The Sound of a Hungry Machine
Night settles over the fintech building; the lights are bright, but the faces are dark. I'm Bowo, forty-seven, an office janitor, pushing my cart down corridors that smell of overdue coffee and anxious perfume.
Behind glass walls, young voices move in uniform through headsets.
"Hello, Mrs. Rani, we're calling from Finera Capital—" beep beep, the call drops.
"Hello, Sir? Sorry, the system auto-generated—"
Different tones, same exhaustion.
A supervisor passes, clipboard in hand like a whip.
"Team D, still at 32%! Thirty push-ups! Now!"
They bow their heads, hands shaking, while other teams pretend not to see.
In another corner, a team is ordered to dance TikTok—punishment disguised as motivation.
"Bang Bowo," a female staffer says in the pantry, eyes swollen.
"Buy me two breads."
"Chocolate filling or hope filling?"
She smiles faintly.
"The kind that makes you forget how expensive life is."
Behind her, two men whisper while smoking near the vent.
"Team D didn't hit 50%. They're dead tomorrow."
"Revan's the lead, right? He made his people scream during collections. Says the louder you shout, the faster they pay."
"What about Team F?"
"They're safe. Okta's the lead—good at dodging the boss."
They laugh bitterly, then hide the cigarettes as the supervisor passes.
"Break's over! Back to positions!"
The mood snaps. Everyone sits upright, headsets back on, eyes fixed. A fintech office at night feels like a factory—except the machines are human. Then my gaze stops at the end of the hallway. A half-open curtain. The name on the door:
Reza Ardiansyah – General Manager of Collection.
That room is always calm, even when the office is loud. But tonight the light inside is dimmer. His shadow sits hunched, motionless for a long time.
Then a soft sound: a glass falling. Clear. Cracked. And the silence in the building changes shape—into something that stares back from the glass.
***
A Room Without Sound
Nine ten p.m.Half the office is dark, but Mr. Reza's room glows like a candle refusing to die.
I stand at his door, cart in hand. The floor inside is wet—water from the shattered glass creeping slowly under yellow light.
"Mr. Reza?"
No answer. Only the hum of the AC and slow breathing from behind the desk. He sits with his head bowed, eyes empty on a laptop screen showing falling graphs. I pretend not to see. I squat, wipe the spill, then stand.
"I'll replace the glass, Sir."
A small nod. The lamp reflects off his pale face, making him look like someone hiding wounds from himself. As I tidy the desk, my mind returns to a night two years ago outside a minimarket.
Three failed interviews in one day; at forty-seven, I was considered expired. I sat staring at the ground, half-surrendered, waiting for whatever fate passed by. And it did—a light-blue car crashed into a pole. The driver panicked, bleeding slightly at the temple. I helped him, gave him water.
When he was about to leave, he offered to drive me home as thanks.I declined gently.
"I want to stay out a bit, Sir. Afraid my wife will worry more. I failed another interview today."
"You're looking for work?" he asked.
I just smiled.
"Yes, Sir. But it feels like the world's already full."
He went quiet, then nodded—understanding without many words. A week later, HR called. Recommendation: Reza Ardiansyah.
I switch the dim desk lamp back on.
"All clean, Sir."
He nods, lips barely moving.
"Thank you, Pak Bowo."
I leave without closing the door tightly. From afar, I see him still sitting—too still, hand at his temple. I don't dare approach, but I also can't go home. I'm afraid he'll do the things you read about: people running out of breath in silence.
The room's light flickers once, then dies. His silhouette remains in the chair—frozen,like someone who has finally found the quietest way to stop.
I stand in the hallway until the AC shuts off. The light under the door slowly disappears. And for the first time, I don't know which one is still alive: the room—or him.
***
The Man Waiting for DawnMidnight. The office is empty, but Mr. Reza's room is still lit.
"Your tasks are done, Pak Bowo. Go home," he said earlier—his voice tired but polite.
I nodded, but didn't really leave. I've heard too many stories of strong people quietly giving up when everyone thinks they're fine. I sit outside with two security guards and a roaming coffee seller. Cigarette smoke rises slowly, like shy prayers.
"Working at this hour—who can handle it?" the younger guard says.
"Those with dependents," the other replies.
The coffee seller adds,
"If a man doesn't work, it's his thoughts that stay awake."
We chuckle—laughter that isn't funny, but necessary to loosen the chest. I video-call my wife. Her face appears, wearing a flowered house dress, hair loosely tied.
"You're not coming home?"
"No, dear. The boss is working late. I'm keeping him company."
The guards wave at the screen.
"Ma'am! Yesterday's cake was amazing—soft like angel hands!"
My wife laughs, covering her mouth.
"Just say you want me to make it again."
"Yes, please, Ma'am," they answer almost in unison.
Our laughter blends, warm in the cold early-morning air.
A little past three, I go back upstairs. Mr. Reza's room is still lit. I peek through the glass—he's asleep in his chair, breathing long and heavy, face calm. I exhale, watching him for a long time.
Some people don't fall. They just pause, briefly, between burdens and tomorrow morning.
I sit on the corridor floor, back against the wall. Light from Mr. Reza's room hits half my face; the other half is swallowed by darkness. And there, I finally realize: sometimes men don't cry—they just wait for morning, eyes open.
***
A Morning Too Ordinary
That afternoon, I had just finished sweeping my front yard when the office group chat exploded. The group's name was Finera Family, but it felt more like a neighborhood gossip post.
Mira: "HOLY—Reza slammed the table in the meeting!!"Reno: "The chair slid, the monitor almost flew. I thought he'd resign on the spot!"Andin: "They said it was a branch report error, but marketing got yelled at lol."Damar: "I heard his wife moved out too. Separate houses maybe?"Mira: "Huh? How do you know?"Damar: "Finance kids' talk. His house is rented out. Probably work stress."Andin: "Or marriage stress. Both are heavy."Reno: "Enough. I'm scared HR CCTV is recording."
I read while sipping tea, almost spilling it from laughing. Turns out, in an office busy collecting other people's lives, gossip remains national entertainment.
After that day, Mr. Reza never came back. Supervisors stayed quiet, HR stayed quiet, even the temporary replacement only smiled when asked. The office felt strange—without Reza's shouting, everyone seemed lost. Those who used to complain now said,
"He was harsh, but clear. The new one's friendly—and that's scarier."
Targets kept rising, systems grew smarter, work got crazier. As if every software update arrived with a reminder:
"Welcome to a more efficient life."
I pass Mr. Reza's former room. The desk lamp is off, but there's still a faint water stain in the corner of the floor—the last place he slept that night. I mop it gently, but the mark remains.
Maybe some things don't need to disappear, so people know: in the eyes of machines, he was just a human who could be replaced.
I turn off the lights, push my cart outside.
And somehow, I feel this office has truly been empty since its main generator lost its sound. Because even the harshest man was once the reason this place ran straight. Mr. Reza was the noisy generator that lit everyone's work—and I was the one who cleaned what remained.
— The End