The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 7: Protective Instincts

Chapter 7: Protective Instincts

The silence in the executive suite didn’t just linger; it suffocated. Clarisse looked like she had seen a ghost, her hand still hovering over the laptop screen as if she could erase the image by sheer force of will.

“Daffa,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “If my father sees this… it’s not just my career. He’ll destroy you. Literally. You don’t know what he’s capable of when he feels his ‘legacy’ is being mocked.”

Daffa wasn’t listening. He was already leaning over her desk, his eyes darting across the metadata of the email. “Don’t panic. If you panic, we’ve already lost. Give me your admin token. Now.”

“What? Why?”

“The email came from an encrypted relay, but the timestamp on the attachment is off by four minutes from the actual archive log,” Daffa muttered, his fingers flying across the keys of her laptop. “That means it wasn't a live capture. They downloaded the raw footage from the cloud backup first, edited the clip, and then sent the screenshot. There’s a digital trail in the server logs, even if they used an override.”

“Daffa, I have a Board of Directors meeting in ten minutes,” Clarisse said, her voice rising in pitch. “They’ve already called for an ‘emergency session’ to discuss my conduct. They heard about the bullpen scene with Hendra. If I walk in there and they have this video…”

“They won’t,” Daffa said, looking her in the eye. “Go to the meeting. Keep your head up. Be the Ice Queen. Act like the engagement is the most professional thing that’s ever happened to this firm. Buy me one hour.”

Clarisse gripped the edge of the desk. “One hour? Daffa, this isn’t a spreadsheet. This is blackmail.”

“I’m not just an analyst, Clarisse. I spent three years in the university tech-ops lab before I switched to finance,” Daffa said, cracking his knuckles. “Just go. And Clarisse? Don’t let them see you sweat. Not even for a second.”

She took a shaky breath, adjusted her blazer, and nodded. “If we go down, we go down together.”

“We’re not going down,” Daffa promised.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Daffa grabbed his phone. He dialed a number he hadn't called in years.

“Bimo? Yeah, it’s Daffa. Listen, I don’t have time for small talk. I need you to ping a relay node for me. It’s an internal firm address, but the handshake is coming from an external IP. Yeah, the one I just sent you. Trace the MAC address back to the physical router. I don’t care if it’s a burner. Just get me a location.”

While he waited for his contact to call back, Daffa dove into the firm’s security architecture. He was using Clarisse’s high-level credentials, bypassing the standard firewalls that kept the drones out. He watched the logs move. Someone had accessed the archive cameras at 12:15 AM. The ID used wasn't Hendra’s. It was a master-key override, one usually reserved for the Chief of Security or the Chairman’s inner circle.

His phone buzzed.

“Got it, Daffa,” Bimo’s voice crackled. “The signal is bouncing off a private penthouse in the Sudirman area. It’s a fixed line, not a mobile hotspot. You want the name on the account?”

“I already know it,” Daffa hissed, looking at a photo on Clarisse’s desk. “It’s the Van der Meer residence, isn't it?”

“Bingo. How’d you know?”

“Because only one person is petty enough to spend this much money on a grudge. Thanks, Bimo. I owe you a steak.”

“Make it two. This was a federal-level headache.”

Daffa hung up and grabbed his jacket. He didn't head for the Boardroom. He headed for the elevators.

*

The lobby of the Van der Meer residence was even more gaudy than Clarisse’s. It screamed 'old money trying to stay relevant.' Daffa didn't wait for an invite. He walked past the concierge with a look of such focused aggression that the man didn’t even bother asking for an ID.

He reached the top floor and kicked the double doors of the penthouse. They weren't locked.

Julian Van der Meer was sitting on a white leather sofa, a glass of scotch in one hand and a tablet in the other. He didn't even look surprised. He just smirked.

“You’re late, Analyst. I expected you twenty minutes ago.”

Daffa walked right up to him, stopping inches from the coffee table. “Delete the footage, Julian. Now. Before I make this personal.”

Julian laughed, leaning back. “Personal? It was personal the moment you touched her at that gala. You think you’re in my league? You’re a footnote. A temporary distraction. I’m doing Clarisse a favor by cleaning her slate.”

“You’re blackmailing a woman because she rejected you,” Daffa said, his voice dangerously low. “That’s not a favor. That’s a felony.”

“It’s only a felony if I get caught. And who’s going to catch me? You? The guy who lives in a shoebox?” Julian tapped the screen of his tablet. “I have the full forty-minute video right here. It’s quite the performance. I was thinking of sending it to the Chairman’s personal W******p right about now. I wonder if he’ll still want to keep you on the payroll after he sees you pinning his daughter against a filing cabinet.”

“You won’t send it,” Daffa said.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because if you do, the Van der Meer Group goes into receivership by Monday morning.”

Julian stood up, his face reddening. “You’re bluffing. You have nothing.”

