The CEO's Spirit Rental

Chapter 13: The Protocol of Ghosts

"Dara, you’re overthinking this," Arman said, his voice coming out flatter than he intended. He tried to mimic the arrogant, clipped cadence of the man he was currently wearing, but the ring—that cold, pulsing band of metal—seemed to be vibrating against his marrow, disrupting his focus. "Stress does strange things to the memory. You know the merger negotiations have been bleeding me dry."

Dara didn't buy it. She crossed the room, the click of her heels sounding like a countdown. She stopped just shy of his personal space, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the way he held his shoulders. "Stress doesn't change your handwriting, Arman. And it certainly doesn't make you forget the Laksamana handshake—the one you invented for our Indonesian regional partners, the one you swore you’d never perform with anyone else."

Arman felt a jolt of genuine terror. His mind flashed back to the morning meeting—a blur of faces, suits, and the desperate need to blend in. He had greeted a potential investor, a man named Pak Wijaya, with a complex, three-part grip that had felt entirely intuitive. It wasn't something he had learned; it was something he had remembered while his body moved on its own.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arman replied, his throat dry.

"Don't lie to me," Dara snapped, her composure fracturing. She placed her palms flat on the desk, leaning into his space. "I watched you. You performed the sequence flawlessly. You even whispered the phrase about 'the tide rising with the harbor' in that specific, archaic Javanese dialect you only ever used when you were mocking the board. You were Kendrick in that moment. And then, five minutes later, you asked me how to unlock the encrypted folder on the main server—a folder you created, protected, and used every single day for the last five years."

The white cat on the windowsill jumped down, its paws landing silently on the plush carpet. It paced toward them, eyes glowing with a feral, unsettling intelligence. It stopped at Dara’s feet and let out a sharp, demanding yowl.

"Look, Dara," Arman began, struggling to find the words. He needed to deflect, to steer her back to the narrative Kendrick had hammered into his brain. "I’ve been... I’ve been struggling with some cognitive issues. The accident—the fall—it rattled more than just my ego. My doctors are recommending I keep my routine as rigid as possible to bridge the gaps."

Dara shook her head, her expression softening into something far more dangerous than anger: pity. "You’re not Kendrick. I’ve known him since the university days in Surabaya. He’s cold, he’s arrogant, and he never, ever hesitates. You, on the other hand, look at me like you’re afraid I’m going to bite you. You’re hesitant. You apologize when you bump into furniture."

"I am trying to change my management style," Arman countered, desperate to end this interrogation. "I thought it would be better for the company culture."

"Stop," Dara said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If you are a double, a corporate shadow hired to keep the stock price from cratering while the real Kendrick recovers, I can work with that. I can even protect you. But you have to stop pretending you are him. The moment someone with actual authority tests you, you’ll be exposed. And they won’t just fire you, Arman. They’ll liquidate you."

Arman felt the ring heat up suddenly, a searing spike of pain that traveled up his arm and settled behind his eyes. He clutched his chest, gasping for breath. The cat let out another piercing yowl, its tail twitching with rhythmic intensity.

"You're shaking," Dara noted, her voice wavering. She reached out to grab his arm, her fingers brushing his sleeve. "What is that? Are you on medication? Is that what the ring is?"

"Don't touch it!" Arman shouted, pulling back with such force that his chair skidded across the hardwood and slammed into the wall. He stood there, chest heaving, his hand still locked in his pocket.

Dara froze, her hand hanging in the air. The silence that followed was suffocating. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline of Jakarta stretched out, a dense, shimmering tapestry of light and industry. Somewhere down below, the city hummed with the indifferent life of millions, entirely unaware that the man behind the desk was a puppet dancing on strings made of ancient metal and stolen memory.

"Who are you, really?" Dara asked, her tone now strictly professional, as if she were interrogating a witness in a deposition.

Arman looked at the cat. The animal stood still, watching him with an intensity that felt like a command. He looked back at Dara, seeing the genuine concern hidden beneath her sharp, icy veneer. She was his strongest ally, he realized. But she was also a liability.

"My name is Arman," he said, the truth feeling like a physical weight leaving his chest. "And I didn't ask for this. I was recruited. Not by Kendrick, but by his circumstances."

