The streets of Jakarta had become a battleground. The protest against the Job Creation Law had drawn an unprecedented crowd, thousands upon thousands flooding the avenues with their outrage. They were of all ages and backgrounds—students with makeshift masks covering their faces, union workers in matching shirts, elderly citizens, and young families. Their banners, slogans painted in bold strokes, flapped above the throng like warnings. Cries of "Justice! Freedom!" and "Reject the Law!" rang out, growing louder and more fervent as the crowd pressed forward.
Small fires ignited along the way—piles of posters and old tires set aflame, casting an eerie glow over the gathering. A line of police officers, their shields and helmets reflecting the flickering light, stood their ground. Each face was hidden behind a visor, cold and unreadable, but tension was etched into every rigid stance. Behind them, more officers arrived, forming a secondary line in case the protesters broke through. The avenue leading to the President's Palace, usually bustling with commuters, now felt like the brink of a storm.
As the crowd pushed forward, the first line of police advanced, raising their shields and batons. Officers on loudspeakers issued commands, voices strained over the noise. "This is a restricted area. Disperse immediately or face legal action." The words were met with a resounding chorus of boos and jeers. A young protester in the front held a megaphone, shouting, "We won't be silenced! We won't back down!" His voice echoed, igniting the crowd further.
As if on cue, the barricades shifted. A few protesters surged forward, testing the resolve of the officers. Rocks and bottles suddenly cut through the air, pelting the police line. In response, shields locked together in a hard, metallic wall, each officer bracing as projectiles struck. Tear gas canisters were launched, arcing through the sky, trailing smoke as they landed among the crowd. Instantly, chaos erupted—people scattered, eyes streaming, covering their faces to shield from the stinging fumes. The protest had transformed into a battlefield, and any semblance of peaceful demonstration vanished into the smoke.
Just a few blocks away, Handoko was checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes. The seconds ticked by like a countdown, each one compressing his nerves tighter. The mission was urgent, and he needed to get through the streets blocked by protesters. The weight of his responsibility bore down on him, adding to the sweat already trickling down his neck. His mouthpiece crackled—Sennheiser CommandPro-X900, the best field communication device on the market, designed to cut through the most hostile environments.
"Command, this is Handoko. Need immediate status update on Juanda," he murmured, careful to keep his voice steady. The device hummed back with static, the noise almost lost beneath the distant roar of the protests. Each crackle seemed to chip away at his patience. "We're running out of time," he muttered to himself. His eyes kept darting between his watch, the road ahead, and the escalating chaos nearby. The longer he waited, the worse his chances were.
His palms were damp, his pulse racing—a telltale sign of the pressure he was under. The path to Juanda was locked down tight, but he knew he had to make it, or this entire operation would fall apart. "Stay calm. One foot in front of the other. Keep pushing." The self-talk did little to ease his nerves, but it kept him moving, propelling him toward the danger zone.
Handoko knew there was no way around it; he'd have to cut straight through the heart of the chaos. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and began to push into the crowd, weaving between protesters and dodging debris. He raised his ID badge high, shouting above the noise, "Bomb threat—Code Zulu-5!" His voice barely registered above the cacophony, but he persisted, flashing his ID to officers along the route, hoping they'd let him pass.
At each checkpoint, Handoko found himself repeating the code, his voice growing more insistent. Tear gas filled the air, thickening with every step, but he pressed on, his mind locked onto Juanda. All around him, rocks sailed through the air, batons cracked against shields, and protesters screamed as the police lines pressed forward. He could hear the rhythmic pounding of shields as the officers tried to fend off the surge of people. But for him, each step forward meant one step closer to his target, closer to his mission, closer to stopping what was now a ticking time bomb.
"You're insane for doing this," he whispered to himself, dodging a protester who stumbled past, coughing violently from the gas. But there was no other choice. The chaos was a mere obstacle compared to what he knew was coming. Every second he wasted could mean lives lost, and that knowledge kept his feet moving even as every instinct screamed at him to turn back.
