30 Days to Unmake a Monster

Chapter 9: The Curriculum of Hate and the Fracturing of Hope

The silence in the apartment this morning felt like a dull blade being dragged slowly across skin. The warm aroma of fried rice was gone, replaced by the stinging, sterile odor of chemical cleaners. It felt as though Luna were trying to scrub away every lingering trace of humanity from the room.

Raka sat on the edge of his seat, watching Luna’s rigid silhouette against the window. She hadn't looked at him once since they returned from the park. The clock on her wrist had stopped its frantic blinking, now settled on a chilling 12:15:30:45. They had gained fifteen hours, but the cost was an atmosphere so thick it was suffocating.

Luna, Raka said, his voice a dry rasp. We don’t have to do this. There has to be another way besides making me despise you.

Luna turned slowly. Her eyes, which had briefly flickered with warmth the night before, were once again two impenetrable blocks of ice. She held a thick red folder—some relic summoned from her future.

Another way? She let out a short, acerbic laugh. Every time we try another way, we lose time, Raka. We lost six days in a single heartbeat. You think we have the luxury of being romantic? You think life is some K-drama where everything works out just because we care?

She walked over to his desk and, without a word, swept his hand-drawn logo sketches onto the floor.

What the hell are you doing?! Raka bolted upright, his temper flaring.

This is garbage, Raka, she said coldly, grinding her heel into one of the drawings. You think going back to basics makes you a saint? You’re just a failure looking for an escape, hiding from the fact that you’ll never succeed without being a shark.

I’m trying to avoid your shortcuts! Raka clenched his fists, his jaw tight. I’m trying to be the man you used to love. The man who actually had dreams!

Luna laughed again, harder and more cutting this time. Dreams? The man with dreams died of starvation, you idiot. You want to know why you became a monster in the future? Because you realized that being good gets you nothing but unpaid bills and a cramped apartment that smells like old laundry.

She reached into her bag and threw a brown envelope at his chest. Open it.

Raka’s hands shook as he pulled out the contents: legal documents and surveillance photos. This wasn't the high-life version of himself he’d seen before. These were shots of him signing eviction notices for an orphanage and laughing while his business rivals went bankrupt.

Those are the choices you’re going to make, Luna said, poking a finger into his chest. And do you know who helped you make them? I did. I was the one whispering those schemes in your ear because I was tired of being poor with you. We’re both monsters, Raka. We destroy each other.

Raka felt his world collapsing. No... you said you came back to save me.

I came back to save myself! Luna screamed. Her face was flushed, but her eyes remained hauntingly dry. I’m tired of being haunted by the ghost of a man I hate but can’t leave. If I can make you hate me now—if I can make you kick me out in disgust—then the timeline breaks. You’ll never marry me, you’ll never find that kind of success, and I... I’ll finally be free!

She snatched Raka’s favorite coffee mug—a faded old thing with a cat on it, his only keepsake from his late mother—and hurled it against the wall.

CRASH!

The porcelain shattered into a million pieces.

Luna! That was my mother’s! Raka’s voice broke with pure, unadulterated fury. He lunged forward, grabbing her collar. You’ve gone too far! I tried to be kind, I tried to change for you, and you destroy the only thing I have left?

Luna didn’t fight back. She stared at him with a defiant, cruel smirk. Good. There it is. Get angry, Raka. Hate me. Hit me if you have to. Prove that the monster is already in there, just waiting to get out.

Raka froze. He saw himself reflected in her eyes—flushed, shaking, on the verge of doing something he’d regret forever. Then he saw her wrist. The red numbers were racing forward. 12:16:00:00... 13:05:22:10...

Their time was increasing in direct proportion to his hatred.

He slowly let go, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He knelt to pick up the shards with his bare hands, the sharp porcelain slicing his fingers. Blood dripped onto the cold floor.

Raka, your hand... Luna reflexively stepped forward, reaching out as if to help.

DON’T TOUCH ME! Raka barked.

Luna froze. She looked at his blood, looked at the devastation in his eyes, and realized she had just torn something far more precious than a timeline: his trust.

She backed away, her face pale. She pressed a button on her wrist. The display read: 15:00:00:00.

Three days added. A technical victory that felt like a total spiritual defeat.

Training is over for today, she said, her voice hollow and robotic. Simulation Seven was a success. You feel it now, don’t you? The bitter taste in your mouth when you look at me? Hold onto that, Raka. It’s your only shield.

She went to the bed and buried herself under the covers. Raka sat on the floor, clutching the bloody shards of his mother’s mug. He didn’t feel the pain in his hand; he only felt the gaping hole in his chest.

Luna was right. He was starting to hate her. He hated how she manipulated him, and he hated how she destroyed his memories.

But what he hated most was that even now, he wanted to hold her and ask: how broken were you in the future that you felt you had to be this cruel to save me?

Outside, the Jakarta sky was a bruised gray, as if the clouds themselves couldn't bear to watch. And on Luna’s wrist, those fifteen days glowed bright—a death sentence wrapped in a gift of time.

The echoes of the future did not come that night.

He didn't need to make an appearance.

Inside that room, Raka and Luna were already fashioning a private hell all their own, requiring no help from anyone else.