Handoko's dreams returned, hauntingly vivid. In them, he was back in that plaza, but instead of warmth, an unnatural chill ran through the memory. He walked with his wife, Dewani, and their son, Awan, on a day that should have been ordinary. Ani was carrying a bag with small snacks, and Awan had an ice cream cone in his hand, smiling, blissfully unaware of anything outside his frozen treat.
But as they left the shop, the feeling of unease tightened around Handoko, like invisible hands gripping his throat. He stopped to tie his shoelace, distracted. Then, his phone vibrated with an unknown call. He answered out of habit, barely noticing the voice on the other end. "Run. Move away from the plaza."
A chill shot through him. But before he could react, a flash of light split the air, and the world erupted around him. He saw his wife and son turn, eyes wide in shock, as sound and fury consumed them.
The blast engulfed the plaza in moments. Shattered glass, debris, smoke—Handoko tried to push through the chaos, each step feeling like wading through molasses.
He fought to breathe, to see, to move as people around him screamed and scattered, trying to escape the nightmare unfolding around them.
He stumbled forward, his gaze fixed on where Ani and Awan had been standing. A shadow of their figures lingered in his mind, his wife's hand reaching out as the light faded.
"Not them," he whispered, his voice drowned in the sounds of agony and fear all around him.
In his dream, he ran, desperate, clawing his way through the smoke, but his hand reached only empty air. He called their names, his voice a hollow echo in the desolate scene, but they were gone.
Handoko bolted awake, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest as he gasped for air. The darkness around him felt like a suffocating weight. He pressed a hand to his face, the haunting images still fresh, the raw, unshakable ache of loss filling him. The nightmare was unrelenting, a memory branded into his soul, one he knew he'd never escape. The reality of the day clashed with the silent agony in his heart. There was no peace—only the fragments of a life stolen, hovering on the edge of his consciousness.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the Anti-Terror Special Force office,
tension crackled through the air. Officers clustered around screens on the wall, each showing live feeds from around Jakarta's busiest spots. Footage of plazas, parks, crowded areas filled the screens, all feeding into the collective vigilance of the room. The largest screen projected a satellite image, a live view of the city as it pulsed with daily activity.
Handoko observed the chaotic energy with a grim focus. The recent incident near the Arjuna statue had left everyone questioning its origin. The team debated heatedly, arguments filling the room.
"It was too calculated," one officer insisted. "This wasn't a simple crash."
"Calculated? We're reading too much into it," another countered, shaking his head. "Not every accident is part of some scheme."
The unease was palpable, but answers remained elusive.
Handoko's gaze sharpened as he noticed an envelope lying on a desk nearby. It was unmarked, seemingly misplaced, yet something about it caught his attention. He opened it, revealing a series of sketches.
"Everyone, look at this!" he called, drawing the room's attention. Placing the sketch on the projector, he revealed a chillingly precise image of the crash scene. The driver's face stared back at them, captured with haunting detail.
The team fell silent, examining the drawing. The driver's expression held a hollow emptiness, as though frozen at the moment of impact.
The team fell silent, examining the drawing. The driver's expression held a hollow emptiness, as though frozen at the moment of impact.
Sena, one of Handoko's sharpest colleagues, quickly retrieved a photograph of the crash scene. The sketch and the photo were almost identical, down to the driver's lifeless gaze. The level of accuracy left the team silent, the realization settling in.
"This artist saw everything," Sena murmured, studying the sketch. "Whoever drew this didn't miss a single detail."
Handoko felt a surge of urgency. The drawing seemed to hold secrets, pieces of a story that none of them fully understood. He clenched his fists, an unspoken resolve hardening within him.
"We need to find this artist," he said firmly. "They're holding answers we need."
The officers exchanged wary glances. They knew that whatever lay behind this sketch, it was far from ordinary. Each line, each detail, seemed to carry a silent weight, hinting at an understanding beyond their own.
"What kind of person could make something like this?" one officer murmured, glancing uneasily at the projection. "It's like they saw into that driver's mind."