As Handoko pushed deeper into the chaos, he encountered waves of protesters fleeing the tear gas. The acrid sting bit at his own eyes and throat, but he forced himself to stay focused. His vision blurred, his breath caught in shallow gasps as he navigated through a gauntlet of smoke and shouting.
"Move! Emergency Code Zulu-5! Out of the way!" he called, but his words were swallowed by the chaos. A protester barreled into him, shoving him backward before disappearing into the crowd. He staggered, regaining his balance, and pressed on. Every face around him was a mask of fear or anger, each one driven by its own mission or desperation. He saw an elderly woman clutching a handkerchief to her face, tears streaming as she choked on the gas, and a young man, eyes wild, hurling rocks into the police line with a reckless abandon. This was no longer a protest but a frenzy, and he had to carve his way through it.
Handoko kept one hand on his mouthpiece, the other steadying himself against the push of bodies. "Central Command," he hissed, "it's a war zone here. I need immediate clearance through." Static. Then silence. The line was dead. He was on his own.
Somewhere in the distance, a barricade crashed down, sending a new wave of protesters surging forward, stampeding toward him. "Focus. Focus." He repeated the mantra under his breath, feeling the tension coil tighter in his stomach. His goal, the only path, was forward—through the storm, through the chaos.
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Meanwhile, Maya was weaving through the hectic crowd at the Juanda Station. Her heart pounded in sync with the chaos around her. The station was swarming with people—commuters desperate to reach their destinations, their faces fraught with impatience and anxiety. "This was supposed to be a simple job," she thought, glancing at her digital sketch notebook and pencils tucked under her arm. "Just draw and go home…"
But nothing about today felt simple. She'd just finished her online exam and dashed out of her house, barely thinking about the score she'd left behind. Now, caught in the madness, Maya felt a surge of second thoughts, her instincts telling her to turn back. Yet something in her—perhaps the lure of mystery, perhaps the increased fee, or maybe just the strange allure of her "client"—compelled her forward.
She pushed through the crowds, murmuring apologies as she sidestepped people, her bag knocking against others as she fought to get closer to her destination. The time on the screen had only minutes left. "Just reach the spot, draw, and leave. Fast," she reminded herself, ignoring the small cut on her knee from her earlier stumble. Her legs ached, but there was no room to stop now.
Just as Maya neared the chaotic intersection, Handoko and Joko barreled down the road on the motorcycle, weaving through the congested streets. At that very moment, Maya darted into their path. Joko swerved, shouting, "W-watch it!" barely able to avoid hitting her.
Handoko looked at Joko, his own nerves frayed. "Keep going! We have to get there now!"
But Joko, with his stuttering speech and eyes fixed on Maya, murmured, "Th-that girl… sh-she's got… sh-she's got pencils and… digital sketch notebook." He stared at her with an intensity that made Handoko take notice, though he brushed it off. He didn't have time for distractions.
"Focus, Joko! We're running out of time!" Handoko snapped, though he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that the girl somehow seemed familiar.
Maya, in turn, barely registered the near miss. She was single-minded, consumed with reaching the spot her client had marked, ignoring her injured leg and the fact that she'd nearly been run down. Her focus was razor-sharp, all her energy pouring into this strange, grim assignment.
The impact shattered the street in an instant. A sickening crunch of metal and shattering glass filled the air as the massive truck hurtled into the intersection, colliding with cars, scattering motorbikes, and leaving a trail of twisted debris and blood-streaked asphalt in its wake. It was chaos, but worse—chaos laced with a visceral horror that gripped every witness to the disaster. The air was filled with desperate screams and guttural cries for help, raw and haunting. It was as though the entire world had imploded, leaving only fragments of life and destruction.
Handoko and his team were barely blocks away when the explosion of noise and panic reached them. They froze momentarily, transfixed by the sight. "This… this is hell," Handoko muttered, bile rising in his throat as he took in the scene. People, crushed under the weight of the truck, lay motionless. Some of them were still trapped inside their cars, banging frantically on windows as flames began to lick at the wreckage. Those who had been on foot were sprawled on the ground, injured and bleeding, their cries piercing the thick, dust-filled air.
