Three in the afternoon. The sunlight outside the warehouse where he worked cast a dull orange glow, blocked by the never-ending thick layer of dust on the grimy windowpanes. Inside, the damp, cold air mixed with the musty smell of cardboard and the pungent odor of machine oil. Arya Satria, clad in a faded t-shirt and worn-out jeans, leaned his back against a stack of burlap sacks filled with used spare parts. He was the warehouse manager, a title that sounded important on paper, but which was in reality merely the caretaker of other people's ambitions—and his own.
Thirty years old. Thirty years that felt like three rotting centuries. Since Maya's death twelve years ago, the label of loser seemed to be branded with hot iron on his forehead, an indelible identity. Every day was the same cycle: arrive, count, arrange, go home. No purpose. No meaning. His life was the antithesis of the wild dreams he once held in his teenage years, when he and Maya sat in school, planning a bright future under the same sky.
"Maya..." he muttered again. That name was his greatest betrayal. He had promised to always protect the girl, but on the night of the fire, he was the first to run away. A coward. A bitter irony, considering Maya had always seen him as a hero.
"Arya! Are you going to get paid to daydream?!" Pak Jaya's hoarse voice, the older, fiercer warehouse superintendent, thundered from the end of the aisle. The man was stout, sweat pouring down his grimy shirt.
Arya immediately straightened up, pushing Maya's shadow out of his head. "Not yet, Sir. I'm checking the shipping consolidation for Block D."
"Nonsense! You're just resting your backside! Hurry up and finish the pile of old archives in the back warehouse! That trash must be discarded before the audit comes. I don't want any outdated items weighing down the inventory!" Pak Jaya ordered, spitting on the cracked cement floor. "Remember, your salary is paid for work, not for wallowing in self-pity."
The words 'wallowing in self-pity' pierced Arya. It was a perfect summary. He nodded stiffly, grabbed the old hand truck, and walked to the darker, colder rear area. This area was a labyrinth of towering old iron shelves, containing things that were forgotten and worthless.
The pile of archives Pak Jaya referred to was in the most secluded corner, under a flickering neon light that seemed to dance above the grave of ambition. The cardboard boxes were dull brown, moldy, and covered in cobwebs. Arya pulled out his tattered work gloves and began moving the stacks of boxes onto the hand truck one by one.
Srak!
As his hand touched the topmost box—tied with a piece of nearly broken raffia string—Arya felt something thin and stiff tucked into the folds of the cardboard. He pulled it out. It was a blurry photo print, old and cold in his hand.
Arya Satria froze in place.
His heart pounded wildly, striking his ribs with a fierce rhythm he hadn't felt since the night of the fire.
It was Maya.
The photo must have been taken when they were in high school. Her cheerful face, the wide smile that could always quell the storm in Arya's soul. Her long hair flowed, caught by the wind. In the background, there was a rusted iron fence that Arya recognized—the edge of the old warehouse where they used to skip class and spend time, before everything turned to ash.
Guilt consumed Arya whole. How could this photo be here? Among a pile of warehouse archives that should have nothing to do with his past? Arya flipped the photo over, intending to save it, to keep it as his private regret.
However, what was written on the back was not a teenage love poem, but a symbol that bit into his consciousness like an electric shock.
In faint red ink, which looked like dried blood, a symbol was crudely drawn: a black dragon wrapped around a katana sword. The symbol looked like a hasty scribble, yet its power radiated a palpable threat.
Below the symbol, hastily handwritten in capital letters: "Old Warehouse K-7."
The Black Dragon (Naga Hitam). The name hit Arya's consciousness like a punch. It wasn't just a high school rumor. It was a name often whispered among the street thugs in Cakra Manggala City, a criminal syndicate rumored to control the black market trade, drugs, and racketeering.
Arya remembered clearly. A few months after Maya's death, he had vaguely heard whispers that the warehouse fire was not an accident but a "cleanup" orchestrated by a criminal group. He had always dismissed it as a conspiracy theory he'd created to lessen his guilt.
But this picture... this symbol... this address...
"They lied..." Arya whispered, his voice choked and trembling, yet full of rage. He recalled the cold, sterile police report: a tragic accident due to an electrical short circuit.
The Black Dragon. Old Warehouse K-7. Maya's photo.
The connection was like a key unlocking the prison of his anger.
"Maya... you were murdered?" The question felt like broken glass in his throat.
He stared at the photo again. Brutal memories surged: the night of the fire twelve years ago. The flames licking the night sky, the deafening sound of sirens, and the suffocating smell of smoke. He remembered his own scream, the scream of the coward who ran away, instead of trying to go back into the burning warehouse to save Maya. The fear. The helplessness. The nausea he always felt whenever he recalled it.
