For Freza, a large family wedding was a simulation of hell wrapped in champagne-colored decorative tents and the scent of beef rendang with far too much galangal. It was a battlefield where the bullets were foul small talk and the landmines were questions about the future tossed by people who didn't even know the difference between burnout and just being lazy.That morning, Freza stood in front of the mirror, trying to straighten his only batik shirt—an inheritance from his late grandfather that was a bit too large in the shoulders, making him look like a walking clothes hanger."I can't lose today," Freza muttered, staring at his haggard reflection. "I’ve survived breathing crises, I’ve outlasted power poles, and I’ve defeated insurance bots. These aunties are just mid-level mini-bosses."Satya, who for some reason was always in Freza’s boarding house room like a resident ghost, was busy eating the last of the canned crackers. "You sure you want to go, Fre? You know Aunt Mira will be