Dara’s eyebrows shot up. "Recruited by whom? The board? The Silent Three?"

"I don't know who they are," Arman lied, though he suspected. The ring throbbed in warning. "I was told I was a body double, a placeholder to ensure the company didn't collapse during a volatile transition period. I was given the ring to 'help me retain the necessary memories.' They said it was bio-tech. A mnemonic device."

Dara paced the office, her heels rhythmically striking the floor. "Bio-tech. That’s insane. Nothing on the market is that sophisticated. You're telling me you’re being controlled by a piece of jewelry?"

"I'm telling you that when I wear it, I don't feel like myself," Arman admitted, moving toward the desk. "I feel like I'm drowning in another man's life. I know the passwords, the history, the failures, the secrets. I remember things that never happened to me."

Dara walked to the window, staring out at the hazy horizon. "And the real Kendrick? Where is he?"

Arman glanced at the cat again. The creature was sitting perfectly still, its golden eyes fixed on the door, as if listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. "He’s closer than you think, Dara. But he’s not in a state where he can run the company. If I leave, the board will tear this place apart. They’re already waiting for a sign of weakness."

"Weakness is all I’ve seen for the last forty-eight hours," Dara replied sharply, turning to face him. She walked over to the desk and leaned down, lowering her voice. "If we’re going to survive this, we need to stop the guessing game. I need to know what you can do and what the ring forces you to do. And I need to know why that cat is looking at me like it understands every word we’re saying."

Arman laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "I think it does. I think it’s the only thing keeping me sane."

Dara stepped closer, her expression resolute. "We’re going to run a test. A control simulation. I’m going to give you a set of scenarios—the kind that come up in board meetings, the ones that trip you up. We will refine your responses. We will build a 'Kendrick' that is consistent enough to pass a casual inspection by the Silent Three."

"And if I can't?" Arman asked.

"Then we find a way to get rid of the ring," Dara said, her voice dropping even further. "Or we find a way to make sure the ring belongs to someone who deserves the consequences. But for now? You play the part. And you do it perfectly."

Arman sat back down, the chair groaning under his weight. He felt the ring’s pulse slow, matching his own heartbeat. The immediate panic began to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that he knew wasn't entirely his own.

"Where do we start?" he asked.

Dara opened her tablet and pulled up a list of files. "The upcoming merger with the logistics firm in Tanjung Priok. You’ve been stalling for weeks. The board is getting impatient. We need to go in there and show them that Kendrick is back—ruthless, decisive, and entirely unbothered by whatever 'accident' supposedly happened to him."

"Tanjung Priok," Arman murmured, the name triggering a wave of technical data, shipping manifests, and cutthroat pricing models in his mind. He blinked, the information surfacing with terrifying ease. "We leverage the port fees. We undercut their primary carrier, and we squeeze them until they’re forced to accept our acquisition terms. It’s a clean sweep."

Dara stared at him, her eyes wide. "That... that was exactly what he would have said. You didn't even hesitate."

"The ring," Arman whispered, touching his hand. "It’s learning. Or maybe it’s just letting me access what’s already there."

"Then let it learn faster," Dara said, pulling a chair closer to his. "Because we have a gala on Friday, and if you don't dance with the primary stakeholder’s wife without tripping over your own feet, we’re going to be out of a job—or worse."

Arman felt the weight of the situation settle in his gut. The life he had known—the quiet, unassuming existence he had lived before this—felt like a dream fading with the dawn. He was trapped, bound to a ghost and a piece of technology he didn't understand, surrounded by enemies who were waiting for him to slip.

"One more thing," Dara said, her hand reaching out to touch his sleeve again, though this time she stopped short. "Are you in there? The real Arman?"

Arman looked at her, then down at the cat, which had now settled into a comfortable loaf position near his feet. "I’m in here, Dara. But I think I’m losing territory."

"Fight it," she ordered, her voice firm. "Don't let him consume you. If we’re going to pull this off, I need a partner, not a puppet."

"I'll try," Arman said, though the promise felt flimsy, like a house of cards in a monsoon.

