Maya glanced around as she reached the intersection near the Arjuna statue, the majestic figure frozen in stone among the bustling crowd. It was Car Free Day in Jakarta, and the area was alive. Families from all over Jabodetabek (Jakarta, Bogor, Depok, Tangerang, Bekasi) were scattered everywhere—laughing children running along the pavement, groups cycling in a chaotic dance, vendors selling snacks to anyone who passed.
She found a quiet spot with a view of the statue, the telco building, and the surrounding street where she could settle in with her sketchpad. She could see faces and moments unfolding before her, each with its own story, each tempting her pencil.
"What am I even doing here?" she wondered. A strange order, with an even stranger request. Why did this Punisher want her to capture something so horrific?"
Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that a commitment was a commitment. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was witnessing something that would change her.
The memory of her Instagram message flashed in her mind—the mysterious request. Punisher's message was specific. She was to arrive at this spot at exactly 9:18 a.m., watch a parked truck nearby, and wait for the moment it would start speeding.
"It's absurd," she thought. "Why would anyone want such a scene drawn?" But the details lingered: observe the driver, capture his last expression, his hand gestures, as he drove straight into the crowd.
Every nerve in her body screamed that this was wrong. But she had accepted the job, and the deposit was already in her account. This was work, and she had a job to do.
"What is this, some sick joke?" She shook her head. But something inside her was... intrigued? Disturbed? She couldn't put her finger on it, only that she needed to know how this would end. And she needed to draw it.
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The intersection was packed with people who were blissfully unaware. Kids clutched their parents' hands, sticky with cotton candy. A couple lounged by the fountain, laughing at their toddler's attempts to chase the pigeons. Across the street, an elderly man bought a fried snack from a vendor, savoring his little indulgence.
"None of them know," Maya thought, her eyes sweeping over them. She felt an urge to scream, to warn them, but…what could she say? No one would believe her. And she had no voice—literally. She glanced back at her sketchpad, wondering if it could somehow capture the crowd's unknowing innocence.
Behind her, she overheard a group of young bikers laughing. "Look at that girl, just sitting there, totally zoned out," one said, nodding toward Maya. "Is she drawing, or just daydreaming?"
A woman nearby chuckled, "Oh, let her be! Maybe she's an artist looking for inspiration. Look how focused she is!"
Focused, yes, but on what?
Maya's gaze shifted to the small truck. The driver was still outside, pacing, phone pressed to his ear. From her spot, she could hear snippets of his raised voice.
"…I told you, I can't keep this up!" he shouted, his hands trembling as he gripped his phone. Tears glistened in his eyes before he angrily wiped them away. "Fine! If that's how it is…"
He took a shaky breath, pocketed his phone, and climbed back into the truck. Maya felt a chill crawl down her spine.
"This is real, isn't it?" she thought. "He's actually going to do it." Her fingers hovered over her sketchpad. She knew she should move, should get away, but her feet stayed glued to the ground.
The truck rumbled to life. Maya's heart pounded as she watched it lurch forward. She glanced at the crowd, blissfully unaware. An inner conflict surged within her—warn them, or stay true to her job?
"Am I really doing this?" she questioned herself, guilt creeping in as the truck edged closer. She could see it all so clearly—the joy on people's faces, the carefree laughter, children clutching snacks. And here she was, staying put, silent, waiting for disaster. But the Punisher's order was so explicit.
A man in the crowd noticed her strange behavior. "Why's she looking that way, all tense like that?" he murmured to a friend.
"Maybe she's one of those street artists," his friend shrugged. "Though she's facing the truck…odd."
Maya clenched her jaw. Her gaze remained fixed, but her mind screamed, "Move, everyone, move!"
The truck surged forward with frightening speed, barreling toward the crowd. Maya's pencil moved faster, her hand shaking. The driver's face was what she focused on—a bizarre mix of triumph, sorrow, and rage. His hands clenched the wheel like a victor claiming his prize.
But as the truck grew closer, Maya felt herself rooted to the spot. She watched the man's expression with dread, her eyes locked onto his desperate, twisted smile. Her own breath hitched, and she could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Out of nowhere, someone yelled, "Get away!" Maya felt hands gripping her shoulders, yanking her back with a powerful shove. She stumbled, hitting the ground hard as the truck roared past, missing her by inches.
The blast that followed was deafening. The truck collided with the Arjuna statue, erupting into a fiery explosion. Screams filled the air, and Maya felt the shockwave ripple through her body. Her ears rang as she sat dazed, watching the once-lively intersection dissolve into chaos.
The fountain circle became a scene of horror. Blood, dust, and debris were scattered across the street. Parents clutched their children, screaming for help, while others lay lifeless, twisted in unnatural positions.
"Where are my kids?" a mother wailed, her face streaked with tears.
"I saw… ten at least… kids, old folks," someone muttered, voice trembling. "They… they didn't make it."
Maya sat on the pavement, numb, surrounded by agonized cries. Her pencil lay broken beside her.
Hours passed in a blur as Maya was taken to a nearby ambulance, barely processing the medical workers' words. She was in shock, and memories of the past surged up—her own family, the explosion that took her voice and left her alone.
"Not again…" she thought, gripping the edge of the stretcher, her body shaking. The faces of her family flickered in her mind, each memory tinged with loss. And now she had witnessed another tragedy.
As the paramedics cleaned her wounds, she felt a strange, gnawing anger taking root.
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Later that evening, Maya sat alone at her desk, staring at a fresh sheet of paper. The chaos of the day had drained her, but she couldn't ignore the unfinished job. Her fingers hovered over her pencil, hesitant, as the haunting memory of the explosion replayed in her mind.
Flashbacks of her treatment earlier that day crept in, displacing her from the present. She remembered the crushing ache in her ribs as she was lifted onto a stretcher, the burn of scrapes on her hands and knees from the rough pavement. Her arms had been limp at her sides, her fingers numb, barely able to close into a fist. As the paramedics inspected her, she caught glimpses of the devastated scene around her. She wanted to scream, to speak, but her voice—her words—wouldn't come.
"Why am I doing this?" she thought, clenching her fists now as if trying to crush the memory of her own helplessness. Her own drawing skills felt like a curse.
Earlier, lying in the ambulance, Maya's head had been spinning with pain and confusion. She remembered a paramedic asking, "Can you hear me? Can you feel your hands?" But all she'd managed was a weak nod, the images around her blurred and distorted by shock. Faces of other victims flooded her mind, mixing with the silent scream in her head—a scream that would never find sound.
But now, as she sat at her desk, it was time to finish. Her pencil felt like lead in her fingers. She captured the truck, the driver's twisted smile—a smile that now felt like a scar in her memory. And his hands, raised in a strange, celebratory gesture.
Maya's hand trembled as she added the final details, feeling a sense of disgust wash over her. This wasn't art. This was something else. But she was compelled to finish. She had accepted this order, and now it was complete.
She hesitated before sending the finished drawing to the Punisher, her heart heavy. A single message appeared almost immediately: "Thank you, Maya. It's perfect. You made it happen."
Her stomach churned. No apology, no explanation. Just cold, empty gratitude.
Maya slammed her laptop shut, the silence in her apartment weighing on her. She stared at the drawing, feeling as though she'd captured a nightmare she would never escape.
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