The Man Who Bought The Apocalypse

Chapter 3: Building the Cover

"Not tonight," Radit said, stepping back from the motorbike. "Tell your boss I’m busy making the money I owe him."

The rider chuckled, his voice muffled by the helmet. "He doesn't like waiting. He’s the type to take a pound of flesh if you're late."

"He’ll like the interest I’m going to pay him even more. Tell him to watch the news in three days. If he’s smart, he’ll stay out of my way until then."

"You’ve got a big mouth for a kid with zero balance."

"It’s not empty. It’s just between cycles. Now get moving. You’re scaring the locals."

The rider revved his engine, the vibrations rattling the folder in Radit's hand. "Don’t make me come looking for you, Radit. It won't be an invitation next time."

The bike roared off, leaving a cloud of blue exhaust. Radit didn't wait. He ducked into a nearby convenience store, his eyes scanning the shelves with predatory hunger. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-thousand rupiah note he'd found tucked into his old university ID.

"One pack of instant noodles," Radit said, slamming the note on the counter. "The cheap stuff."

"Just one?" the clerk asked, looking at Radit’s disheveled hair. "We have a deal for three."

"One is all I need. Keep the change."

Back in his humid, single-room apartment, the smell of artificial chicken seasoning filled the air. He slurped the noodles with a rhythmic, mechanical focus, his eyes glued to the monitor.

"Malindo Unggas," Radit whispered. "July 15th, 2014."

He pulled up the trading interface. He had successfully liquidated the gamer PC at Gani’s place, but that money had gone into the land deed. Now, he had exactly eighty-five thousand rupiahs left in a hidden digital wallet he’d forgotten he owned in this life.

"It’s not enough to buy. But it’s enough to leverage a short."

He began typing frantically.

"Going down, you beautiful, sick chickens. Three... two... one... Sell."

The confirmation box ticked. He had bet against the biggest poultry firm in the country using a 50x leverage. One slight uptick in their stock price and his eighty-five thousand would vanish. But Radit knew what was coming. In three days, a massive health inspector leak would reveal tainted feed across their entire southern sector.

His phone chimed. It was Gani.

"Radit, the GPU works great, but seriously—are you okay? You looked like a ghost earlier."

"I’m working, Gani. Don't call me for three days."

"Working? You look like you're going to die! Is this about the loan sharks? My cousin knows a guy—"

"I don't need a guy. I need silence. See you on the other side."

He hung up and grabbed his jacket. Trading alone wouldn't cover the margin if the volatility hit. He needed raw cash, and he needed it fast.

Seven hours later, Radit was hauling crates at the Kramat Jati wholesale market. The air was thick with the smell of rotting fruit and damp cardboard.

"Move it, college boy! You're slowing down the line!" a man with a protruding belly barked.

"The line is moving fine, Jarot," Radit grunted, hoisting another thirty-kilogram crate of shallots.

"You've been here since midnight. Why? You need drug money?"

"I need rent. Mind your business."

"Look at your hands, kid! They're shaking. You looks like a leaf in a hurricane."

"Energy drinks," Radit lied, setting the crate down with a heavy thud. "One more hour."

"You're crazy. I’ve seen desperate, but you’re on a whole different level. What are you even doing after this?"

"Another shift. Delivery."

"You're gonna drop dead before the sun’s fully up!"

"Then I’ll be the fastest corpse you ever saw. Where’s the next crate?"

By 10:00 AM, Radit was standing inside a sleek, air-conditioned bank branch in South Jakarta. He looked like he’d been dragged through a gutter—sweaty, soot-stained, and eyes bloodshot.

"Mr. Radit? If that is your real name?" the branch manager, a man named Budi, said. He was looking at a series of small, rapid-fire transactions on Radit’s account.

"It is. What’s the problem?"

"These inputs. Fifty thousand here, seventy thousand there... and then you’re pushing them into high-risk leveraged derivatives? It looks suspicious."

"Is it illegal to be poor and hopeful, Mr. Budi?"

"It looks like you're trying to hide something. Are you laundering small-scale cash?"

Radit leaned forward, the smell of market sweat clashing with Budi’s expensive cologne. "My grandfather died three days ago. Or he will, soon. He’s been stuffing money into a jar under his bed for years because he doesn't trust banks."

