The night in the city center has a mesmerizing atmosphere, like a maze filled with bright lights and lurking shadows. Towering glass buildings reflect the blue neon glow from hypnotic billboards and the lights of cars speeding along the elevated highway, creating an intense visual rhythm. On the 17th floor of a luxury apartment building, often used by executives from leading private security companies, Dito sat alone in front of his thin laptop, its light illuminating his pale face in the middle of a quiet and dark room. The cold air blown by the air conditioner mixed with the sharp aroma of instant coffee wafting from the paper cup on the table, while the muffled sound of traffic slowly seeped through the soundproof glass windows. Once, he was nothing more than a technician working at a forest radio station—now his identity had changed to "IT contract staff" at the company, with his main task being to install security software; however, tonight he had a different secret mission: to trace the digital footprints of the syndicate they were hunting. The laptop browser window was filled with various interesting tabs: encrypted corporate emails, CCTV logs from the basement revealing mysterious movements, and donation spreadsheets for social foundations with suspicious names that matched the map he had obtained from Mr. Karto's village. But there was one strange file that offered him a new clue—a short video labeled "HR_Training_2025.mp4," uploaded from an internal server with a simple password protection that he never expected: "skull17."
Dito, filled with curiosity and mounting tension, pressed play with bated breath. The video began by showing a seemingly ordinary meeting room: it was as if we could smell the shiny wooden tables, elegant leather chairs, and projector reflecting a clean white screen. There stood a middle-aged man wearing a professional-looking gray suit, smiling warmly at the camera. "Welcome to the Secure Frontier Company orientation," he says warmly. "We are not just a security company—we are the guardians of the invisible frontier." In the background of the presentation slides are stunning images of dense forests, remote villages, and graphs detailing "community protection." But as the man steps back, the slide changes to a more sinister image: a photo of an old stone altar from Mr. Karto's village, complete with a pile of bones found as evidence two weeks ago.
The man's smile widened. "For selected candidates, this is part of our commitment. At the edge of the forest, we maintain balance. And in the city, we will protect you." The video suddenly stopped, but the file's metadata revealed a surprising detail: it was uploaded by an IP address in South Jakarta connected to a foreign bank account similar to donations to the foundation.
With tension spreading throughout the room, Dito pressed the encryption radio button in his pocket, then sent a soft whisper. "Rizal, this is Dito. There's an internal orientation file—they're recruiting with a background video of the village altar. I'll send you the link right away. This isn't just a regular syndicate, it's a legitimate company."
On the other side of the bustling city, Rizal sat in a roadside coffee shop, dressed like a civilian youth in a plain shirt with the aim of disguising himself as a "field coordinator" for a social foundation that was currently under surveillance. A drizzle began to fall, colorful umbrellas swaying on the sidewalk as he stared intently at Dito's phone screen. Meanwhile, Fauzan, sitting across the table, sipped iced tea while pretending to read the newspaper, watching every passerby. "The director is the same as the one in the colonel's photo," Fauzan whispered almost inaudibly. "He said 'balance'—is that code for urban cult recruitment?"
Rizal nodded nervously, then sent an encrypted message to the group. "Maya, make sure to check the CCTV in the office basement tomorrow. Tono, match the accounts with the donation map. Sari, Fahri—monitor the foundation's event tonight. Bima, Amira—analyze the spreadsheet sent by Dito. Hasan, Rangga—monitor the suburbs."
Maya immediately replied from her car parked near the office: "Already in position. The basement CCTV shows activity at 2 a.m.: a van without license plates entered and unloaded long wooden boxes resembling bone boxes from the village."
Elsewhere, Bima sat comfortably in a wheelchair near the window, with a laptop on his lap for data analysis. "The foundation's donation account: it reached 500 million last month from that company. The sender's address? The local police station. This isn't ordinary corruption—they seem to have two-way 'protection'."
That evening, Sari and Fahri were at the foundation's lavish charity event, in the ballroom of a prestigious hotel filled with people in fancy suits and party dresses, soft jazz music echoing along with the laughter of the guests in attendance. Sari stood gracefully with a glass of juice, pretending to be event staff, while her eyes watched the keynote speaker: an attractive woman in designer clothes, the chairwoman of the foundation, who spoke about "cultural preservation at the border." Fahri whispered into Sari's ear, "Look at the pin on her chest—it's the same small skull symbol as Rangga's pendant. That woman is lying about 'culture'—and listen to the code: 'we keep our roots strong'."
Fahri nodded slowly, remembering the therapy methods he had learned, but his instincts remained sharp. "Strong roots—this is code for the forest base. Sari, record the speech carefully."
On the opposite side of town, Hasan and Rangga were in an old car parked not far from a slum area claimed as an "urban village" by the syndicate. With binoculars in hand, Hasan looked at the narrow alley filled with stilt houses like those in Mr. Karto's village. "Look at the back door of the warehouse—there are fresh footprints. Rangga, is the pendant responding?"
Carefully, Rangga held the pendant in his hand, feeling its warmth slowly increase. "Yes, we're very close. The base in this small town—they recruit poor migrants to become 'guards.'"
Suddenly, Rizal's phone vibrated softly, receiving an anonymous message: "Stop investigating further. Or the Bravo family will be the next target." Along with an attached photo revealing Sari in the ballroom, timestamped just 5 minutes ago.
Quickly, Rizal stood up from his seat, his voice slowly filled with tension as he turned to Fauzan. "Serious threat. They know about our activities. Evacuate everyone immediately—we need to hold an emergency meeting with the Colonel right now."
At the underground headquarters, gathered at 2 a.m., the Colonel stared at the threat photo with determination. "The syndicate is now playing dirty. The video from Dito confirms their internal recruitment activities. This threat shows they're starting to panic—and they're worried about getting caught. Rizal, as the leader of the urban team for tomorrow night's operation: raid the village warehouse. We have to shut down the city base before their forest base rises again."
Fauzan punched the table softly. "Lina deserves to die for this cause if we retreat. The raid must be carried out tomorrow—I'll take the flank position at the front."
Rizal nodded with extra vigilance, his eyes clouded with cold determination. "The mystery that has emerged in the city is deeper than the secrets that exist in the forest. They are no longer just a cult—but a national syndicate that we must end."
The nighttime atmosphere in the city was filled with the echo of sirens from afar, but behind the glass of one of the buildings, digital eyes watched calmly—the mysterious traces of the syndicate waiting to be pushed back in due time.
This story opens a mysterious urban thriller, where a team with determination faces a digital syndicate, an increasing threat that weighs heavily on them personally.