"What?! How?!" Prasetyo's whisper was a sharp hiss in the dark posko. His eyes were saucers, flicking between Theo's feverish face and the shiny, impossible scar on his leg.
Theo leaned his head back against the cold concrete, the world still swimming. The fever was a dry burn in his bones, and a hunger deeper than any he'd ever known clawed at his insides. "I don't know. I just... needed it not to be. And it wasn't."
Pras stared, the logic failing to compute. "You just... said no? To the virus?"
"Something like that." Theo's stomach growled, a sound so loud it seemed to echo. The metabolic debt was calling. He fumbled with his backpack, hands trembling. He pulled out two cans of sardines in tomato sauce, a packet of instant noodles—crushed to crumbs—and a small bag of rice. A meager feast for a debt that felt planetary.
He popped a can open with his multi-tool, not bothering with manners. The smell of fish and salt was ambrosia. He ate half the can in two savage gulps, the oil dripping down his chin. The relief was immediate but fractional, like a single drop of water on a forest fire. He forced himself to slow down, pushing the other half of the can and the second one toward Pras. "Eat."
Pras took it, his hunger overriding his shock. They ate in silence for a minute, the sound of their chewing loud in the small space. The food settled Theo's shaking, bringing the world back into sharper, hungrier focus.
"Theo. HVAC technician."
"Prasetyo. Pras." He poked at the sardines. "I was a courier. Tech company." A pause. "Was that still a thing five minutes ago? Jobs?"
"Probably not." Theo gestured at the tire iron. "You know how to use that."
A flash of pride crossed Pras's young face, quickly tempered by the surrounding darkness. "Kickboxing. Surya Gym in Senayan. Just a year. Not pro, but... good enough not to get my ass kicked in bad neighborhoods." He flexed a hand, the knuckles scarred. "Timing and distance. Hit first."
Theo nodded. Useful. A close-quarters specialist. His own skills were diagnostic and mechanical. Complementary parts. "My wife. Melin. Botanist at Ragunan. She vanished when this started."
Pras's face fell. "My mom. Alone in a kost near Blok M. I was heading there when the minibus driver panicked. Crashed." He looked down, guilt raw on his features. "I was trapped for hours. Thought I was just waiting to die."
"Where's Blok M from here?"
"South. Three, four kilometers? Past the Cendana area."
Theo's head came up. The same vector. It wasn't just a random radio signal anymore; it was a path with two purposes. A coincidence that felt like the first thread of a new pattern.
"I heard something on the radio. About Hotel Cendana. Something bad there." He met Pras's eyes. "That's where I'm going. To find out what 'bad' means now."
Pras considered this, then nodded, a decisive, fighter's jerk of the chin. "My mom's that direction. We go together. You fix bites. I hit things."
A partnership, forged in canned fish and shared desperation.
The journey to the minimart was a study in controlled terror. They moved as a unit: Theo in front, eyes on the environment, diagnosing threats—a choked alley, a doorway that could hide a Brute's bulk. Pras watched their rear and flanks, his fighter's senses tuned to movement, his body coiled like a spring. They communicated in hand signals Theo devised—a flat hand for stop, a pointing finger for direction, a clenched fist for danger.
The minimart was a familiar chain, its cheerful green logo now a mockery. The large front glass windows, designed to entice customers with displays of chips and soda, were completely covered from the inside. Not with shutters, but with a haphazard patchwork of faded movie posters, promotional flyers for cell phone plans, and pages torn from magazines. Someone had desperately wanted to block the view, both in and out.
Theo tried the front door. Deadbolted solid. A rap on the glass yielded only a hollow echo. No movement from within.
"Back door," Theo murmured.
The rear was a service alley reeking of spoiled garbage. The steel delivery door was secured with a heavy padlock through a thick hasp. Theo examined it. He could probably pick it with time and quiet, but the alley felt exposed, a wind tunnel of stench that could mask the approach of anything.
His eyes traveled upward. The roof. And the humming outdoor unit of the split-system air conditioner, bolted to the wall about four meters up.
"There." He pointed. "AC access panel. We go through the chase, into the ceiling."
Pras blinked. "Through the wall?"
"Service conduit. For the pipes and electrical. Tight, but it's a backdoor no one locks."
Using a dumpster for a boost, Theo used his wrench to unbolt the lightweight aluminum cover from the AC unit's housing. Behind it was a narrow, vertical channel in the brickwork, just wide enough for the copper pipes and cables, disappearing into a dark hole that led into the building's interior above the false ceiling.
"You first. I'll pass the bags up."
Pras, lean and compact, squeezed into the space with a grunt, wriggling upward like a climber in a chimney. Theo handed up their packs, then followed. It was a claustrophobic, scraping journey through dust and insulation, the smell of fried circuitry and rat droppings thick in the air.
They popped out into the cavernous, hot darkness above the minimart's false ceiling. Thin sheets of fiberglass panel lay over a web of metal T-bars. The only light filtered up in dusty shafts from where the panels were cracked or missing.
Theo, knowing the layout of such places by heart, pointed to a spot near the rear wall. "Above the stockroom. Less likely to land on a shelf."
Together, they carefully lifted a ceiling panel and slid it aside. A deeper darkness yawned below, smelling of stale air and cardboard.
Theo went first, lowering himself down until he hung by his hands, then dropping the last meter to the concrete floor with a soft thud. Pras followed, landing in a crouch, fists coming up instinctively.
They were in. The store was a tomb of shadows, the poster-covered windows turning the late afternoon sun into a dim, multi-colored twilight. Aisles were half-empty, some toppled. But it was silent. Eerily so.
Then, from the deep shadows near the cash register, a voice, thin with strain and fear, cut through the silence:
"Siapa disana? Saya punya golok. Pergi." Who's there? I have a machete. Go away.
They weren't alone.