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The street was painted with blood, a stark, unforgiving red that smeared the pavement and soaked through clothes, turning the road into a horrific mosaic of pain and loss. Some were calling out names, reaching with trembling hands for loved ones lost in the frenzy, while others lay silently, staring blankly at the sky as life slipped away from them, their expressions frozen in shock and agony. The ground was littered with broken belongings—phones, shoes, children's toys—all mingling with the shattered glass and twisted metal as silent, chilling reminders of lives shattered in an instant.
Handoko felt his own chest tighten as he ran forward, desperate to help but feeling as if he were caught in quicksand, unable to make a difference in the face of such relentless destruction.
A young mother stumbled by him, her clothes torn and stained with blood, clutching an infant who was terrifyingly still. Her voice was raw, hoarse, "Help… please, someone… she's not breathing…" she whispered, her words barely escaping through her tears as she dropped to her knees, helpless and shattered.
The police and emergency personnel had tried to respond, but Juanda Street was impassable, jammed with stranded cars and panicked people scrambling over one another to escape. The path for ambulances was blocked. Paramedics could be seen running from the ambulances they'd left blocks away, carrying only basic first-aid supplies and dragging stretchers as they wove through the crowd. But for every person they reached, dozens more lay waiting, slipping further away with each agonizing second.
In the distance, a teenager crouched by his injured friend, tears streaking his face as he begged, "Stay with me… just keep your eyes open, please…" His friend could only blink slowly, his face pale, his breathing shallow, his strength visibly ebbing away.
Handoko could only stand and watch, overwhelmed, as more lives slipped through his fingers. "We're too late…" he whispered, swallowing a sob, his voice trembling. He felt the bitter weight of failure settling like a stone in his gut. He had missed his target, and now, his oversight was painted in death and devastation before him, staining his conscience.
People staggered by, their faces smudged with soot and blood, a mixture of shock and despair etched into their eyes. A man clutched his own shattered arm, the bone visible through the torn skin, but still managed to reach for the hand of a stranger nearby who was pinned under a collapsed motorbike, their leg twisted unnaturally. It was as if, in this raw chaos, the fragility and desperation of humanity had been laid bare, everyone clinging to each other, fighting a losing battle against the relentless horror around them.
Handoko's head throbbed, each heartbeat sending waves of guilt and sorrow crashing over him. This wasn't just a failure of timing—it was a failure of duty, a failure that had cost lives in the most brutal way possible. And as he surveyed the carnage, he knew he'd never be able to erase this sight from his memory: the bloodstained street, the fractured cries of the injured, the helpless terror in the eyes of those left behind. The desperation, the agony, the horror—these were seared into his soul.
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Maya's escape from the truck left her more battered than ever. She could barely walk, her legs wobbling under her, each step sending shocks of pain through her body. She limped to a secluded spot by Juanda Station, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Every part of her ached—her arms from her hard landing on the rough asphalt, her ankle from the earlier collision with Joko's bike, her scraped palms raw and bleeding from her fall. The sting of each injury was compounded by the bruises still fresh from the previous assignment, barely beginning to heal. She winced as she tried to straighten up, feeling bruised ribs strain against each breath.
For a moment, she wanted to stop. She wanted to scream, or to cry, or to run away from all of it. But then, the memory of the promised payment flashed through her mind, and she clenched her jaw. She couldn't walk away now. She'd come too far.
With her injured hands trembling, Maya reached into her bag and pulled out her digital sketch notebook, flipping to a fresh page. Her fingers were slick with blood, the open scrapes throbbing with each movement, but she forced them to steady. The pencil felt like a heavy weight between her fingers, her hand trembling with every stroke, but she pressed on, her eyes focused intently on capturing the scene. She tried to block out the burning pain radiating through her body, the ache in her shoulder, the constant stinging from her ankle, and the jagged scratches that lined her arms.
Her face twisted in concentration, a few beads of sweat mingling with the streaks of dirt and blood on her cheeks. "Just one last drawing," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. "I can do this."
