The CEO's Spirit Rental

The humidity in the cramped hallway was thick enough to choke a man, but the look on Mr. Agus’s face was even more suffocating. He leaned against the doorframe of the tiny, one-room apartment, jingling a set of keys with a rhythmic, irritating metallic click.

"I’m not a charity, Arman. You know how this works," Mr. Agus said, his voice flat.

"I know, I know. Just give me three more days, Mr. Agus," Arman pleaded, clutching the strap of his fraying laptop bag. "I’ve got this freelance gig. A fintech startup. They’re just waiting on the final API integration, and then the payment clears. It’s a huge payout, I swear."

"You’ve been swearing on APIs and integrations for three months. I don't even know what those words mean. I know what 'rent' means, though. And I know you haven't paid it."

"It’s not like I’m slacking! The market is just... it’s rough for freelance coders right now. Everyone wants the world for fifty bucks."

"Then go get a job at a convenience store," Mr. Agus snapped, stepping into the room and grabbing a stack of books from the floor. "The locks are getting changed at noon. I already have a university kid ready to move in. He’s got a deposit. He’s got a soul. He’s got a father who pays his bills."

Arman felt a heat crawl up his neck. "A soul? Really? I’m literally standing here with my life in a backpack."

"And you can keep standing there, just do it on the sidewalk. Get your stuff and go, Arman. Don’t make me call the cops. It’s embarrassing for both of us."

"Fine. Whatever. Take the deposit, keep the crappy desk. I hope the new kid enjoys the mold in the shower."

"The mold is part of the character. Out. Now."

Arman stumbled out into the street, the mid-afternoon sun beating down on the asphalt. He had exactly forty-two dollars in his bank account and a laptop that sounded like a jet engine every time he opened Chrome. He wandered aimlessly, eventually finding himself at the Jalan Surabaya flea market, a sprawling maze of antique junk, fake relics, and the smell of roasting satay.

He needed to sit. He needed to think. But mostly, he needed a miracle.

"Hey, young man. You look like you’ve been cursed by a very boring demon," a voice rasped from the shadows of a tarp-covered stall.

Arman stopped, blinking. An old man sat behind a tray of tarnished silver and dusty trinkets. "Is that a polite way of saying I look like crap?"

"It’s an observation. You have the eyes of a man who just lost his home but still thinks he’s the smartest person in the room."

Arman let out a dry laugh. "I’m a coder. Being the smartest person in the room is part of the job description. Too bad it doesn't pay the rent."

"Knowledge is heavy. Luck is light," the old man said, reaching into a wooden bowl and pulling out a dull, dark green ring. "Here. This is for you."

Arman squinted at it. "What is that? A piece of an old Heineken bottle?"

"It’s jade. Very old, very tired jade. It’s been looking for a new finger to sit on."

"I have five dollars to my name that isn't for food, old man. I can't afford 'very old' anything."

"Five dollars? That’s exactly the price. What a coincidence."

Arman looked at the ring. Despite the dirt covering it, it felt... different. When he picked it up, a strange warmth bled into his palm, a thrumming sensation that made the hair on his arms stand up.

"It feels warm," Arman muttered. "Is there a battery in this?"

"It’s just happy to be touched. Take it. Maybe your luck will change before the sun goes down."

"If this is a scam, you're scamming a guy who’s already at zero," Arman said, tossing a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the tray. "But fine. I’ll take the magic ring. Why the hell not?"

He slipped the ring onto his right ring finger. It was a perfect fit—unnervingly so. It felt like it had shrunk to grip his skin. He walked away, heading toward a nearby park bench to figure out which bridge he’d be sleeping under.

The ring was filthy. As he sat down, he took the hem of his t-shirt and began to rub the surface of the jade, trying to see if there was a pattern underneath the grime. The more he rubbed, the hotter the ring became.

"Ow, damn," he hissed.

A cloud of fine, grey dust rose from the ring, swirling directly into his nose. His nostrils twitched. His eyes watered. A tickle started deep in his sinuses, building with the force of a freight train.

"Hah... hah... HAA-CHOO!"

