30 Days to Unmake a Monster

Chapter 21: Echoes from a Lost World

The sunlight in Menteng had a way of filtering through the lush canopy of mahogany trees that made everything look like a vintage photograph, bathed in a soft, forgiving gold. It was the kind of afternoon that felt designed for normalcy—for couples to walk hand-in-hand without the weight of impending doom, and for freelance designers to forget that they were once targeted for a cosmic reset.

Raka Satya adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his fingers brushing against the rough canvas. He felt the steady, grounding rhythm of his own heartbeat. Beside him, Luna walked with a light, airy grace that seemed entirely disconnected from the heavy, burdened woman he had carried across the sands of Ancol in a life he no longer remembered. She was wearing a simple floral sundress, her dark hair catching the light, and her laughter was a frequent, bright sound that felt like it was healing the very air around them.

"You're doing it again, Raka," Luna said, her eyes crinkling as she looked up at him. She stopped by a small stone bench, the shadow of a blooming bougainvillea dancing across her face.

"Doing what?" Raka asked, offering a faint smile.

"That look. Like you're trying to solve a complex architectural puzzle in your head, but the pieces keep changing shape," she teased, reaching out to gently poke his forehead. "We're just at the park, Mas. No clients, no deadlines, no looming crises. Just us."

Mas. The word was a warm, familiar melody, yet every time she said it, a sharp, cold needle of déjà vu pricked the back of Raka's mind. He felt a phantom weight on his wrist, an invisible band that wasn't there, and for a fleeting second, he expected to see glowing red numbers counting down to his own destruction. But when he looked, there was only his tanned skin and the faint trace of an old scar from a childhood accident.

"I know," Raka said, his voice dropping an octave. He took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. Her palm was warm and solid, a grounding reality that should have silenced the whispers. "I guess I'm just still getting used to... this. Being happy without looking over my shoulder."

"Well, get used to it," Luna said firmly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I've been working on those interior sketches for the new cafe project, and I think I've finally found my rhythm. It’s like something just clicked in my brain a few months ago. Like I finally knew exactly how a space should feel—safe, open, and honest."

Raka nodded, but his eyes drifted toward a nearby shop window. The glass was polished to a high sheen, reflecting the park, the trees, and the two of them.

The world seemed to tilt.

In the reflection, the Raka standing next to Luna didn't wear a rumpled linen shirt or carry a bag of groceries. For a heartbeat, the reflection wore a charcoal-gray bespoke suit that cost more than a year's rent. The hair was slicked back with a surgical precision, and the eyes—those eyes weren't his. They were shards of black ice, radiating a terrifying, absolute authority. The reflection didn't smile; it looked at Luna not with love, but with the cold, calculating gaze of a man assessing a valuable asset.

Raka flinched, his grip on Luna’s hand tightening instinctively. He blinked, and the image snapped back. There he was: Raka Satya, the man who designed logos for local bakeries and lived in a modest Tebet apartment.

"Raka? You're hurting my hand," Luna whispered, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Sorry, I... I thought I saw someone I knew," Raka lied, his voice trembling. A cold sweat beaded at his hairline, freezing in the conditioned air of his own growing paranoia.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she murmured, her hand reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

"I'm fine, Luna. Really. Just a bit of a dizzy spell. Maybe I skipped lunch," he said, forcing a chuckle that sounded hollow even to his own ears.

They continued their walk, but the gold of the afternoon had lost its luster for Raka. The whispers started as they neared the edge of the park, where the high-rise office towers began to loom over the greenery. It wasn't a voice from the outside; it was a resonance inside his own skull, sounding like his own voice but polished to a cruel, diamond-hard edge.

“Why are you wasting your time with small-talk, Raka? Look at that development across the street. The zoning laws are weak. If you bought the corner lot now and leveraged the Indra Jaya holdings, you could own that entire block by the end of the fiscal year. You’re thinking small. You’re thinking like a victim.”

Raka stopped in his tracks, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "Stop it," he muttered under his breath.

"Stop what?" Luna asked, looking around, confused.

"Nothing. I just... I need to get home and finish that proposal," Raka said, his eyes darting toward the shadows. He felt a crushing sense of urgency, a hunger for power that wasn't his, yet felt as natural as breathing.

The walk back to his apartment was a blur. He felt the eyes of the city on him—not the eyes of the people, but the eyes of the buildings, the glass and steel waiting for the King to return. When they reached his place, the apartment felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in.

"I'll go make some tea," Luna said, sensed his agitation. She set her sketchbook on the coffee table and headed for the kitchenette.