Slowly, painfully, she began sketching the expression of the truck driver just moments before the crash. The trauma of the moment had burned his face into her memory—the blank stare, the slight furrow of confusion, and the split-second realization of doom that had flashed in his eyes. She captured it all with haunting precision, her hand moving as if on autopilot despite the pain. Each line, each shadow, came to life under her pencil, her fingers moving deftly even as her knuckles throbbed and her wrists ached. She felt almost detached from her own body, lost in a trance as she brought the image to life on the page.
But then, a drop of her own blood slid down her finger, falling unnoticed until it splattered on the bottom corner of the sketch. It was a tiny blot, barely noticeable, but it stained the paper with a vivid crimson.
Maya stared at it, frozen, her exhaustion finally catching up to her as her fingers hovered over the stained corner. She bit her lip, feeling the sting of disappointment. But something inside her told her to leave it as it was, a strange sense of finality settling over her. With the last ounce of her strength, she finished the drawing, exhaling shakily as she took a step back to observe her work. It was raw, intense—one of her best, she realized. The pain, the desperation, all of it had seeped into her lines. The sketch was alive with emotion, a chilling depiction of the driver's final moment.
Maya's hand trembled as she took a photo and sent it to the client, her body now on the verge of collapse. But even as she turned to walk away, she didn't know that the single bloodstain on the corner would soon give Handoko the clue he'd been desperately searching for. The stain, stark and unmistakable, told a story of its own—a sign that the artist had been here, right at the scene, bearing her own wounds from the chaos that had unfolded.
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The anti-terror room was charged with an oppressive, suffocating silence. Handoko's team stood around him, eyes downcast, jaws clenched. They'd all felt the impact of their failure—the inability to stop what had unfolded on Juanda Street was a bitter pill to swallow. Despite their training, their surveillance, and their urgency, they had arrived too late.
Handoko paced, his fists clenching and unclenching. Each step echoed his frustration, amplifying the helplessness that gnawed at him. "We had it right there," he muttered, his voice choked with anger and regret. "Every piece pointed here. And yet, we missed it." The other team members exchanged glances, unable to meet his eyes. They all knew the feeling of failure, but this… this was different. People had died, lives shattered. The enormity of the loss was too much to ignore.
Santoso, Handoko's director, exhaled slowly, his eyes hollow. "How could we… miss something like this?" His tone was barely a whisper, his own regret lacing each word. Handoko shook his head, his jaw clenched. He had no answers, only an overwhelming drive to find whoever was behind this and make them pay. This was more than an investigation now—it was personal.
Amid the thick cloud of failure, Handoko's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—a message from headquarters. His heart raced as he opened it: CCTV analysis suggests presence of suspect with a digital sketch notebook at the scene.
"Get everyone on this," he ordered, barely containing his renewed sense of urgency. "Search every possible angle. We need to know who was near Juanda, who had a reason to be there."
Just then, Joko, the deaf and stuttering Gojek driver, tugged at Handoko's sleeve, his face twisted with an odd mixture of pride and hesitance. "P-P-Paak… I s-s-seen her… sh-sh-she's a g-g-girl, w-with… sk-sk-digital sketch notebook…"
Handoko raised an eyebrow, trying to process what Joko was saying. "You saw her? A girl with a digital sketch notebook?"
Joko nodded vigorously, a determined look on his face as he struggled to get the words out. "Y-yes, Pak! S-s-she wore a ve-veil… uh, u-uniform… sch-sch-sch-skool…"
Handoko's heart skipped a beat. "You're sure?"
"Y-y-y-yess, Pak! She g-g-go… down st-st-station…"
The stuttering, though painfully slow, was filled with earnestness, and Handoko found himself surprisingly grateful for Joko's strange attention to detail. The team around him exchanged looks, half in disbelief, half amused by the driver's unconventional assistance, though no one dared crack a smile. The tension was far too thick.
"Alright," Handoko said, snapping his fingers as he refocused his team. "You heard him—Juanda Station CCTV footage. Now!"
As his team scrambled, Handoko squeezed Joko's shoulder, nodding. "Good work, Joko. You did well."
Handoko took a breath, feeling a renewed sense of hope, mingled with trepidation. The pieces were coming together, though something told him the picture they'd reveal might be darker than he could anticipate.
-------------------------------------------End of Chapter 7---------------------------------------------