The CEO's Spirit Rental

Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Machine

"Who are you?" Dara whispered again, her voice a sharp blade pressed against his throat. "And what have you done with my boss?"

Arman felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple, but it wasn't the cold, calculated sweat of a billionaire. It was the frantic, 'I’m-about-to-get-arrested' sweat of a freelance coder. He looked at the board members, who were all staring at him with a mixture of confusion and pancake grease on their chins.

"Dara, you’re being... dramatic," Arman said, trying to force a chuckle. "It’s the pancakes! They’ve unlocked a new part of my brain. The right-handed part. The maple syrup part! It’s called neuroplasticity. Look it up."

"I don't need to look it up," Dara snapped, her eyes darting to the jade ring. "You don't have the scar on your knuckle. Kendrick got that in a yachting accident in Bali three years ago. Your hands are... perfect. Too perfect."

"I had surgery!" Arman blurted out, standing up so quickly his chair screeched against the marble floor. "Laser surgery! Very expensive. Very fast. It’s a secret technology from... Finland."

The silver-haired board member narrowed his eyes. "Kendrick, we’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Are we signing the Astra-Global merger or are we talking about Finnish dermatology?"

"We are signing!" Arman shouted, grabbing a fountain pen with his right hand. "We are signing everything! Give me the papers! Let’s merge! Let’s ship things! Let’s do... capitalism!"

"Sir, wait," Dara said, reaching for his arm. "Something is wrong. Your voice is changing. It’s getting... thinner."

Arman felt it then. A sharp, icy prickle at the back of his throat. It wasn't the maple syrup. It was something deeper, something vibrating within his very marrow. The jade ring on his finger began to hum—a low, resonant frequency that made his teeth ache.

"I’m fine!" Arman gasped, but his nose began to twitch. "I’m just... really excited about the shipping lanes!"

"You’re shaking," Dara noted, her hand tightening on his sleeve. "Security, I need a medical team in the executive boardroom immediately. Mr. Lim is having some kind of—"

"Hah..." Arman’s eyes bugged out. "Hah-hh..."

"Kendrick?" the silver-haired man asked, standing up.

"Hah-CHOO!"

The sneeze was even more violent than the first one. It felt like a physical explosion behind his eyes. The boardroom, the mahogany table, the expensive suits, and Dara’s terrifyingly beautiful face all shattered into a million vibrating pixels.

*

Thump.

"Ow. My head. My everything," Arman groaned.

He wasn't on silk sheets. He wasn't in a charcoal suit. He was lying on a cold, concrete floor that smelled overwhelmingly of industrial-grade lemon cleaner and stale mop water.

"Where... where am I?" he muttered, blinking against the dim light of a single flickering fluorescent bulb.

He looked down at his hands. They were his hands. The keyboard callouses were back. The faint stain of ink on his thumb was back. He was wearing his fraying hoodie and the jeans that had a hole in the left pocket. His laptop bag was slumped next to him like a loyal, pathetic dog.

"The broom closet," he whispered, looking up at the shelves of stacked toilet paper and gallon-sized jugs of bleach. "The ring... it put my body in a closet?"

He looked at his right hand. The jade ring was still there, but it looked dull again. The green glow had vanished, replaced by the look of a cheap piece of glass from a flea market.

"Okay, Arman. Think. You just sneezed yourself out of a billion-dollar life," he told himself, scrambling to his feet. "And you’re currently trespassing in the most high-security building in Jakarta."

Suddenly, a crackle of static echoed through the small space. A walkie-talkie was sitting on a small charging dock near the door.

"All units, Code Silver. Repeat, Code Silver," a voice barked over the radio. "The CEO has disappeared from the boardroom. I don't care if he’s a ghost, find him. Check every floor. Secure the exits. Nobody leaves without a full ID check."

"Code Silver? That sounds expensive," Arman whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "And very, very bad for me."

He pressed his ear against the closet door. He could hear the frantic rhythm of footsteps in the hallway outside—heavy, polished shoes. Security.

"I need to get out," he muttered. "I need to get out right now."

He slowly turned the handle and peeked out. The hallway was a sleek, white corridor of glass and steel. To his left, two security guards were sprinting toward the elevator bank. To his right, a service door.

"Service door. Service door is good," he hissed, dashing across the hall.

He burst through the door and found himself in a concrete stairwell. He started down the stairs, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the metal treads.

"Floor sixty... fifty-nine... fifty-eight..." he panted. "This is going to take forever. My legs aren't built for a sixty-story descent. I’m a coder, not a marathon runner!"

He stopped at the fifty-fifth floor and peeked through the heavy door. A janitor was pushing a cart toward the freight elevator.

"Hey! Excuse me!" Arman called out, trying to sound like he belonged there.