"Try isn't good enough," she said, tapping her fingers on the desk. "Now, let’s go over the shipping logistics. You need to know exactly how much blood you’re about to spill."

As they began to work, the room seemed to shrink around them. Outside, the Jakarta sky grew darker, the twilight bleeding into a deep, bruised purple. Arman leaned into the work, the cold, calculating voice of the ring guiding his fingers across the keyboard, while the real Arman watched from the back of his own mind, terrified of what he was becoming.

He was no longer just a body double. He was an accessory to power, a vessel for a man who refused to die, and a pawn in a game that was far larger than he could have ever imagined. And as the hours passed, he realized with a sinking heart that he was starting to enjoy the cold, hard logic of it all.

The cat stretched, its claws unsheathing for a brief second before it settled back into a slumber. Arman didn't know if the animal was sleeping or watching, but he knew one thing for certain: the transition was accelerating. By the time Friday arrived, he might not be able to tell the difference between his own thoughts and the ones the ring whispered into his soul.

"Good," Dara said, closing the file on her tablet as the clock struck midnight. "That’s enough for tonight. Get some rest, Arman. You’re going to need every ounce of clarity you have left."

Arman watched her walk to the door. She didn't look back. He was left alone in the vast, silent penthouse with only the cat for company. He looked down at the ring, which was glowing with a faint, rhythmic amber light.

"Who are you?" he whispered to the band.

There was no answer, only the low, vibration of the metal, humming against his skin like a secret that refused to be spoken. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn't in Jakarta. He was on the deck of a shipping freighter, the smell of salt and diesel hanging in the air, the cold wind of the Java Sea cutting through his jacket. He was Kendrick. And he was waiting for his moment to return.

Arman jerked his eyes open, gasping for air. The penthouse was silent. The cat was staring at him, its eyes reflecting the city lights below, cold and unblinking.

"Not yet," Arman whispered. "Not today."

He stood up and walked to the window, the glass cold against his forehead. He watched the city of Jakarta pulse with life, a million lights competing against the dark. Somewhere out there, the Silent Three were watching, waiting for a sign, waiting for the man they thought they had killed to reveal himself.

Arman knew that the only way to survive was to become the predator he was pretending to be. He looked at his reflection in the glass. The face was the same, but the eyes—the eyes were starting to change. They were becoming harder, sharper, more distant.

He didn't know if he was saving the company or if he was simply digging his own grave, but one thing was clear: there was no going back to the life he had once known. The bridge was burned, the path was set, and the ring was drawing him deeper into a world of wealth, betrayal, and power.

He turned away from the window and headed toward his bedroom, the weight of the ring feeling heavier with every step. Tomorrow was another day, another performance, another layer of his own identity being stripped away. He had to be perfect. He had to be Kendrick. And most importantly, he had to make sure the ring didn't pull him under completely.

He lay down on the bed, but he didn't sleep. He watched the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city, waiting for the dawn to break. He was a man with no name, living a life that didn't belong to him, and he was realizing, with a sense of dread that he couldn't quite name, that he was the only thing standing between the truth and a collapse that would change the course of the city forever.

The cat jumped onto the bed and curled up at the foot of his feet, its breathing heavy and rhythmic. Arman reached down to pet it, his hand hesitating before finally making contact. The animal didn't resist. It leaned into his touch, its fur soft and warm.

"We’re going to make it," Arman whispered to the darkness.

The cat didn't respond, but for the first time since he had put the ring on, Arman felt a sense of peace—or perhaps it was just the ring settling in, making itself at home in his mind. He drifted off, the line between him and the phantom in the metal blurring into the deep, quiet dark of the Jakarta night. The stage was set, the roles were cast, and the play was already in motion. The only question left was how it would end.

He closed his eyes, and the last thing he saw was the shimmer of the ring, a beacon in the dark, leading him toward a future he couldn't control. He was ready for the morning. He was ready for the boardroom. He was ready to be the man he was forced to be. And as the hours ticked by, the silence of the room felt not like a void, but like an ending. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something else entirely. Something far more dangerous, and far more powerful than he had ever dreamed. He was Arman, but he was also the ghost, and for now, that was enough.