The black car finally stopped in the sprawling courtyard of the Alister mansion. Old trees lined the driveway, their branches rustling softly as if watching my every move. My hand trembled as I opened the door handle, desperately trying to wipe away the red mark on my cheek before stepping out.
But as I did, Una was already standing in front of the main door. I didn't know how long she had been there. Her faint smile appeared, but this time it felt different—not just friendly, but… meaningful.
"You're late," she said softly, her eyes briefly scanning my face. Then, in a tone that was almost a whisper, she added:
"And you look like you just fell from the sky."
I froze. Her words were too accurate. How could she know?
Before I could answer, Nadine emerged from behind the door. The woman walked with a light step, wearing a simple, soft-colored dress. The scent of her floral perfume immediately filled the air. Her smile was warm, but her gaze was a deep probe, as if it could pierce my skin and expose my secrets.
"Something scared you today, didn't it?" she asked gently. She raised a hand and stroked my cheek—right where Davka's slap had landed. Her touch was warm, but it only made my chest feel tighter.
I quickly looked down. "N-no, ma'am. Everything's fine..."
Nadine looked at me for a long time. Her smile didn't change, but there was something in her eyes—like a person who knew a small lie but deliberately let it pass. "Yohanes, don't push yourself too hard. Some wounds... you can't hide forever."
Those words sent a shiver down my spine. How did she know? Did Raka report something? Or... did this family have another way of knowing everything that happened to me?
Una moved closer, slipping her hand into my arm. "Come on inside. Before Grandfather sees your face. He doesn't like weakness, you know."
My heart stopped for a fraction of a second. Both of them spoke as if I were part of this family—but at the same time, they were reminding me: every step I took was watched, every weakness was noted.
I walked inside, flanked by two figures who felt like light and shadow. Nadine with her mysterious tenderness, Una with her puzzling gaze.
And for the first time, I realized: perhaps in this grand house, I would never truly be able to hide myself.
Uncovering the Past
After the brief encounter in the living room, I quickly asked to rest in my room. My body was exhausted, not just from school, but also from the throbbing pain on my cheek left by Davka and his gang. However, I had only walked a few meters when Una's soft voice stopped me.
"I'll be waiting for you in the mansion's library," she said, her tone filled with a certain seriousness, as if to emphasize that this was important. "If you don't know the way, just ask a servant. They'll guide you."
I simply nodded, not daring to look at her for too long. There was something in her voice that made me realize Una didn't just want to chat.
The Alister mansion's library was a grand yet eerie room. The walls were lined with old wood that gave off a damp scent mixed with decades-old paper. Tall bookshelves soared, filled with faded leather-bound books, their titles barely readable due to foreign scripts or faded ink.
A large window with heavy curtains was half-open, revealing a view of green hills rolling in the distance. The afternoon light streamed in, illuminating the fine dust motes floating in the air. In the center of the room, Una was already waiting in a plush chair, her posture straight, as if she were a part of the antique room herself.
"How was school?" she asked calmly, like a sister asking her brother.
I paused for a moment, choosing my words. "The usual," I finally answered. "Except... there's tomorrow."
Una raised an eyebrow slightly. "What about tomorrow?"
I looked down at my fidgeting hands. "Tomorrow, I stop running."
For a moment, only the ticking of an antique clock in the corner could be heard. Una didn't seem surprised. She simply nodded slowly, as if the words I had just said were perfectly normal on this quiet afternoon.
Without any more pleasantries, she handed me a thin folder. "From Grandfather. He said it's for you."
My hands trembled slightly as I took the envelope. I slowly opened it, and inside were three items.
First, a copy of an accident report—my parents' names were clearly printed, along with the logo of the company they worked for. The date of the incident and a brief chronology were all officially documented. My chest felt tight as I read it, though I couldn't bring myself to finish every word.
Second, a business card. The name was short, just one word: Vardhan. Below it was printed: Attorney at Law. There was no clear address, just a phone number, as if it was hiding more than it revealed.
Third, a faded photograph. An old building with peeling paint, a swaying sign that was on the verge of collapsing. The word on the sign was just one: Pointless. On the back of the photo, in slightly shaky handwriting, a short sentence was written: "You will need this."
