30 Days to Unmake a Monster

Chapter 10: The Price of a Cold Victory

That morning, it wasn’t the sunlight that roused Raka, but the sharp, rhythmic pulse of pain at the tip of his finger. He opened his eyes to find a pristine white bandage wrapped around the wound—far too meticulous to be his own handiwork. He glanced at the empty side of the bed; Luna was already gone. The apartment was deathly quiet, though the atmosphere had shifted. The lingering stench of neglected trash had been purged, replaced by the sterile scent of disinfectant and the heavy, bitter aroma of dark coffee. Raka sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at his bandaged hand. The memories of the previous night came flooding back: the shattered remains of his mother’s glass, and the raw, suffocating urge he’d felt to scream in Luna’s face.

Stop staring at that bandage as if it’s a medal of honor, Luna’s voice drifted from the direction of the desk.

Raka turned. She was sitting there, clad in a sharp, formal charcoal-gray blazer, her hair pulled back into a severe, polished style. There wasn't a trace of the tears she had shed the night before. She had reverted entirely to the iron-willed woman from the future.

That glass is never coming back, Luna, Raka said, his voice gravelly and cold.

Inanimate objects are replaceable, Raka. A ruined future, however, has no backup. Luna stood and approached him, carrying a slim, translucent tablet. we aren’t doing simulations today. You’re facing a real trial—a test where you must take the resentment you felt last night and forge it into leverage.

Raka let out a cynical snort. What now? You want me to go out and rob someone?

Something much worse, Luna said, sliding the tablet toward him. You have a ten o'clock appointment this morning with Baskara. Does that name ring a bell?

Raka froze. Baskara was the head of a major advertising agency who, six months ago, had stolen Raka's design concepts without paying him a single cent. That man was the reason Raka had spiraled into depression and stopped pursuing high-end clients.

Why the hell would I meet with him? He’s a bottom-feeder, Raka growled.

Because today, Baskara is backed into a corner. His primary client is demanding a fresh design within three hours, or his agency faces a multi-billion rupiah lawsuit. And you are the only person with the specific style the client wants, Luna said, her gaze intensifying. In the original timeline, you forgave him. You took his offer because you were desperate for rent money, and he ended up walking all over you again two years later.

Raka clenched his fist. So, what do you want me to do?

Do exactly what the Future Raka would do, Luna whispered, her voice like a serpent’s hiss. Use the anger from last night. Show him no mercy. Make him crawl, and take what is rightfully yours with a thousand percent interest. If you can truly become cold toward him, we earn more time.

Baskara’s office was perched on the top floor of a luxury high-rise in the Kuningan district. Raka entered the building wearing a black suit Luna had provided the night before. This time, the fabric didn't feel like a luxury; it felt like heavy armor. Luna walked a pace behind him, acting as an assistant with an expressionless mask.

Baskara greeted them with a nauseatingly fake smile. He looked haggard, with heavy bags sagging under his eyes. Raka! My man! How’ve you been? Man, you look sharp. I heard you landed a gig over at Indra Jaya?

Raka didn't acknowledge the extended hand. He went straight to the head of the conference table, sat down, crossed his legs, and stared at Baskara with a hollow, vacant look—the exact same gaze he had seen on Gema in the park.

I’m on a tight schedule, Bas. You have a problem, and I have the solution. Let’s get straight to the point, Raka said. His own voice sounded foreign to him—chilled, flat, and commanding.

Baskara’s smile faltered. Right, okay. Look, Raka. My Japanese clients are obsessed with that old portfolio of yours... you know, the one we worked on together. They want a total rebranding. I need you to execute this in two hours. I’ll pay you twenty million. Pretty big number for a freelancer, right?

Raka glanced briefly at Luna. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

Raka let out a short, dry laugh, devoid of any humor. Twenty million? Do you think I’m some kid designing flyers for a neighborhood block party? For the ideas you stole back then, you owe me fifty million in back pay. For this project, my rate is one hundred million per hour. And I expect payment upfront.

Baskara’s face turned a violent shade of red. Are you insane?! A hundred million an hour? Who do you think you are? Don't think for a second that just because you're wearing an expensive suit, you can extort me!

Raka stood up slowly, calmly adjusting the buttons of his blazer. In that case, I'll leave you to handle your Japanese lawsuit on your own. Let’s go, Luna.

Wait! Wait, Raka! Baskara panicked as Raka reached the door. Fine! A hundred million! But you have to finish it right now!

Raka turned back, his eyes flashing with a predatory light. Two hundred million. The price just went up because you made me turn around.

Baskara was trembling, his hands gripping the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. Gritting his teeth, he barked an order to his treasurer to initiate an instant wire transfer.