Budi blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The 'funny transactions' are me depositing his life savings bit by bit because I’m embarrassed to bring a jar of coins into a place this nice. Look at me. Do I look like a financial mastermind or a grandson trying to cover medical bills?"

Budi softened, his skepticism replaced by a flicker of pity. "Look, kid... I get it. But these trades you're making... shorting Malindo? They're the strongest firm in the sector. You’re going to lose everything."

"It’s what he wanted," Radit said, his voice cracking with fake emotion. "He had a vision about chickens. He told me they were bad news."

"A vision? You're betting your inheritance on a dying man's hallucination?"

"Final wishes, right? Can you clear the block on the wallet or not?"

Budi sighed, tapping the screen. "Fine. But don't come crying when you're back to zero. You have twenty-four hours before the next compliance sweep."

"That’s all I need."

Radit walked out of the bank, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He checked his phone.

July 15th. 2:00 PM.

The notification feed on his news app was quiet. Then, a single headline appeared.

‘BREAKING: Health Ministry Seizes PT Malindo Shipments in Bandung.’

Radit stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. People bumped into him, cursing, but he didn't move. He opened his trading app.

The red line on Malindo Unggas's graph didn't just dip. It fell off a cliff. It was a vertical drop into the abyss.

"Come on," he hissed. "Burn. Burn for me."

The profit counter on his screen began to move.

IDR 1,000,000.

IDR 5,000,000.

IDR 20,000,000.

"Yes... keep going."

IDR 80,000,000.

IDR 150,000,000.

The screen flickered as the leverage calculated the exponential gains. He had turned his market-shift wages and forgotten pennies into a small fortune in less than sixty minutes.

Suddenly, his screen went black.

"What? No! Not now!"

He tapped the screen frantically. A notification appeared at the top: Service Unavailable. High Traffic.

"Don't do this to me!" He sprinted toward a nearby internet cafe, his lungs burning. He burst through the door, scaring a group of middle-schoolers playing games.

"I need a terminal! Now!"

"Login is five thousand, bro—"

"Keep the change!" Radit threw his last crate-hauling money onto the desk.

He logged in. The charts were back. The crash had deepened. He hit the 'CLOSE POSITION' button with such force the mouse clicked loudly.

Position Closed: IDR 342,000,000.

Radit leaned back in the plastic chair, a ragged, breathless laugh bubbling up in his throat. From zero to three hundred million in seventy-two hours.

"Three hundred million..." he whispered.

He was rich—at least by 2014 standards. He stood up, his legs feeling like jelly. He needed to get home. He needed to lock the deed in a safe, get a proper night’s sleep, and start planning the next move.

He walked up the stairs to his apartment, the dim hallway smelling of garbage and fried garlic. He fumbled with his key, finally slotting it into the lock.

"I'm going to sleep for ten years," he muttered.

He opened the door and stopped dead.

His apartment had been tossed. His single cardboard box of books was shredded, his mattress was overturned, and his small desk was smashed into firewood.

And standing in the center of the room were two men. They weren't in leather jackets. They were wearing crisp, dark blue uniforms.

"Radit Atmodjo?" the older officer asked, holding up a badge.

"Who are you?" Radit asked, his hand slowly sliding toward the phone in his pocket.

"Cybercrimes Division. You’re under arrest for securities fraud and suspicion of money laundering."

"What? I didn't—"

The younger officer stepped forward, his eyes cold. "We’ve been watching your account since the 'grandpa inheritance' story you fed the bank manager. Nobody shorts a giant firm right before a state-level raid without insider information."

"I don't even know anyone in the ministry!"

"Save it for the station. Put your hands on your head. Now."

As Radit slowly raised his hands, his eyes caught something on the floor. It was the metallic folder the rider had given him earlier. It was open.

And empty.

"Oh, you're smarter than we thought," the officer said, noticing Radit's gaze. "But you weren't smart enough to hide the link."

"What link?"

"The folder has traces of government-encrypted files. You're not just a fraud, kid. You're a target."

The officer’s radio crackled. "Unit 4, we have a breach. Multiple vehicles approaching your location. High-speed. Armored."

The two policemen looked at each other, then back at Radit.

"Wait," Radit said, the pieces clicking into place. "Those aren't your backups, are they?"

A heavy crash sounded from the floor below. The ceiling dust fell like snow.

"Run," Radit whispered.