My hands trembled even more. "What is this?" I asked, my voice caught in my throat.
Una looked at me for a long time, then answered softly: "A place that used to matter. Now, it's empty."
I swallowed. "Why show it to me?"
"Grandfather asked me to," she replied curtly. Then she added, more quietly: "And because you need something to ask about. Don't just accept everything."
Her words made the room feel heavier. It was as if, behind that faded photo, a key to everything was hidden.
"What's the connection to... them?" I asked again, my tongue heavy with the words "my parents."
Una didn't answer right away. She just sighed, looking out the window at the hills that were sinking into the twilight. Finally, she said softly, almost to herself:
"Tomorrow morning, Deon will take you. See it first. Then decide your next step."
I gripped the photo tightly, staring at the name "Pointless" over and over. The word felt like a taunt—as if my entire life had been meaningless. But on the other hand, for some reason, I also felt that this was more than just a name. It might be a clue.
My stomach twisted, my chest felt heavy. That afternoon, in the library smelling of old wood and paper, I realized one thing: the Alister family was holding a big secret. And I, whether I liked it or not, was being pulled into it.
Dinner at the Long Table
Una finally led me out of the library. "It's time for dinner," she said softly. "The others are waiting."
I followed. My steps echoed on the cold marble floor. As soon as the dining room door opened, the aroma of warm soup and roasted meat greeted me. A long table stretched across the center of the room, covered with a white tablecloth embroidered with gold, tall candles casting a soft glow. The entire Alister family was already seated, each in their place. An empty chair sat at the head of the table—the one now reserved for me.
I walked hesitantly, feeling like an intruder. But Nadine greeted me with a brief smile, Deon just gave a cold nod, Jovian waved cheerfully, and Effendi seemed more focused on his plate. The strange mix made me feel both welcome and scrutinized.
Dinner began. The sound of forks and knives clinking against porcelain plates mixed with light laughter. The atmosphere seemed normal, even warm. Most of the laughter was caused by Jovian, the youngest, who casually threw out silly comments or pretended to cut his meat incorrectly, which became a running joke.
But in the midst of it all, Gibson, who had been silent, suddenly spoke. His voice was heavy, sarcastic, and full of a probing tone.
"It's funny," he said, slicing a piece of bread. "Someone can run as fast as they can, but they'll still fall if their opponent is just a bunch of school kids."
My hand, which was holding a glass, nearly slipped. I took a quick gulp of water, trying to hide the flush on my face. How did Gibson know?
No one responded directly. Nadine just placed her spoon down slowly, giving me a glance that was hard to decipher—somewhere between pity and a warning. Una looked away, pretending not to hear. The laughter at the table continued, but for me, Gibson's words were like a nail driven deep.
After dinner, I excused myself to return to my room. The long hallway felt colder than usual. As I passed the line of black-and-white portraits of the Alister ancestors on the wall, my steps were halted by a voice calling out.
"Han."
I turned. Gibson stood at the end of the hall, his shadow stretched long by the hanging lamp. Up close, I realized he was younger than my first impression—perhaps not too different from Nadine's age. But there was a harshness in his gaze that made him look older than he was.
"You're a good kid," he said abruptly, without preamble. "But in this house, being good isn't enough. Know the rules, and obey them."
I swallowed. "I don't intend to cause trouble."
"Good." Gibson leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower, like a secret. "And don't make Una worry."
"I'll try," I replied softly.
He gave a short nod, then turned and left. But his words still hung in the air when another set of footsteps was heard from the stairs. Jovian appeared carrying a bowl of pudding. His face was bright as if this cold hallway was just a small stage for him.
"You're making this house lively," he said lightly. "I like it. It's boring when it's too orderly."
I looked at him, half tired, half confused. "I didn't come here to entertain."
"You don't have to. Your presence alone is like a TV show." He offered me a spoon. "Want to try some?"
I nodded slightly. A spoonful of pudding landed on my tongue—it was overly sweet, almost sickening, but for some reason, it also felt warm. "Thank you."
I turned to continue on my way, but Jovian's voice stopped me.
"Han."
I turned back.
"Don't die tomorrow."
I froze, waiting to see if he was joking.