For the next two hours, Raka worked at the most advanced workstation in the office. He designed at an impossible speed, his fingers dancing across the graphics tablet. Every time he felt a hint of fatigue, he remembered the shattered shards of his mother’s glass. He remembered how Baskara had laughed at him when he originally asked for his fair share.

That pain became his fuel. His creativity no longer flowed from a love for the craft, but from a burning desire to prove he could crush anyone who underestimated him.

When he finished, Raka handed over the files without a single word. Baskara looked at the results with a mix of awe and genuine fear. The design was perfect, yet it radiated an aura that was sharp, aggressive, and intimidating.

As they stepped out of the building, the midday sun scorched the pavement. Raka loosened his tie, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest.

You got the money. You got the win. Are you satisfied? Raka asked Luna without looking at her.

Luna grabbed Raka’s hand and pulled up the display on his wrist.

18:05:12:00.

They had gained three more days.

You just proved that you can dominate others through pain, Luna said. However, there was a strange inflection in her voice—not pride, but a deep-seated sorrow she was trying to mask. How does it feel, Raka? To be the winner everyone fears?

Raka stopped in his tracks. He looked down at his trembling palms. It feels empty, Luna. I made two hundred million in two hours, but I feel like I just killed something inside of myself.

You did, Luna whispered, stepping in front of him. Her eyes were beginning to well up again. That is the price of the success you’re chasing in the future. You win everything, Raka. You have the buildings, the money, the power. But every time you win, you lose a piece of your heart. Until finally, the only thing left is the monster who screams at me in the middle of the night.

Suddenly, a body collided hard with Raka’s shoulder from the midday crowd. Raka nearly stumbled, but Luna caught him. When he turned to see who had bumped into him, he froze.

An old man, a vagrant in tattered, filthy clothes, was staring at him with pure, unadulterated terror. The man was shaking, his mouth twitching as he mumbled.

Please... don't take anything else... the old man whimpered. I’m sorry, Mr. Raka... I’ll pay... I promise...

Raka frowned, confused. Sir? Do I know you?

The old man suddenly collapsed to his knees in front of Raka’s expensive shoes, sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. Please don't tear down my shack... Honorable Mr. Raka... I have nothing left...

Raka felt his heart stop. He looked at Luna in a panic. Luna! What is this? I’ve never evicted anyone! I don’t even know this man!

Luna looked down at the old man with a hollow, distant gaze. He is one of the victims of a real estate project you’ll spearhead eight years from now. The timeline is starting to leak, Raka.

Your success today is cementing the legacy of Raka, the Real Estate Mogul. This man’s past is being forcibly rewritten by the sheer weight of your burgeoning future.

Raka recoiled, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. Onlookers began snapping photos, assuming he was just another heartless tycoon trampling over the common man.

No... I don't want this! Raka fumbled through his pockets, yanked out his wallet, and thrust every last dollar toward the old man. Sir, get up! I’m not that guy! Take this! Please, just stand up!

The old man snatched the cash, but the terror in his eyes didn't flicker. He scrambled away as if he had just stared into the face of a demon.

Raka sank to his knees on the pavement, oblivious to the judgmental glares of the crowd. His black suit now felt like a shroud, a dead man's skin clinging to his frame.

You said you were going to fix me, Luna! Raka screamed over the roar of the city. But every time I follow your lead, the world just gets crazier. Why are my victims from the future starting to manifest here?!

Luna knelt beside him, discarding any pretense of professional distance. She pulled his head to her shoulder, cradling him close. That’s the burden, Raka. To erase a rotten future, we have to wade through the filthiest parts of it first. We have to face the depths of our own depravity so we have a reason strong enough to walk away.

Raka sobbed against her, not out of grief, but out of sheer horror. He realized that the two hundred million in his bank account was the harvest of that old man's misery.

Luna, Raka whispered between sobs. Don’t let me become that man. Even if I have to be penniless forever, don’t let me become someone the little guy fears.

Luna kissed the top of his head gently. I promise you, Raka. Even if I have to be erased from history itself, I won’t let that monster be born.

On Luna’s wrist, the glowing red numbers suddenly froze. They didn't increase, nor did they count down. Instead, they flickered a stark white—a new anomaly signaling that fate was teetering on a dangerous precipice.

Unbeknownst to them, in the shadows of the Baskara Agency building, a faceless silhouette emerged once more. This time, it wore the exact same black suit as Raka. The Echo smiled—a jagged, horizontal wound tearing open across its smooth face.

Quite the victory, myself, a voice hissed in Raka’s ear, sending a chill down his spine. Now, let’s destroy even more.