But now, this old photograph exposed all the lies. It was not an accident. It was a planned execution, and he, Arya, had abandoned the victim that night.
His hand gripped the photo so tightly the paper nearly tore. The fear that had paralyzed him all this time suddenly felt meaningless compared to this explosion of truth.
"No. Not this time, no," he said, his voice low and filled with cold resolve. He would not let Maya die in vain and her name be sullied by lies. Even if it meant facing the darkest ghost of his past. Even if it meant facing the Black Dragon alone.
Arya squeezed the keys to his beat-up motorcycle in his pocket. Old Warehouse K-7. He had to go there. Now. He had to know who he needed to hate.
The road to Old Warehouse K-7 was shrouded in a lonely, cold night. Arya revved his old motorcycle, his narrowed eyes filled with sharp focus. He was no longer the man who ran away.
Arya finally arrived. Old Warehouse K-7 looked like a moss-covered tomb, its iron gate rusted and gaping. A damp, putrid smell greeted him. Arya slipped through the gap in the broken gate.
The darkness inside the warehouse was almost absolute. Only moonlight seeping through holes in the roof provided minimal illumination. Arya saw shadows: stacks of pallets, old machinery, and most prominently—scribbles on the walls. The Black Dragon symbol was painted everywhere.
Creeak!
The sound of squeaking shoes stopped Arya's steps. His heart pounded, but he pushed the fear away.
"You actually came, coward," a hoarse, heavy voice boomed from the shadows.
Two large silhouettes stepped forward. Thick black leather jackets with the 'NH' logo on their backs. The man in front, large-bodied with a bald head and a scar across his left eyebrow, smiled cynically.
Bald Man: "I know you. Arya Satria. The admirer of that little girl. You're truly foolish to come here."
Arya clenched his fists. "You're the Black Dragon. You killed Maya!"
Bald Man: (Laughed loudly, hoarse like a growl) "Killed? That's a harsh term. We were just cleaning up a mess, and the little girl just happened to be in her father's warehouse when the incident occurred. Sweet collateral damage."
Arya's face tightened. "Her father? So this wasn't an electrical short circuit accident?"
Bald Man: "Of course not. It was a good show, wasn't it? Too bad you know the best show. You ran that night, leaving her in the fire. Coward."
That word, 'coward,' hit Arya harder than a fist. It was the label he had desperately carried, and now Maya's murderers were confirming it, even mocking him.
Arya took a step forward. "I don't care what you wanted, or why you did this. You won't get away with it."
Bald Man: "Oh, we will. Just like we got away with it twelve years ago. And you? You're going to be a tragic suicide. A fitting end for a coward who couldn't protect anyone."
Arya's fury was unstoppable. He exploded.
Arya: "Shut your mouth!"
Arya threw himself forward. It was an act of suicide. His punches only swiped the air or bounced off the muscular bodies of the Black Dragon members.
The struggle was short and brutal. Arya felt a sharp pain as a hard fist slammed into his stomach, making him gasp. He was dragged, his feet stumbling over debris, toward a rusted emergency staircase.
Bald Man: "Lift him! We'll give him a good view for his final moments."
They dragged Arya up to the warehouse roof.
The night wind on the rooftop whipped Arya's face. The city lights below looked distant and cold.
The Black Dragon members gripped his arms tightly, dragging him to the slippery edge of the roof.
Bald Man: "Look, Arya Satria. The indifferent city. And you, above your place of regret. Dying alone, helpless, just like before."
Those words, "dying alone, helpless," were the final nail hammered into the coffin of his regret.
Arya: "I... won't... let you... win!"
Arya struggled, using his last reserve of strength. He grabbed the arm of the closest Black Dragon member.
A harsh shove.
A sharp pain pierced his ribs. Arya felt himself flying through the air. The moments felt like an eternity.
I haven't saved you, Maya. I can't die a loser again. I want to go back. I want to change it!
That desire, to change the past, flooded every cell of his being, becoming his final mantra before darkness swallowed him.
The sensation of falling changed. No longer gravity. But distortion. A painful white flash of light. A high-pitched hiss. The walls of reality trembled.
THUD!
A dull impact sound. Not hard asphalt.
Arya opened his eyes. He smelled the scent of chalkboard dust. He heard cheerful laughter.
A girl with long hair leaned over him, her face filled with concern.
Maya: "Arya! Oh my god, you tripped over the desk and fell. Are you okay?"
Arya looked at his hands—small, smooth, clad in a high school uniform. He looked at the calendar on the wall: September 2013.
He had returned.
He stared at Maya. A small, cold smile appeared on his lips.
Arya: "I'm fine, Maya."
Arya: I didn't fall, I was sent back. I won't run away again. This time, I will save you.