Jakarta, 08:00 WIB
The place was chaos. Usually, mornings at Police Headquarters meant cheap coffee and the lazy tap of keyboards, someone cursing over a jammed typewriter. But today, it felt like the guts of a doomed warship. Phones were screaming, radios crackled nonstop, and Pistachio's desk looked ready to collapse under stacks of brown case files piled higher than he'd ever seen.
He stared at his whiteboard, gripping a nearly dead red marker. The latest tally: deaths in just six hours.
3 gangsters—illegal street race gone wrong.
1 land broker—found dead in his tricked-out sedan.
1 hacker—slumped over his laptop, face blue.
12 men who harassed women at bus stops—all dead.
"This is madness," Pistachio murmured, rubbing his aching head. "The Executioner isn't skimming the worst. He's draining the whole damn sea."
Commander Yanuar burst through the office door, blustering and almost purple with stress. "Pistachio! Where's the autopsy report for the land broker? The media's at the gates, and they want answers!"
Pistachio didn't flinch. "Commander, we had twenty crime scenes last night. The law demands details. I can't rush the autopsy for a corrupt tycoon just because he's got 'connections.' To me—and to the Executioner—every life is the same debt."
Yanuar slammed his fist down. "Details? We don't have time! The public's going nuts for this killer. They call it the 'Monday Cleansing.' If we don't say it was a mass heart attack from some plague, the whole city could riot—they think 'God' is finally on their side!"
Pistachio stood up and yanked a file out from the bottom of the pile—a small catcalling case nobody cared about before today. "Your team ignores this. But the Executioner considers it worth a life. If we cherry-pick which crimes deserve real investigation, don't blame the people when they choose his justice over ours."
He walked out, leaving Yanuar staring after him, speechless. In the hallway, he almost ran into Malik, who looked pale enough to pass for a corpse.
"Pis," Malik whispered. "The system won't stop. I just saw the social media feeds—every time someone uploads a crime, no matter how minor, the Executioner acts. He doesn't need us for evidence anymore."
Pistachio stopped at a window, watching the city below. People moved fast, heads down, eyes avoiding everything. Nobody wanted trouble. Even the smallest mistakes could get you killed.
"He's stopped hunting for justice," Pistachio said, voice barely above a whisper. "He's building a prison without walls. Everyone's so terrified, they act perfect—not because they are, but because they have to."
His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. Just coordinates and a single line:
"Your law takes years for one file. I only need a heartbeat. Come to this address if you want to see what real justice looks like."
Pistachio exhaled slowly. "Get the car, Malik. Looks like we're invited to watch the next cleansing."