before school—my own request. I didn't want to be a new spectacle.
The driver—a bespectacled man named Raka—looked at me through the rearview mirror. "I'll wait here when school is over," he said briefly.
I got out, closing the door gently. The morning wind carried the scent of wet asphalt and fallen leaves. The walk to the gate felt longer than usual, as if every paving stone I stepped on was watching me.
At the gate, Arka was waiting. His expression was a mix of relief and annoyance.
"Where have you been? You were gone for three days. I thought—"
"I'm fine," I cut him off quickly. "I'll tell you later."
His face flushed with relief. "You look... different."
"What? Worse?" I asked, trying to sound lighthearted.
"More alive," he answered briefly. "A little."
The bell rang. We jogged to class.
Inside, the same eyes were there: judging, weighing, noting.
Davka was slumped in his chair, his feet propped casually on the bar, a crooked smile on his face—a smile that made people want to stop staring but found it even harder to look away. Kia—Azkia Adriani—glanced at me for a moment, then went back to her book.
The lessons flowed like water from a tap: always there, but rarely leaving a mark.
During the break, Kia stood by my desk. "Where have you been?" she asked briefly, without small talk.
"Home," I answered. "A new home."
She raised an eyebrow slightly. "We'll talk later."
"You like giving orders," I muttered.
"I'm being economical with words," she replied flatly. She left without looking back.
Arka held back a laugh. "You have a fan."
"She's not a fan."
"Not yet," he chuckled.
I just stayed silent. In my heart, I knew Kia wasn't just curious. Like Nadine and Gibson—there was something they were hiding, and sooner or later, I would be dragged into it.
The Invisible Wound
Without me realizing it, time had sped by. The school bell, which should have been a sign of freedom, felt like a danger alarm. My steps toward the gate stopped when three of Davka's lackeys suddenly blocked my way.
"Hey, loser... come here," one of them said, his tone more slapping than any hand.
I swallowed, looked down, and walked closer with slow steps. My heart pounded, not with anger—but with fear.
"Where have you been all this time?" Another lackey shoved his face closer, his voice rough. "You've been gone for three days, not giving us our usual share. Did you think you could run forever?"
The other chimed in, his eyes full of mockery. "Looking at you, you look a bit different now. Huh, maybe you've been busy stealing from some rich family to fix your look, huh?"
I just stood there, silent. My body tensed, not knowing what to say. Their words cut deeper than any punch.
Davka's face finally appeared from behind the line. His eyes were narrow, filled with a burning rage. Without ceremony, SLAP!
His slap landed on my cheek. The sound echoed in my ears, louder than the school's noise.
"Where's your money?" he bellowed. "Don't act up, Yohanes. Just give it to me before I get really angry."
My hands trembled. My pant pocket was empty. My stomach was nauseous. There was nothing I could give.
"I—I... don't have it..." my voice was almost gone.
Davka's crooked smile widened, his eyes glinting like a hungry animal.
But before he could slap me again, a hand reached out. Arka. With a tense face, he handed over all the contents of his wallet. "Here. Just take my money. Leave him alone."
There was a moment of silence. Then, a long laugh broke from Davka and his gang.
"Hahaha! What's this? A late hero?" he sneered. He took the money without a hint of gratitude.
"Good. You know your place." Davka patted my head hard, like an adult toying with a small child. "Next time, don't make me angry." He walked away with his entourage, still chuckling in satisfaction.
I just stood there, stunned, my face hot not just from the slap, but from a suffocating sense of shame. My chest felt tight, my eyes nearly watering.
Arka patted my shoulder gently. "Hey. You don't need to feel indebted. We're friends. Friends look out for each other."
I nodded, trying to smile. "I... I'll repay your kindness. I promise." My voice sounded broken, like a thin thread about to snap.
We parted at the gate. I walked wearily toward where Raka, the driver, was waiting. The black car looked foreign and cold, but it was the only place I had to take refuge now.
When I got in, Raka looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Is everything alright, sir?" he asked briefly.
The question stung like a needle. I was startled, then quickly answered, "Yeah... everything's fine." Yet my voice was clearly trembling.
Raka just stayed silent. But from his gaze in the center mirror, I knew he didn't believe me. His eyes observed my face, my disheveled expression, as if he could read the anxiety I was trying to hide.
The journey home became so quiet. There was only the hum of the engine and the irregular pounding of my heart. But in my head, a thousand voices screamed:
You're a coward.
You're weak.
You even need someone else to save you.
I gripped the hem of my pants tightly, my nails digging into the fabric. "I have to change," I whispered softly, almost silently. "I don't want to keep being a person who's humiliated. But... what can I do? I don't know..."
Tears almost fell, but I held them back with all my might. Raka was still watching me from the rearview mirror. And for some reason, his suspicious gaze made me feel even more exposed—as if all my weaknesses were being put on display.
The car kept driving, but something inside me was crumbling. The wound wasn't visible from the outside, but it was slowly festering from within.