Rain erased most of the city's sounds, but it couldn't erase Rafael's words from Arga's mind.
The son of the man who killed Damar.
He stood at the side of the road in soaking-wet clothes, still holding Elara's hand. Across from them, a black car waited like an open mouth. Rafael didn't look rushed. Men like him never had to hurry. The world always paved the way before they took a step.
Elara looked at Arga, not her father.
That made everything feel even worse.
“Answer me,” Arga said.
“Arga—”
“Did you already know?”
Elara swallowed something invisible. Rain ran from her hair down her cheeks, mingling with tears—or maybe it was only rainwater. Arga didn't know which he wanted to see less.
“Yes.”
One word.
Simple. Clean. Sharper than a long lie.
Arga's hand slipped from hers.
Rafael opened the car door. “Get in, Elara. We can talk about everything at home.”
“Home?” Elara gave a soft laugh. “You call that place home after burying my brother beneath it?”
“Damar died because of your choice.”
“Damar died because he trusted you.”
Rafael's smile didn't change, but his eyes shifted to Arga. “See? She's always like this. Accusing everyone except herself.”
Arga felt something pulsing in his jacket pocket.
Elara's photograph.
He pulled it out. The ink on the back had bled from the rain, but a new sentence slowly appeared beneath the address that hadn't been there before.
Don't let blood choose for you.
Arga stared at the words.
Then he heard the faceless man's voice whispering from nowhere.
“Take her to the car.”
Rafael held out his hand. “You want money, don't you? I can give you an amount you never could have imagined. You won't even have to touch Elara.”
Arga looked at the empty seat inside the car.
In his dream, that seat was always meant for him.
He imagined a spacious room, clean clothes, a dining table that was never short on food. He imagined waking up without having to count his loose change. He imagined becoming someone who never had to apologize for being poor.
Then he looked at Elara.
The girl stood beside him, her face pale. She didn't beg. She didn't hold on to him. She didn't try to influence Arga's decision.
She simply waited.
Just like in the photograph.
Just like in the dream.
Arga realized that this was how Elara always made him feel guilty: by giving him the freedom to leave.
“If you already knew who my father was,” he said to Elara, “why did you choose me?”
“Because someone else would have taken you to him.”
“And you?”
“I hoped you'd take me somewhere far away.”
“Hoped?” Arga laughed, but his voice cracked. “You never hoped. You planned everything.”
Elara nodded.
“You're right.”
That admission robbed Arga's anger of its target. It was easier for him to hate a lie than the truth. The truth gave him nowhere to hide.
Rafael calmly shut the car door.
“Enough drama. Arga, come with me. Once you've heard the whole story, you'll understand that Elara isn't a victim.”
“And you?”
“I'm the one who survived.”
“By killing your own child?”
For the first time, Rafael's expression changed. Only slightly. A thin crack behind his composure.
“Damar wasn't my son.”
Elara whipped around.
Rafael continued, “He was your mother's child by another man.”
The rain seemed to fall harder.
Elara didn't move. Arga saw something collapse in her eyes—not trust, because that trust might have died long ago, but the last of her belief that she still understood her own family.
“Liar,” she whispered.
“Open the locket.”
Elara gripped Damar's locket. Her fingers trembled as she pressed its tiny side. The back opened, revealing a narrow compartment that had been sealed with rust all this time.
A scrap of paper was tucked inside.
Elara unfolded it.
Arga read over her shoulder.
My name is Damar Adinata. If I die, don't trust Rafael. He didn't kill me because I wanted to run away. He killed me because I knew who Elara's real father was.
A single name appeared beneath the words.
Bima Adinata.
Arga felt the world stop for a moment.
He had heard that name before.
Not in a dream.
At the rented house, from the mouth of the old landlord. Bima Adinata was a notorious thief who disappeared after stealing money from the Wiratama family business. He left behind a wife and a baby boy who was never found.
That baby was Arga.
“My father…”
The words came out soundlessly.
Elara read his face. “Bima Adinata was your father?”
Arga slowly nodded.
Rafael smiled, as if the final piece of the game had finally fallen into place.
“Now you understand,” he said. “Your family and mine have been bound together from the beginning. The dream chose you because your blood still carries something we need.”
“What?”
“Where the money was hidden.”
Arga stared at him blankly.
The faceless man whispered in his ear again.
“Bring Elara to me, and you'll get everything your father stole.”
Elara closed her eyes. “Don't listen to that voice.”
“You know what it is?”
“I know who's using it.”
“Who?”
Elara opened her eyes.
“Bima Adinata.”
Arga took a step back.
“That's impossible.”
“He's not dead.”
Rafael drew a pistol from beneath his jacket. Security guards appeared at the end of the road, spreading out among the trees and garden lights.
“Get in the car,” Rafael said. “Or we'll end this conversation the short way.”
Arga looked at the gun, then at Elara. For the first time since arriving at the Wiratama house, he understood that there was no choice that was truly free.
He could hand Elara over.
He could die with her.
Or he could do the stupidest thing of all.
Arga grabbed Elara's hand and pulled her into a run.
The first bullet struck a lamppost.
They raced down the slick road, past low fences and dripping bushes. Elara nearly fell, but Arga caught her. Behind them, Rafael's men shouted. A car engine roared to life.
Arga didn't know where to go.
He only knew he wouldn't hand Elara over.
They turned into a narrow alley behind a row of closed shops. Elara was breathing hard. Arga pressed his back against the wall, trying to hold down the sound of his own heartbeat.
Elara stood so close their chests touched.
“Why are you still taking me with you?” she asked.
Arga wanted to say it was because he loved her.
The feeling was too big, too sudden, and too inappropriate to call love.
So he told her the truth.
“Because I'm not done hating you yet.”
Elara stared at him for a long moment.
Then she raised a hand and touched Arga's cheek.
“Then,” she whispered, “don't finish yet.”
The kiss was brief, cold, and full of fear. It wasn't the kiss of two people who had found safety. It was the kiss of two people who knew they might be choosing ruin, but still wanted to feel something before it all ended.
When Elara pulled away, a voice came from the end of the alley.
“Arga.”
The faceless man stood beneath a flickering light.
Behind him, a thin, white-haired man stared at Arga with eyes he knew all too well from the mirror.
The man's face was old, tired, and real.
Bima Adinata.
Arga's father.
He smiled at his son.
“Come home.”
In Bima's hand was the same silver car key from the dream.
And behind him, the entire street suddenly filled with fire.