Night swallowed the city like a roll of black cloth. The rain had just stopped; the asphalt still shone—streetlights breaking into long lines. In a narrow alley, Dimas walked slowly, his body merging with the shadows. His steps were calm, his breath muffled—not from fatigue, but from the awareness that every sound might now be a threat. A motorbike passed in the distance, its hum like the ticking of a clock, counting down something he did not want to hear.
Behind a rusted iron door that never asked for names, the basement welcomed him with the smell of oil and cigarette smoke. On the table lay a map with curled edges, a small screen watching the city, stacks of photos, and ink-stained notes. The faces in those photos—people once used as tools—had become fuel. Dimas held one picture; rainwater from the cracked door blurred the image. He let it fall and stared into the room filled with armed men who hungered for calm.
A tattooed man greeted him without asking. His eyes spoke more than his voice.
"How many do we have?" the man rasped.
Dimas put the photo on the table and scratched at the map with his finger. "Enough to cause a stir. Enough to make them turn on each other. Enough to buy time."
The man snorted. "Bang Ryo's mad. They're looking for you in the kampung. You sure you want to fight?"
Dimas didn't turn. "It's not about being sure. We've reached a point where retreat is a slow death. If I keep running, everything I built disappears. If I fight… there's a chance you stay alive."
Tension thickened. In the corner, several men checked their phones—incoming messages, unknown numbers, photos to be spread. No wasted words. Everyone knew what was at stake.
Dimas walked to the work board and stuck a black-inked scrap of paper. On it: three names—Mira, Reno, Arjuna. Below them, a sketch of steps—one, two, three. He pointed to the first number.
"Step one: destroy trust," he said quietly. "Make Reno doubt. Make Mira look duplicitous. Position Arjuna as a sensationalist, not a journalist. A small interval, and people will finish the rest."
A new recruit, still young, hesitated before speaking. "But… what if they go to the police? What if it comes back on us?"
Dimas stared at him for a long moment. His eyes were cold as steel. "That's the risk. But every move we cover. We'll make the evidence look 'organic.' People trust coincidence more than complicated conspiracies. They'll think it's internal conflict, not our doing."
A laptop on the table glowed. On its screen, anonymous accounts waited to be triggered, comment scripts queued, video clips poised to go viral. Dimas moved his fingers over the keyboard; word placement, timing, the look—everything was orchestrated.
"Who handles the tech?" he asked.
A thin-haired man raised his hand. "Me. I can create fake chats, edit video, make convincing fake accounts."
Dimas regarded him briefly, then nodded. "No traces. Don't send from the same servers. Always have a backdoor. We act clever—never stupid."
They planned with the cadence of breathing: curated messages, 'accidental' photos left in public places, one or two anonymous threats sent to vulnerable people. Everything seemed simple on paper. In reality, destruction often starts with small, repeated things.
Tension spiked when Dimas's phone vibrated. The caller ID read: "BR." He swallowed and answered. The screen reflected a cold face—Bang Ryo's voice sliced through without preamble.
"Dimas," the voice landed like a stone thrown into water. "You know what must be done."
Dimas watched the screen, his chest tightening. "I'm handling it. I need time—can't meet right now."
A long pause. Bang Ryo's voice flat and cold. "Time? Our face in the market is falling. If you fail… don't think you'll be the only one to suffer."
Dimas felt the world close in on him. He replied in a polished tone, half threat, half bargain. "I don't want to be a loser, Bang. They'll pay. I'll deliver results."
The call felt like a test. When it ended, the remaining silence in the room was heavy. Everyone knew the implication: failure wasn't merely loss of assets; failure could mean death, loss of backing, becoming the target.
The nights that followed became ritual. Dimas placed people in positions: two tattooed men to watch school corridors, an anonymous account to begin seeding falsified messages, a 'coincidental' photo left in a locker. At a coffee stall, gossip was woven by hands that couldn't be traced. On screens, an edited clip made Mira look as though she laughed at some secret. In the real world, a small crack in the glass would grow into a gaping hole.
Sometimes, amid the cold efficiency, Dimas stared at the small flame in a metal can; his face reflected in the red flicker. The fire burned old lists—names that tied him to Bang Ryo. He understood the cost: the more he cut those ties, the more he had to rely on loyalty bought, not earned. The choice transformed him—from a pawn into the arranger.
Elsewhere, a young recruit who had been timid now stood firm behind a screen, awaiting orders. "When do we start?" he asked, voice trembling. This was no longer a question of timing; it was a small prayer for courage.
Dimas looked at him, then offered a thin smile—not warm, but like an ending that would birth a storm. "Morning. When everyone is still entangled in routine. They won't be ready."
As dawn crept, the city slept unaware that it was being readied for psychological warfare. Dimas left the rusted door for the first time in weeks. Cold air struck his face. He slipped a scrap of paper into his pocket, checked the map one last time, then dropped one final photograph into the gutter—the image drifting away slowly.
On the sidewalk he paused and looked at the pale sky. No regret remained—only heavy decisions, and an even heavier resolve. The war he designed was a reputational one: destructive from within, leaving few physical traces but breaking minds. He took a long breath and walked back into the congregation of shadows.
Behind him, the basement stayed alive: screens glowing, maps waiting, men awaiting his command. In a darker corner, someone crafted the final message—the words that would spread like fire under dry grass. When the city opened its eyes the next morning, none would expect the day to begin with a subtle explosion: the perfect rumor, 'natural' evidence, and suspicion multiplying like fungus. Dimas moved silently; inside his chest a voice whispered, cool and cold: "Now we'll see who can survive to the end."
Elsewhere, Noah tried to guess Dimas's next move. He stared at his reflection in the foggy glass; tension etched itself across the mirrored face. "Seems yesterday's threat didn't stop Dimas," he thought. "I'll wait for your next move. When it comes, we'll see who ends up most broken between us."