The Adopted Son: Revenge

3

**Chapter 3**  

**The First Crack**

The procurement manager’s name was Pak Hasan. He was not a man who usually panicked, but that morning he had already called the same number three times without anyone answering.

“How is this possible,” he muttered to himself, staring at the screen that displayed last night’s cancellation email. The packaging contract was not just a small discount. For the past two years, that special price had kept Wiratama Group’s production margins healthy, while their two major competitors struggled against the rise in global raw-material prices. And now, without warning, everything was canceled starting next month.

He finally gathered the courage to enter Mbak Wulan’s office. That morning she was busy explaining the new organizational structure to Bimo in the meeting room.

“Bu Direktur,” he said, a little out of breath, “there’s a problem with the packaging vendor contract.”

“What problem?” Mbak Wulan did not fully turn her head, still pointing at the chart on the projector screen for Bimo.

“It’s been canceled. Starting next month. They said there’s a personal matter from the person who has been handling the agreement.”

Mbak Wulan frowned. “That agreement is under the company’s name, isn’t it?”

“That’s the problem, Bu.” Pak Hasan hesitated for a moment before continuing. “The contract was never under the company’s name. From the beginning, it was a personal agreement between the vendor and… Pak Raka.”

The room suddenly went quiet.

“Raka?” Bimo, who had been listening silently, asked. “What do you mean by a personal agreement?”

“As far as I know,” Pak Hasan answered carefully, because he knew this was not news anyone in that room wanted to hear, “there are many agreements like this that were held directly by Pak Raka. Not just the packaging vendor. There are also alternative financing channels, several regional distributors, even logistics discounts that we’ve always considered standard company arrangements.”

Mbak Wulan was silent for several seconds. Her face tried to remain calm, but her fingers tapping on the table betrayed that calm.

“Why am I only hearing about this now?”

Pak Hasan did not answer, because the answer was too obvious to be spoken out loud in that room—the answer that everyone probably already knew but had never been willing to admit: because no one had ever bothered to ask how all those conveniences had come about, as long as everything ran smoothly.

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At the orphanage, Raka woke that morning to the smell of coffee from the kitchen—something he had not felt in a long time as a calming habit rather than just a routine before exhausting morning meetings.

Ajeng was already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her own tea while reading something on a battered phone with a cracked corner on the screen.

“Kakak,” she said without looking up, “if you want to help around here, there’s work. The back warehouse roof is leaking, and there’s an electricity bill that hasn’t been paid this month.”

Raka sat across from her. “How much is the bill?”

Ajeng mentioned a number that, compared to the routine expenses at the Wiratama house, felt almost insignificant. But he could see from the way she spoke, from the way she calculated while tapping a pen on the table, that this small number was a heavy burden here.

“I’ll help,” Raka said.

“You’re not working anymore.” Ajeng looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t force yourself. We’re used to finding our own way.”

“I still have savings,” Raka lied partially, because what he had was not only savings, but also a small network he had quietly maintained for fifteen years—a network that only last night he had begun to shake from one side. “Just consider it temporary help.”

Ajeng stared at him for a long time, as if weighing whether she should trust him or not, before finally nodding slowly. “Fine. But if you suddenly leave again like before, I won’t be surprised.”

There was a tone in that sentence that made Raka realize this girl had long learned not to hope too much for anyone who came and left this house. He did not reply with a promise, because a promise felt too cheap for a situation like this. He only nodded and began thinking of the leaking warehouse roof as the first problem he could solve today—something far simpler than the problems he had left behind in that large, high-walled house.

In the afternoon, while he was inspecting the warehouse roof with Mbah Darmo, three large men stood in front of the orphanage gate. One of them knocked on the iron fence with a wooden stick, his face making no attempt to hide his intention at all.

“Is Pak Darmo home?” The voice was loud, deliberately meant to be heard by everyone inside the orphanage. “There’s business about a debt that hasn’t been settled.”