The sneeze was violent. It felt like his soul had been physically ejected through his nose. His vision shattered into a thousand shards of white light. His heart did a frantic, jagged dance against his ribs, and then—silence. Pure, heavy blackness.

When consciousness returned, it didn't come with the smell of city smog or the hard slats of a park bench. It came with the scent of expensive sandalwood and the hum of a high-end air conditioning system.

Arman blinked. The ceiling above him wasn't the sky. It was a vast expanse of white plaster, accented with intricate gold-leaf molding. He was lying on silk sheets so soft they felt like liquid.

"Sir? You're ten minutes behind schedule. This is unlike you."

The voice was cold, precise, and sounded like a diamond cutting through glass.

Arman bolted upright, his head spinning. A woman stood at the foot of the bed. She wore a charcoal-grey suit that looked like it cost more than his entire college tuition. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful, and she was holding a tablet with the focus of a sniper.

"Who... who are you?" Arman stammered, his voice sounding deeper, smoother, and far more commanding than his usual nasal tone. "Where’s the park? Where’s Mr. Agus?"

The woman didn't even flinch. She just tapped the screen of her tablet. "I don't know who 'Agus' is, but if he’s a new vendor, he hasn't been cleared by security. I’m Dara, your executive assistant. Did you have another one of those 'episodes,' Mr. Lim?"

"Mr. Lim?" Arman looked around. The room was the size of his entire apartment building. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a glittering skyline he didn't recognize. "Who’s Mr. Lim? My name is Arman. I code Java. I’m broke."

Dara sighed, a tiny, controlled sound of exasperation. "Kendrick, we really don't have time for the 'disoriented genius' bit today. The merger with Astra-Global is in two hours. You haven't even looked at the revised projections."

"Kendrick?" Arman looked at his hands. They were manicured. Clean. There were no coffee stains or keyboard callouses. On his right ring finger, the jade ring sat, glowing with a faint, inner light. "What is going on? Is this a prank? Am I on a reality show?"

"If this is a joke, it’s a very expensive one," Dara said, stepping closer. She leaned down, her eyes scanning his face with terrifying efficiency. "You look pale. Do I need to call the private clinic? Or should I just cancel the board meeting and tell them the CEO of Lim Industries has finally lost his mind?"

"CEO?" Arman’s heart hammered. "Lim Industries? Like... the logistics empire? The ones who own half the shipping lanes in the Pacific?"

"The ones you own," Dara corrected. "Now, get out of bed. Your coffee is the exact temperature you like—eighty-two degrees Celsius. If you wait another minute, it will be eighty-one, and you'll likely fire the kitchen staff again."

"I fire people over coffee temperature?" Arman whispered, horrified.

"Regularly. Now, move. The tailor is waiting in the dressing room."

Dara turned on her heel and marched out of the room without waiting for a response.

Arman sat there for a moment, his brain looping. He looked at the ring. It felt heavy now. He scrambled out of the bed, his feet sinking into a rug that felt like walking on a cloud. He stumbled toward a set of massive, mirrored doors at the far end of the room.

He stopped. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched the glass.

The man in the reflection wasn't Arman Wijaya.

The man in the mirror was older, perhaps in his early thirties. He had a sharp, predatory jawline, hair like polished obsidian, and eyes that looked like they had never known a moment of peace. He looked powerful. He looked dangerous. He looked like the kind of man who ate people like Arman for breakfast.

Arman touched his face. The man in the mirror did the same.

"Oh my god," Arman whispered, his voice shaking. "I’m the billionaire."

He looked down at the jade ring. It pulsed once, a dull green throb, as if it were laughing at him.

From the hallway, Dara’s voice boomed. "Sir! The charcoal suit or the navy? We are now twelve minutes behind!"

Arman looked at the door, then back at the mirror. He took a deep breath, trying to channel whatever confidence a man with ten billion dollars was supposed to have.

"The charcoal!" he yelled back, his voice cracking slightly. "And... and tell the kitchen the coffee is fine!"

"Are you feeling alright, sir?" Dara called back, her tone suspicious.

"I’m great!" Arman muttered to himself, gripping the edge of the marble vanity. "I’m literally a god. Just... a god who doesn't know how to run a company. This is going to be a disaster."