Frozen Retribution

Chapter8

CHAPTER 8 — Investments from a Future No One Else Remembers

Vania Halim's office smelled faintly of good coffee and better perfume, and she'd cleared her entire afternoon the moment his assistant called to confirm.

"You want to move three hundred million into these six positions," she said, scrolling through the list Bagas had emailed that morning, "within the week. Some of these are... unusual choices, Pak Bagas. This mining subsidiary has been flat for two years."

"It won't be flat in six weeks," Bagas said.

She studied him over the rim of her glasses, the kind of look reserved for clients who were either brilliant or about to become a very expensive lesson in humility. "You understand I have to file a compliance note for transfers this size."

"File whatever you need to. Just make sure the transfers clear by Friday."

She did — every one of them, exactly as instructed, and if she found his confidence unsettling she was professional enough not to let it show beyond one raised eyebrow and a slightly longer pause than necessary before she signed off on the paperwork.

"Dinner," she said again, sliding the folder back across the desk once the last transfer confirmed. "You still haven't said yes."

"I haven't said no, either," Bagas said, which was as close to flirtation as he had energy for these days. "Ask me again once I've made you a very large amount of money."

She laughed — surprised, genuine. "Now that's a strategy I can respect."

He left her office and didn't think about her again for three days, which was exactly as much attention as he had left to spare. Every morning brought fresh headlines: a mining stock up nine percent overnight on a discovery no analyst had predicted, a commodities fund spiking on a supply disruption that wouldn't hit the news for another week, a currency play that made three separate finance columnists write breathless pieces about "the mystery investor from Jakarta."

Bagas read none of the columns. He only watched the numbers climb, night after night, in the quiet of his new house, the glow of his laptop the only light in a room he still hadn't bothered furnishing beyond the essentials.

Three hundred million became four hundred and twenty within two weeks.

Four hundred and twenty became six hundred and ninety by the end of the month.

He barely slept, and didn't especially want to. Sleep, these days, came with the memory of a knife and a voice that called him useful one last time.

On the twenty-second day, his phone rang with a number he hadn't saved.

"You've been busy," Kurnia said, without a greeting.

Bagas set down his coffee, unsurprised. "Adiputra. I wondered when you'd call."

"Lara's a mess," Kurnia said, and there was something underneath his casual tone that hadn't been there in the frozen apartment three months and one lifetime from now — something almost like nerves. "Her family blames her for everything. Blames me, when they remember I exist. I don't particularly enjoy being blamed for a marriage I didn't ask you to end."

"You ended it the night you kissed her in front of me," Bagas said. "I just made it official."

A long pause. "What do you want, Bagas? Money? An apology? Tell me what makes this stop."

"There's nothing you can give me that stops anything," Bagas said, and for the first time in the conversation his voice lost its patience entirely. "You should be more worried about what's coming than what already happened."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact." Bagas looked out at the clear evening sky beyond his window, counting silently: seventy days. "Enjoy the weather while it lasts, Kurnia. It won't."

He hung up before Kurnia could ask what that meant, and sat for a long time afterward with the phone still in his hand, wondering — not for the first time — exactly how much of what was coming Kurnia had somehow already begun to sense.