“I have the Q3 audit trail you tried to hide, Julian,” Daffa said, pulling a flash drive from his pocket. “And I have something better. I have the logs of you accessing the Bautista security server from this IP address. That’s corporate espionage. That’s a ten-year sentence. My friend at the cyber-crimes division is just waiting for my signal to send the warrant.”

“You’re lying,” Julian sneered, though his hand was starting to shake.

“Am I? Check your router’s incoming traffic logs. See that ping from five minutes ago? That was a digital fingerprint. You’re tagged, Julian. The moment that video moves from your device to any other server, the police are at your door.”

Julian looked at the tablet, then back at Daffa. The smugness was draining from his face, replaced by a frantic, cornered look. “You think you can win? You’re just a pawn. Clarisse doesn't love you. She’s using you to save her job!”

“Maybe,” Daffa said, stepping closer until he was looming over the other man. “But I’m the pawn that just put you in checkmate. Delete the file. Wipe the cloud backup. Now. Or I swear to God, I will ruin your life before you can finish that drink.”

Julian stared at him for a long, tense moment. Daffa didn’t blink. He felt a strange, cold power surging through him—a side of himself he hadn't known existed. He wasn't the tired analyst anymore. He was the protector.

With a snarl of frustration, Julian began tapping the tablet. “Fine. It’s gone. You want to play the hero? Go ahead. But you’re a fool, Daffa.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Daffa said, watching as the ‘Delete Permanent’ confirmation flashed on the screen. “Now, give me the tablet.”

“Go to hell.”

Daffa grabbed Julian’s collar and jerked him forward. “The tablet. Now.”

Julian handed it over, his eyes wide with genuine fear. Daffa smashed the device against the edge of the marble table, then dropped the pieces onto the floor.

“If I see a single frame of that video anywhere else, I won’t go to the police,” Daffa whispered. “I’ll come back here. And I won't bring a flash drive. Do we understand each other?”

Julian just nodded, sinking back into his sofa.

Daffa turned and walked out, his heart finally starting to slow down. He checked his watch. Forty-five minutes.

*

He made it back to the office just as the Boardroom doors opened. Clarisse walked out first, flanked by two elderly directors who looked like they were in the middle of a heated debate. Her face was a mask of stone, but when she saw Daffa standing by the elevator, her eyes searched his.

He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

She let out a breath so long and deep it was almost a sob. She turned back to the directors. “Gentlemen, as I said, the engagement is a private matter. If you have concerns about the North Kalimantan data, my lead analyst has the corrected reports ready for review. There was a temporary server glitch, but everything is under control.”

“We’ll see, Clarisse,” one of the men grunted. “The Chairman is still... skeptical.”

As the men walked away, Clarisse practically fell toward Daffa. He caught her by the elbows, steadying her.

“Is it over?” she whispered.

“It’s gone. All of it,” Daffa said. “Julian won’t be bothering us again.”

“How? How did you get to him?”

“I just showed him what happens when you mess with someone’s numbers,” Daffa said with a tired grin. “And I might have threatened to send him to prison. It was very therapeutic.”

Clarisse looked at him, her gaze lingering on the set of his jaw and the fire still simmering in his eyes. For a moment, she didn't look like his boss or his fake fiancée. She looked like she wanted to pull him into a dark room and never let him go.

“You’re... you’re not the man I thought you were, Daffa Wicaksana,” she said softly.

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a very dangerous thing,” she replied, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips.

She took his hand, her fingers interlacing with his. “Come on. Let’s go home. I need a drink and a very long explanation.”

As they walked toward the exit, they passed the lobby, where a courier was dropping off a package for Clarisse. She stopped to sign for it, her brow furrowed.

“I didn't order anything,” she muttered, tearing open the small envelope.

Inside was a single, vintage-style key and a handwritten note on expensive vellum.

Daffa leaned in to read it. His blood ran cold.

“Good job with Julian, Analyst. You’re more ruthless than you look. But before you get too comfortable in her bed, ask her about the ‘Singapore Incident’ from five years ago. Ask her why the last man who held your job disappeared. You think you’re the hero? You’re just the next sacrifice.”

The note wasn't signed, but there was a small symbol at the bottom—a stylized dragon, the logo of the Bautista family’s private holdings.

Daffa looked at Clarisse. She had turned even whiter than she had been during the blackmail. She crumpled the note in her fist and shoved it into her pocket.

“Clarisse?” Daffa asked, his voice steady but his mind racing. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said, her voice turning icy again. “Just a prank from Julian. Ignore it.”

She started walking toward the car, her pace frantic. Daffa stood there for a second, the heavy silence of the lobby echoing around him.

He had deleted the video. He had saved her career. But as he watched Clarisse disappear through the revolving doors, he realized that the "Ice Queen" wasn't just cold. She was terrified of something much bigger than a sex tape.

And he was the only one left in the blast zone.