Meanwhile, in the Conference Hall of Derisa General Hospital, the clock had just struck seven in the evening.
Widodo Permana, fifty two years of age and Director of the hospital where Zein practised, was leading a meeting with his assembled doctors.
They were discussing a patient named Sulastri, a middle aged woman afflicted by an illness so unusual that it had unsettled even the most seasoned physicians.
Her skin produced red speckles from morning until late afternoon.
Yet once night descended, from the moment the sun slipped beneath the horizon until its return at dawn, the speckles darkened into black.
The phenomenon had caused a quiet uproar, particularly amongst those in the medical world who prided themselves on having seen everything.
Senior doctors from several major hospitals had already begun offering observations and unsolicited advice on the curious case.
Some urged a comprehensive dermatopathological investigation to determine whether the shifting colours were signs of an autoimmune condition such as systemic lupus erythematosus, or perhaps a form of vasculitis influenced by the body's circadian rhythm.
Others suspected a rare fungal or parasitic infection responsive to light or temperature, prompting recommendations for repeated skin biopsies taken both day and night, fungal cultures, and the examination of photosensitive compounds circulating within the patient's blood.
There were further recommendations as well, a comprehensive immunological panel, including measurements of ANA and dsDNA antibodies, together with assessments of the patient's melatonin and cortisol levels, in order to determine whether a disturbance in time linked hormones might be at fault.
All of these examinations had already been completed by the Derisa Hospital team.
The skin biopsy revealed only a mild, non-specific inflammation, cultures for fungi and parasites returned entirely negative, and the autoimmune markers lingered at the very edge of normality.
The hormonal studies showed no significant fluctuations that could account for the disquieting transformation of the speckles from red to black.
Widodo, weighed down by the relentless tide of inconclusive results, felt a tight pulse of pressure building behind his temples.
He was not a doctor, nor had he ever pretended to be, yet as director he was obliged to receive every report without the slightest ability to intervene.
His days had begun to feel unusually heavy, as though each hour pressed upon him with its own distinct burden.
He dragged a hand through his hair, "What are we supposed to do now?!" He demanded, his voice frayed and raw.
The doctors bowed their heads, and the room settled into a taut, uneasy silence.
"If you can't find a solution..." Widodo said at last, his tone hardening into something unmistakably decisive. "...Then I shall have no choice but to call upon Dr Zein!"
The doctors traded uneasy looks, as though the very air between them had thickened with doubt.
Each man and woman in the room understood the unspoken question, why, of all people, should the case be entrusted to Dr Zein, a doctor who, since his wife's death, had slipped into a peculiar state of disarray, unpredictable and seemingly indifferent to protocol?
Dr Iman Wijaya, the hospital's senior physician in internal medicine, stepped forward with a stiff, indignant posture.
"Excuse me, Director!" He said, his tone crisp with dissent. "I cannot approve of entrusting this case to someone when even the finest specialists from other major hospitals haven't been able to discern the cause!"
A chorus of nods followed, the entire room appeared to fold itself behind his stance.
They all respected Zein, once. Before grief had undone the man they knew.
And now, their empty chair told the rest of the story. All the doctors had gathered. Zein had not bothered to appear.
Widodo allowed a faint, slightly derisive smile to surface.
"So..." He asked quietly. "...Are you now all declaring yourselves superior to Dr Zein?"
"We do not doubt Dr Zein's skill in the slightest!" Dr Iman replied, though his voice carried an edge of discomfort.
"Then…" Widodo interjected, his eyebrow lifting.
"We simply cannot condone his behaviour since his wife's death!" Dr Iman admitted, drawing several emphatic nods from his colleagues.
"And does that imply that his medical prowess has died with her?!" Widodo demanded, his gaze sweeping across them with the precision of a scalpel.
Again, silence. That thick, guilty silence known only to people who recognise the limits of their own protest.
A person's manner might crumble under sorrow, but knowledge, the true knowledge, did not wither overnight.
It matured, accumulated, and sharpened with every year of practice.
"Why so quiet?!" Widodo murmured, the remark cutting deeper than if he'd shouted, before continuing with greater insistence.
"Whatever you may think of him now, the fact remains that he possesses a mind that refuses to be chained to textbook doctrine! He is capable of seeing beyond the neat diagrams you all cling to!"
"He parses disease with a depth and precision that none of you has yet matched!"
The hush in the room deepened, as though the walls themselves wished not to intrude.
Every doctor knew the truth of it, love might have broken Zein, but brilliance had never abandoned him.
With no rebuttal offered, Widodo ended the meeting abruptly.
"I shall take your silence as consent!" he declared, rising from his seat with a decisive motion.
"Beginning tomorrow, Mrs Sulastri will be under the exclusive care of Dr Zein!" His order rang sharply across the hall as he strode towards the door, leaving the room suspended in uneasy quiet.
The doctors found themselves with no room to argue. One by one, they inclined their heads, surrendering to Widodo's decree.
At the threshold, Widodo paused. He turned back, his gaze sharp, measuring the unease in every pair of eyes fixed upon him.
"Remember one thing more!" He said.
"You ought to be grateful to Dr Zein! He carries secrets and an identity none of you know, not even I!" He added, then opened the door and stepped out of the hall, leaving a silence that felt almost physical.
The doctors traded wary glances, each harbouring the same prickling curiosity.
"Dr Zein has secrets and an identity hidden even from us and the Director?! What on earth is that supposed to mean?!" asked Dr Bagus Cahyono, the neurologist, brow furrowing.
Dr Iman shook his head gently, "I truly haven't the slightest idea. I've only ever seen him as a once brilliant doctor who changed after his wife's death!" He replied in a muted tone.
"I can't help thinking something doesn't quite add up!" murmured Dr Hendra Setiawan, the surgeon.
"What exactly do you mean?!" asked Dr Iman, casting him a keen look.
Dr Hendra nodded slowly, "Since my first day here, I've noticed the Director always yields whenever it concerns Dr Zein. No matter how strange or unorthodox Zein's actions are, Widodo scarcely ever contradicts him, let alone reprimand him!" He said steadily.
"Does that not strike any of you as rather odd?!" He added, uncertain yet resolute.
A hush settled over the room. Then, almost reluctantly, they began to nod.
They had all sensed it, but never spoken it aloud, a peculiarity in the bond between Widodo and Zein that no one dared to question.
Even when Zein arrived scandalously late, behaved with reckless disregard, or pursued methods that defied every convention in their textbooks, Widodo never lifted a finger in reprimand.
Not once had he issued a warning. Not once had he raised his voice.
It was as if Zein were untouchable, the Director's chosen son.
"Truly the Director's golden child!" muttered Dr Iman, releasing a long, weary breath before rising to his feet.
"We should go home and rest! Tomorrow we'll see what Dr Zein intends to do with Mrs Sulastri! We'll see whether he's still the legend he once was!" He said, a faint challenge colouring his tone.
The others rose as well, chairs scraping softly against the polished floor.
The conference hall of Derisa Hospital grew steadily quiet as they departed one by one, drifting through the corridors and out into the night, each carrying home the same heavy question about the man they thought they knew.
On the fifth floor, behind the glass wall of his office, Widodo stood rigid, watching their retreat with a storm tightening in his chest.
"If Dr Zein hadn't told me to keep my silence, I'd have shouted to all of you that the true owner of this hospital is Dr Zein Youssef Al-Ghifari!" He muttered, his jaw locking as he swallowed the fury burning in his throat.