"So you do care, it seems," I said finally, trying to cover up the chills running down my spine.
Jovian just smiled casually. "I hate funerals," he said nonchalantly. "The smell of white flowers makes me dizzy."
He held up the bowl of pudding, then walked lightly down the stairs. I was left alone in the long hallway, with both of their words still echoing in my head: the rules to be obeyed, and not to die tomorrow.
For the first time, I truly realized: the Alister family was not just a rich family with strange traditions. They were hiding something. Something big.
Morning at the Old Building
Last night, their words still haunted me. Gibson's cold tone: "Know the rules, obey them." Jovian's casual smile, which was even more unsettling: "Don't die tomorrow."
I tried to sleep, but I only tossed and turned. Every time I closed my eyes, the long hallway reappeared, as if the Alister mansion itself was watching me, reminding me that I was in a place with different laws from the outside world.
Morning arrived with a dull light. Damp air seeped in from the window, and when I went downstairs, Deon was already waiting by the door in the black car, its engine humming softly. There were no long greetings, just a brief look.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded, although I didn't know what I was ready for.
The drive was silent. There was no radio, no small talk. The city was still early, the old shops in the older part of town seemed to be sleeping with their eyes open—cracked windowpanes, rusty signs, peeling paint. When the car stopped, I turned and saw it: the old building with the tilted sign that read Pointless. Its letters were almost falling off, the faded paint a whitish-gray.
The building seemed to call out to me.
"Ten minutes," Deon said without turning his head. "I'll wait in the car."
I got out. The front door wasn't locked; it just groaned loudly when I pushed it open. The smell of damp wood greeted me, mixed with the aroma of stale coffee that had settled in the air for who knows how long. Chairs were stacked upside down on tables, as if this cafe had been closed in a hurry without being cleaned up. On the wall, a menu board was still attached, but some of the letters had fallen off, leaving broken words that were almost meaningless.
I walked slowly past the bar. There was a narrow door in the back, leading to a storage room. I tried the handle—it was locked.
Frustration crept in. But something made me return to the cashier's counter. Instinct, maybe. I crouched down, reaching my hand under the counter. My fingers touched the cold, metal surface—a small box. I opened it: inside was an old, rusty key that still turned.
The key fit the storage room door. As the door opened, cold air rushed out. The storage room was almost completely empty, except for one old metal drawer in the corner. Its color was dull, the handle rusty. I took a deep breath, then opened it.
Inside was a plastic folder, its edges blackened, smelling musty. On the cover, written with a marker, were the names: "Calvin & Ayyara"—my parents' names. My hand stopped there. But in the top corner, there was another name, smaller, as if added later: "Burhan."
The world immediately narrowed. All outside sounds vanished. All that was left was a small click: the click when I closed the drawer again, the click when my breath was held, the click when the pieces in my head began to connect.
Mr. Burhan.
The man I saw every day, the place where I worked, the person I thought was simple—his name was written with my parents' names.
My hands trembled as I opened the folder. There were old bank transfer receipts, a photo of several people standing in front of this cafe, photocopied meeting notes. Underneath everything, there was a handwritten letter, short but clear:
"If anything happens, find Effendi."
I closed the folder quickly. As if the walls of the storage room were closing in, suffocating me. With a chaotic breath, I came out, holding the folder.
Deon was still sitting in the car, as if he hadn't moved at all. His eyes immediately fell on my hand, but he didn't ask any questions. He was just silent for a moment, then said:
"Are you ready?"
I looked at him, confused. "For what?"
"To stop running," he answered flatly. "You said it yourself."
I fell silent. The words felt like an echo of something I had once said, but now it sounded like a test.
The car started moving again. The morning road stretched long, but my chest only felt tighter. The name Burhan throbbed in my head, demanding an explanation. And in the midst of the chaos, I knew: this afternoon, Davka was waiting for me at school.
Two battlefields. One on the outside, one inside me.
I chose one sentence to hold on to:
Today, I won't fall.
The car turned. The school gate was close. And this time, I looked at it without lowering my gaze.
An Unfriendly Gate
My steps out of the car were like stepping out of two worlds. Before my feet even touched the ground, gazes were already fixed on me.
