[MAIN METALLURGICAL LABORATORY (MML), CENTRAL R&D BLOCK, LAWIMORE INDUSTRIAL PARK (LIP). 08:30 AM]
The air inside the Main Metallurgical Laboratory was cold and sterile, an aesthetic lie compared to the 1,800-degree inferno raging outside.
Arya had sealed himself inside this place.
Metallurgical Engineer.
Project Head of the National Nickle Sovereignty Program.
He called the sprawling industrial complex the Nickle Cathedral, the place where the nation's sacred promise was forged into reality.
In his hands rested a Fourth-Generation Battery (GEN-4) sample. Ceramic and metal. Dense. Precise.
Not just a cathode.
A vow.
A Green Utopia built on national sovereignty, not the labor of others.
Arya believed in nickle. In everything it symbolized. Downstream industrialization made real.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
Two weeks remained before the global launch, an event to be witnessed by President Prabu himself. The day the Global Energy Map would be rewritten.
On the monitor, spectroscopy data streamed clean and uninterrupted. Every indicator stable. Every value green.
Except one.
At the bottom-right corner of the screen, a yellow warning flag flickered.
Barely visible.
Impossible to ignore.
Arya froze the display and rewound the data, frame by frame.
MASS ANOMALY DETECTED
DEVIATION: 0.0003%
CAUSE: UNKNOWN
Arya's jaw tightened.
Three grams per unit. Insignificant. Most engineers would dismiss it as sensor noise.
He tried to do the same.
Don't search for cracks in what's meant to shine, he told himself.
Deadlines are closing. Stability matters more than curiosity.
The capital's doctrine. He had heard it enough times.
Arya closed the log and reached for his coffee.
The lab felt wrong. Too quiet.
No morning joke that Gilang always sent one.
Gilang, his mentor. Cynical and brilliant. The man who had taught him basic Silat, because idealism didn't survive long in places like this.
Arya tried the internal channel.
Busy signal.
Probably fixing another mess at Kiln 7, he thought.
But, his instincts disagreed.
The lab's loudspeaker crackled.
The Regional Security Manager's voice cut through the silence, tight, controlled and urgent.
"Attention. All core personnel are instructed to avoid Kiln 7. A fatal industrial accident has occurred due to system failure and excessive heat. We mourn the loss of one of our finest senior engineers, Mr. Gilang."
The air turned solid.
Gilang.
The name hollowed Arya from the inside.
No.
Grief hit first. Panic followed. His defenses collapsed, dragging a memory to the surface.
…
[FLASHBACK. TWO DAYS EARLIER. EMPLOYEE CANTEEN, KILN 6]
Gilang sat across from him, eating instant noodles. Exhausted. Smiling anyway.
"Arya," he whispered. "Listen carefully. I hear you've been asking questions about low-grade ore from Supplier Xima."
Arya opened his mouth.
"Don't," Gilang cut in sharply. "Never ask again. Don't touch the samples. Just do your job."
"Why?" Arya frowned. "Isn't it just a bug - "
Gilang slammed his palm onto the table.
"You're right! JUST A BUG. That's why you forget it."
He scanned the room, paranoid.
"Don't be a hero," Gilang said quietly. "This isn't science anymore. You're an idealist, and that makes you dangerous. I'm too old for that."
Then, softer, "Data doesn't lie. People do. Protect your integrity. Forget the rest."
He extended his little finger.
"Promise."
Arya hesitated. Then locked fingers with him.
A promise sealed.
Gilang smiled. Bitter. Empty.
And walked away.
…
[PRESENTS. MAIN METALLURGICAL LABORATORY (MML)]
The memory burned.
Gilang had known.
He had tried to warn him.
That promise hadn't been for silence.
It had been protection.
Arya stared back at the screen.
Three grams of anomaly.
Not a bug.
A buried truth.
The realization clawed through him. Whatever had killed Gilang, it started here.
The order to ignore the anomaly collapsed.
The promise on his little finger twisted into something else.
A betrayal he would have to commit.
This was no longer a technical issue.
It was moral debt.
Outside, ambulance sirens wailed, carrying away the last trace of Gilang.
Arya stood still.
Then,
RING. RING. RING.
A secure executive line lit up. Loud. Insistent.
Who would call the Project Head during a fatal accident?
Arya stepped toward the desk, hand hovering,
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Heavy. Urgent.
Not a request.
A demand.
Arya stopped.
The phone kept ringing.
He turned slowly toward the steel door.
…