The room fell into a tense quiet. The drawing was more than just an image—it was a moment frozen in time, an unsettling glimpse into a mystery that only deepened with every passing second.
"This isn't a random coincidence," Handoko said quietly, breaking the silence. "We need to dig deeper."
The debate grew as officers speculated on how the drawing had been created. Some suggested it might have been based on a photo; others disagreed, pointing out the intricate nuances only visible up close.
"It doesn't make sense," Sena muttered, shaking his head. "Whoever made this was there. They saw it unfold firsthand."
Handoko absorbed the implications. He knew they were on the verge of something far bigger than they'd initially thought. The sketch wasn't just a piece of art—it was a key, one that could unlock the answers they'd been seeking.
He straightened, his determination unwavering. "Find out who sent this. We're closer to the truth than we think."
With that, the search began, every member of the team mobilized in pursuit of the mysterious artist whose work had brought them to the edge of revelation.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At his office,
The room was silent except for the steady tick of a clock on the wall and the soft rustling of paper. Handoko stood frozen in front of the storage box, his hands trembling slightly as they hovered above it. It had been years since he'd opened this box. Years since he'd allowed himself to touch anything connected to that day—the explosion, the loss. But now, it was as if the box was calling to him. He knew he had to open it. There was no other choice.
As he lifted the lid, the old smell of dust and forgotten memories filled the air. The contents were a tangled mess—papers, photographs, and files. But there, at the bottom, was the envelope he was looking for. He pulled it out carefully, almost reverently, as if handling something fragile. Inside was the picture, the same picture that had burned itself into his mind all those years ago.
He exhaled sharply, his chest tightening. He didn't need to look at the new sketch to know what it was. He knew it before his eyes even landed on the paper. The second his fingers brushed the edges of the drawing, his heart skipped. The emotions flooded back—fear, rage, grief, and a strange sense of recognition.
The artist. The same one who had drawn his family's last moments.
The lines, the details—they were unmistakable. The style was exactly the same. Handoko felt a tightness in his throat, his stomach churning. He had left Jakarta to escape this. He had tried to bury his pain in his work, immersing himself in anti-terrorism and forensic psychology, working for the FBI. He had made himself a new life, far from the nightmares of the bomb blast. But this—this sketch—it had pulled him back.
"I can't believe it," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. "I thought I left all of this behind. Why now? After all these years?"
The weight of it was almost too much to bear. He had run from this for so long. But now, there was no ignoring it. The artist was connected to the bombing, to his loss. Handoko's pulse quickened as he stared at the drawing. He had to find them. No more running.
The picture Handoko held in his hands was burned into his mind, but seeing it again, the flood of emotion was just as overwhelming. The drawing depicted the exact moment after the first blast—the moment everything changed. The thick, swirling smoke, the terrified faces, the confusion and panic in the eyes of those around. And in the center of it all, his wife, Dewani, and their son, Awan.
Dewani's expression was frozen in time—a look of horror, yet determination as she reached for Awan. The little boy, clutching his ice cream cone, looked more confused than scared, his innocent face not yet realizing the danger. But Handoko knew. He had seen that look—the same one that had appeared in his nightmares over the years.
And then, the second blast.
The artist had captured it perfectly—the shock of the second explosion, the horror of that final moment. Dewani's face was frozen in a moment of realization, her protective instinct kicking in as she tried to shield Awan. But it was too late. The second explosion came so fast, so violently, that there was no escape.
Handoko closed his eyes, the image searing itself into his mind. His hands shook as he placed the drawing on the desk, staring at it in disbelief. The details were too accurate. The scene was too real. It was as if the artist had been there, in that moment, witnessing the very thing he had lived through.
How did they know? Handoko thought. How did they capture this moment so perfectly.
A wave of nausea hit him, but he fought it back. This was no longer just about finding answers. This was personal. This artist knew too much. They had to know something.
I will find you, Handoko thought fiercely, his hands clenching into fists. No more hiding. No more running. You will answer for this.
--------------------------------End of Chapter 3------------------------------------