The school gate was buzzing that morning—white and gray uniforms, the sound of motors, loud laughter. But amidst it all, I could feel the difference: the stares that lingered too long, the whispers waiting for me to pass so they could explode into gossip.
The bag on my shoulder felt heavy. Not because of the books, but because of the folder I had slipped inside. The papers within seemed to pulse on their own, adding weight to every step.
"Han." Deon's voice came from inside the car. He didn't get out, just rested his elbow on the window. "Remember—don't bow down."
I turned. He didn't smile, just gave a small nod.
The gate closed behind me, and I walked in alone.
Some students pretended to be busy chatting, but their eyes peeked at me. Some whispered, others deliberately laughed loudly, as if I were a walking joke. From a distance, I saw Davka leaning against the side fence, hands in his pockets, a faint smile waiting. A smile that was never truly warm—more like a knife sheathed in cloth.
I walked straight ahead, my steps as calm as possible.
"Oh, there he is."
"He finally showed up."
"Still brave enough to come?"
The voices stuck in the air. I didn't turn. I just looked straight ahead toward my classroom.
But with every step closer to Davka, it became clearer that this was more than just ordinary mockery. His smile was too confident. His gaze knew too much.
As if someone had whispered to him that I had just been humiliated last night.
I stopped a few steps in front of him. He looked up slightly, observing me as if I wasn't an enemy, but a piece of a puzzle.
"Loser," he said flatly.
I flinched but tried to stand tall.
His smile widened. "You're actually brave enough to show up."
"I was never gone."
"Oh?" Davka glanced at the bag on my shoulder, then looked back at me. "Let's see... how long you can last."
He didn't move any further. There were no shoves, no direct threats. But I knew the words weren't an empty promise. And somehow, the look in his eyes made the folder in my bag feel even hotter—as if he knew there was something in there.
I walked past him without another word. My breath was long, but my steps were steady.
Behind me, I heard Davka's faint laugh followed by the whispers of other students.
School had just begun. But I had a feeling this day would be longer than I had ever imagined.
Shadows in the Classroom
The classroom felt more suffocating than usual that morning. The number of students was the same, but the air seemed to press down on my chest. The scraping of chairs sounded loud, the tapping of a pen echoed, and even the whispers of two kids in the corner sounded like they were saying my name.
I sat with my head down, my notebook open, a pen in my hand. The writing on the board looked like messy, slanted lines. I copied it as best I could, but my fingers trembled, making the letters look broken.
Davka sat two rows behind me. His body was relaxed, his chin resting on his hand, but his eyes were drilling into my back. I knew that stare—the stare of someone waiting for their prey to fall. But this morning, there was more than just him. There was another layer, a sort of "surveillance" I couldn't place.
The folder in my bag felt heavy, as if it contained not paper but lead. Every time I touched the zipper, the hairs on my neck stood up, as if a warning was being sent: don't open it here.
I glanced to the right. The two kids who had been whispering suddenly went silent when I looked at them. They quickly looked down, pretending to be busy writing. But it was too fast, too synchronized—as if they had just been watching me.
And on the edge of the window desk, I saw a small, folded piece of paper. Its placement was strange, as if it had been deliberately left for me.
My heart pounded. I slowly reached for it, opening it under the desk.
The slanted handwriting in black ink read:
"They can see even here. Don't let your guard down."
My hand instantly closed the paper. I recognized my classmates' handwriting, but this was foreign, not belonging to anyone here. It was as if the message had come from outside... or from someone who knew too much.
I swallowed, looking around. No one was staring directly, but I could feel eyes silently rotating toward me.
Davka chuckled. A low laugh, as if he was testing my patience. The two kids next to him smiled too. I didn't know what he was laughing at—the teacher writing something wrong on the board, or me gripping my pen too tightly. But I was sure that behind it all, I was at the center of a small, invisible circle.
I lowered my head even more. The pen danced aimlessly. The letters on the board seemed to blur. There was a faint voice in my head, whether imagination or an echo of the message:
You're not just a student anymore. You're being watched.
I took a long breath, trying to stop the trembling. Today... I could not fall.