Raka slumped into his chair, his head in his hands. He felt like a man possessed by a twin who hated him. He reached for his old denim jacket, the one he had worn during those strange, missing weeks he couldn't quite account for, and draped it over the chair. As the fabric settled, he felt something stiff in the inner pocket.

He reached in and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. It was a yellowed scrap, torn from a notebook. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm as he smoothed it out on the desk.

The handwriting was his own. But it was frantic, the ink bleeding through the paper as if the pen had been pressed down with a desperate, crushing force.

DON’T LET HER REMEMBER. THE MORE SHE KNOWS, THE FASTER THE SKY BREAKS. THE DEBT IS NOT PAID. IT IS ONLY HIDDEN. DON’T BECOME THE MONSTER AGAIN.

Raka’s blood turned to ice. He didn't remember writing this. He didn't remember a "monster" or a "debt." Yet, seeing his own handwriting warned him of a tragedy he couldn't name made the very air in the room feel thin and suffocating.

“The sky didn’t break because of me,” the voice in his head hissed, louder now, dripping with a sickening arrogance. “The sky broke because you were too weak to hold it up. Give in, Raka. Let me back in. We can save her properly this time. We can build a world where she never has to cry again.”

"Raka? The tea is ready," Luna called out.

Raka shoved the note back into his pocket, his hands shaking. He walked into the living room, trying to steady his breathing. Luna was sitting on the sofa, her sketchbook open in her lap. She was staring at a page, her pen hovering over the paper, her expression one of profound, haunting confusion.

"Luna?"

She didn't look up. "I... I started drawing this a few minutes ago. I wasn't even thinking. My hand just... it moved on its own."

Raka walked over and looked at the page. His stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.

It wasn't a chair or a room. It was a portrait. It was a man, rendered in jagged, aggressive charcoal strokes. The man wore a bespoke suit, his eyes were pits of absolute void, and he was standing over a pile of rubble that looked suspiciously like a collapsed apartment building. It was the man from the reflection. It was the Echo.

"I don't know who this is," Luna whispered, her voice trembling. "But when I draw him, my chest feels so heavy. Like I can't breathe. Like I've spent ten years trapped in a room with him, and I’m only just now finding the door."

Raka sank onto the sofa beside her, the weight of the note in his pocket feeling like a hot coal against his hip. He looked at the drawing, then at the woman he loved—the woman who was supposed to be safe. He realized then that the memory wipe hadn't been a cure; it had been a bandage on a gaping wound. The darkness wasn't gone; it was just waiting for the light to fade.

"It’s just a nightmare, Luna," Raka said, his voice a broken lie. "Just a random thought. Give me the book."

He took the sketchbook from her, closing it with a finality that made the air ring. He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tight he could feel the frantic thrum of her heart. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her that he was afraid of himself. But the note in his pocket warned him: The more she knows, the faster the sky breaks.

The silence in the apartment grew heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock—a sound that started to feel like a countdown once again.

Suddenly, Raka’s phone vibrated on the coffee table.

He reached for it, expecting a client or a delivery notification. The screen showed an "Unknown Number." No caller ID. No location. Just a string of zeros that seemed to pulse with a faint, violet light.

Raka’s thumb hovered over the screen. A primal instinct, something buried deep in his lizard brain, screamed at him not to answer. But his hand moved as if pulled by an invisible wire. He swiped the green icon and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" Raka’s voice was barely a whisper.

At first, there was only static—a high-pitched, white-noise hiss that sounded like a radio station dying in the middle of a storm. Then, the static cleared, replaced by a sound that made Raka’s heart stop.

It was a recording. The quality was distorted, layered with the sound of wind and breaking glass, but the voice was unmistakable.

It was Luna. But not the Luna sitting next to him.

This Luna sounded older. Her voice was shredded by a terror so absolute it didn't sound human. She was screaming—a long, soul-rending shriek of agony and betrayal that echoed through the phone and into the very center of Raka’s soul.

"RAKA! NO! PLEASE! NOT THE HEART! DON'T LET HIM TAKE THE HEART!"

The scream ended in a wet, choking gasp, followed by a low, mechanical hum. Then, a different voice spoke. It was Raka’s voice—the Mogul’s voice—sounding cold, bored, and utterly indifferent.

"The debt is finally collected, my love. Thank you for the time."

The line went dead.

Raka sat frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, his vision tunneling into a pinpoint of white light. Beside him, Luna was looking at him with wide, frightened eyes, her hand reaching out to touch his arm.

"Raka? Who was it? What happened? You're as white as a sheet."

Raka looked at her—at the innocent, happy woman he had fought so hard to save. He felt the note in his pocket. He felt the darkness in his head. And he realized that the gema from the world he had lost hadn't just found him.

They had never actually left.