The janitor, an older man with a weary face, stopped and looked at him. "You’re not supposed to be in the stairwell, kid. Fire regulations."

"I know! I’m so sorry," Arman said, leaning against the doorframe and catching his breath. "I’m with the... IT subcontracting team? We were doing a wire-run on sixty, but the elevator is acting weird. Is the freight one working?"

The janitor squinted at him. "The freight elevator is for staff only. You got a badge?"

"I... I left it in the van. My boss is going to kill me. Look, I just need to get to the lobby before the whole place goes into lockdown. I heard some executive went missing?"

The janitor sighed, shaking his head. "Mr. Lim. Probably went off on another tantrum. The man’s a menace. Fine, hop in. But if security asks, you’re helping me move these recycling bins."

"I love recycling!" Arman said, stepping into the industrial elevator. "It’s my favorite hobby. Truly."

As the elevator began its slow, rattling descent, Arman stared at the floor, his mind racing. He had been a billionaire for... what? An hour? He had eaten the world’s most expensive pancakes and yelled at a board of directors. Now, he was hiding behind a bin of shredded paper.

"You okay, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost," the janitor said.

"Just a weird day," Arman replied. "You ever feel like you were meant for something bigger? Like, way bigger? Like, ten-billion-dollars bigger?"

The janitor laughed. "Every time I look at my paycheck, kid. But dreams don't pay the bus fare. Just stay quiet. Security is crawling all over the lobby."

The elevator dinked as it reached the ground floor. The doors slid open to reveal the massive, high-ceilinged lobby. It was chaos. Security guards were forming lines at the revolving doors. Staff members were being pulled aside for questioning.

"Good luck, kid," the janitor whispered. "Try to look like you're supposed to be poor."

"I don't have to try very hard," Arman muttered.

He stepped out, clutching his laptop bag tightly. He kept his head down, walking toward the side exit used by delivery drivers. He was only twenty feet from the door when a voice sliced through the noise like a cold wind.

"Stop that man."

Arman froze. His blood turned to slush. He knew that voice. It was the voice that had demanded eighty-two-degree coffee.

He slowly turned around. Dara was standing near the main reception desk. She looked frazzled—hair slightly out of place, her eyes wide and scanning the crowd with predatory intensity. She was talking to the Head of Security, but her gaze had locked onto Arman.

"You," she said, stepping toward him. "In the hoodie."

"Me?" Arman squeaked, pointing to himself. "I'm just... I'm the IT guy. Java updates. Very boring stuff."

Dara walked toward him, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. The security guards closed in, forming a loose circle around him. She stopped three feet away, her nose wrinkling slightly as she looked him up and down.

"What is your name?" she asked, her voice dangerously low.

"Arman," he said, his voice cracking. "Arman Wijaya. I’m a freelancer. I was just... checking the routers."

"We don't use freelancers for our internal network," Dara said, her eyes narrowing. "And the routers are on the fourth floor, not the sixtieth."

"I... I got lost? It’s a very big building. Very impressive architecture. Five stars on G****e Maps."

Dara stepped closer, so close he could see the gold flecks in her dark irises. She didn't look like she was looking at a trespasser. She looked like she was solving a puzzle that didn't make sense.

She leaned in, her face inches from his. She took a sharp, lingering breath.

Arman held his breath, praying his heart wouldn't beat out of his chest.

"That scent," Dara whispered, her eyes widening in shock.

"Scent?" Arman stammered. "Oh, that’s... that’s probably the Pine-Sol from the closet. I mean, the hallway. Or the... street food?"

"No," Dara said, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s not Pine-Sol. It’s cheap laundry detergent. The kind sold in bulk at the corner stores in Tanah Abang. Lily-scented, but with a chemical undertone of 'Mountain Spring.'"

Arman blinked. "You... you have a very specific nose, Dara."

"I smelled it this morning," she said, her gaze dropping to his right hand, which he was trying to hide behind his back. "When I was dressing the CEO. He smelled like that for exactly five seconds before his cologne took over. And he had a ring... a green jade ring."

"I don't know anything about a CEO," Arman said, backing away toward the door. "I’m just a guy who needs to go home and maybe cry into a bowl of noodles."

Dara reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from his hoodie sleeve. "Who are you, Arman Wijaya? And why do you smell like the man who was sitting in my boardroom ten minutes ago?"

"I'm just a coder!" Arman yelled, suddenly bolting for the revolving doors.

"Security! Get him!" Dara screamed.

Arman didn't look back. He burst through the glass doors, the humid Jakarta air hitting him like a physical weight. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of guards and the frantic clicking of Dara’s heels.

He didn't know where he was going. He just knew that the miracle he’d asked for had just turned into the most dangerous game of his life. And as he ran, the jade ring on his finger gave one final, playful throb of green light.