Cold-Blooded Barista

AN OLD FRIEND, A NEW THREAT

Rizal stood behind the coffee counter, his fingers tapping lightly against his cup. Outside, the city of Medan was waking up—motorcycles weaved through the narrow streets, vendors shouted their morning deals, and life moved on as usual. But inside Kopi Hitam Rizal, the air was still heavy.

Ucok, still shaken by what had just happened, leaned against the counter. "Zal, be honest with me. Are you sure this won’t turn into a bigger problem?"

Rizal smirked slightly. "Ucok, if Bang Togar already sent people, that means the problem was big from the start."

Ucok scratched his head, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. "Are you sure you don’t just want to run? Like before?"

Rizal stared into his coffee. He had been running long enough. Five years of hiding, changing names, changing lives. But the thing about running was, you could change everything—except who you really were.

Before Rizal could answer, the shop’s bell rang. An old man in a worn-out jacket stepped in, bringing with him the unmistakable scent of clove cigarettes. He looked thinner than the last time Rizal had seen him, but his gaze was still sharp.

Rizal recognized him immediately. "Pak Haris."

Ucok frowned. "Who’s he?"

Pak Haris gave a small smile. "You used to call me Commander."

Ucok’s eyes widened. "You’re kidding, right? This guy’s a former cop?"

Rizal took a deep breath, then gestured for Pak Haris to sit. The man complied without a word, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket but not lighting one.

"Rizal," Pak Haris finally said, his voice deep and steady. "I heard you stirred up some trouble this morning."

Rizal shrugged. "Wasn’t me who started it."

Pak Haris chuckled. "That’s what you always said back in the day. But we both know, in this world, it’s not about who starts it. It’s about who finishes it first."

Ucok looked back and forth between them, then muttered, "I don’t like it when two ex-killers start reminiscing."

Rizal ignored him. "What do you really want, Pak?"

Pak Haris studied him. "I know Bang Togar won’t stop until you’re dead. And I know he has a damn good reason for hunting you down."

"I already told you—I’m retired," Rizal said flatly.

Pak Haris smirked. "And you think they care? You’re not an ordinary man, Rizal. You’re not just some coffee brewer. You’re a legend in the underworld. And unfortunately, legends rarely get to die peacefully."

Ucok swallowed hard. "Okay, this is starting to sound like a bad mafia movie."

Pak Haris ignored him and leaned back in his chair. "I’m not here to scare you. I’m here to offer you a choice."

Rizal narrowed his eyes. "What choice?"

Pak Haris pulled something out of his jacket—a thick brown envelope—and placed it on the table.

"There’s someone who needs to die," he said. "Someone whose death will make Bang Togar think twice before coming after you."

Ucok nearly choked on his coffee. "Wait! He just said he’s retired! You can’t just come in here and—"

"I can," Pak Haris interrupted firmly. "And I know Rizal will listen."

Rizal stared at the envelope, then back at Pak Haris.

"Five years ago, I chose to walk away," he said quietly. "And now you’re here, trying to pull me back in?"

Pak Haris met his gaze without hesitation. "It’s not me pulling you back, Rizal. It’s the world refusing to let you go."

The coffee shop fell silent again. Rizal could hear his own heartbeat slowing down, as if the world itself was giving him time to think.

Outside, the city of Medan contin

ued as usual.

Inside, a long-delayed war was just beginning.