A Speaking Silence
The bell for recess rang, and the classroom instantly erupted. The sound of chairs scraping, hurried footsteps, and a mix of laughter and chatter filled the air. I stayed seated. The folder in my bag felt like it was kicking, begging to be opened.
While the other students rushed to the cafeteria, I chose to go to the back of the school. There was a wooden bench under a tropical almond tree—a place rarely visited. From there, the noise of the classroom was distant, only the wind rustling the leaves could be heard.
I placed my bag on my lap, slowly unzipping it. My heart pounded, growing louder with every second. The plastic folder came out, cold and heavy. My fingers had just touched its corner when the sound of footsteps stopped my breath.
I looked up.
Dika Maheswara.
The boy walked closer, hands in his pockets, his face expressionless. All this time, he had been like a shadow: present but never truly there. In class, he always sat in the corner, writing or drawing who knows what, rarely speaking, and even the teachers rarely bothered him.
I quickly closed the folder, slipping it back into my bag.
"The bench is empty," I said flatly, trying to sound normal.
Dika sat down without a word. He stared straight ahead, at the moss-covered school wall. For a long time, as if he had forgotten I was there.
I swallowed, hoping he would leave soon. But after a silence that was too long, he spoke.
Dika's voice was low, but clear:
"Burhan... who is he to you?"
I froze. My chest tightened as if it had been stabbed. "What?"
Dika turned his head. For the first time, his eyes truly looked at me. It wasn't a look of curiosity, nor was it empty, but like someone who already knew the answer.
"I just want to know," he said. "Why you look scared every time that name is mentioned."
I felt the blood drain from my face. His words were a direct hit to a secret I hadn't even had the chance to open.
"Who did you hear that from?" my voice was almost a whisper.
Dika didn't answer right away. He looked down, scribbling on the ground with the tip of his shoe, then said:
"Sometimes, things don't need to be told. They... are visible in the silence."
I stared at him, trying to find meaning. But he simply stood up and walked away without looking back.
"Just be careful, Han. This school isn't just a school."
His footsteps faded, leaving me alone with the folder that felt more dangerous than before.
I closed my bag tightly. My hands were slick with sweat.
Only one sentence spun in my head:
Even silence can watch.
A Homecoming That Wasn't Quite Home
That afternoon, the schoolyard began to empty. The boisterous noise of students slowly faded, replaced by the rumble of teachers' motorbikes and shuttle cars leaving one by one. I stood at the edge of the gate, looking out at the main road.
The black Alister car wasn't there. Not because they forgot to pick me up, but because I had left a message with the driver that morning: don't stop right in front of the gate. Wait a little farther down the main road, where people couldn't immediately connect me with whoever was picking me up.
I walked out, weaving through the stream of uniformed students still chatting. There was a strange sense of relief seeing no flashy car by the fence. No sign to brand me as a "foreign guest of the Alister family."
I found the car a hundred meters away, parked on the side of the road, shaded slightly by a tropical almond tree. The driver was standing next to it; as soon as he saw me, he quickly opened the door.
Deon was already inside. He was sitting upright, looking straight ahead. As soon as I got in and the door closed, he turned to me, his eyebrow raised.
"Why go so far?" he asked flatly. "The gate is more practical."
I leaned my bag on my lap, holding back a sigh. "I don't like being a spectacle," I answered. "Too many eyes."
Deon tilted his head, as if weighing my answer. "Do you think anyone is paying attention to you that closely?"
I looked out the window, watching the other students walk home. "I don't think. I know."
There was a moment of silence. The car began to move slowly. Deon kept looking at me, as if he wanted to read more than just my short sentence. But he finally just leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest.
"In that case," he said softly, "you're starting to learn how to protect yourself."
I glanced at him. There was a tone of approval, but also of surprise.
"Deon," I said softly. "Do you never feel... that even in a place that's supposed to be safe, we're still being watched?"
He gave a faint, unreadable smile. "Welcome to our world, Han. You're starting to feel it."
The car drove through the city streets that were slowly beginning to glow with the evening lights. In the cabin, there were only the two of us and a silence full of unspoken questions.
For the first time, I felt that the small step I had taken—asking to be picked up a little farther away—wasn't just paranoia. It was a form of self-defense.
And for some reason, the usually cold Deon... looked a little proud this time.