Theo woke to silence.
It took his sleep-fogged brain a moment to process. The Indomaret compressor was off. Not cycling, not idling—off. The deep, mechanical heartbeat of his mornings was absent, leaving a hollow in the air filled only by the distant, oddly subdued murmur of the toll road.
He lay still, listening. The bakso vendor's familiar clanging was also missing. Instead, a strange, tinny voice echoed from a radio somewhere down the alley, speaking in the rapid, urgent cadence of a news broadcaster.
Melin was already up. He could hear the soft shuffle of her feet on the balcony, the gentle clink of a watering can. The normalcy of that sound eased a tension he hadn't realized he'd felt. He rose, the mosaic tiles cooler than usual against his bare feet. The air felt thick, staticky, as if before a massive storm.
07:45. The Street.
The world outside was washed in an eerie, apricot haze. The sun was a dull orange coin behind a veil of high-altitude dust, casting long, weak shadows. The traffic was thin, moving with a nervous, jerky speed. People at the food stall weren't chatting; they hunched over their phones, faces lit by screens, expressions tight.
Theo got his teh tarik from Mr. Anwar, who didn't smile.
"What's going on? Your radio—"
The old man wiped the counter with a rough, repetitive motion. "Meteor shower last night." He didn't look up. "They're saying some fell. In Kemang. Made people sick."
"Sick how?"
Mr. Anwar's hand stilled. His eyes flickered to the hazy sky, then back down. "You should go straight home today, Theo. After work. Don't linger."
Theo's phone vibrated. A push notification: "DKI Health Office Advisory: Minor airborne irritant from celestial event. Sensitive individuals may experience flu-like symptoms. Stay indoors if unwell." The language was bureaucratically calm. Too calm.
On the drive to his call, the signs multiplied. A pharmacy had a line out the door. Two people were arguing over a box of surgical masks. A public service announcement played on a cracked loudspeaker: "…remain calm. Reports of erratic behavior are being investigated. Do not approach individuals acting strangely…"
10:30. Office Tower, Sudirman Central Business District.
The air inside the gleaming lobby was frigid, but it didn't feel clean. It felt dead. The usual security guards were replaced by two tense-looking men in mismatched uniforms, their eyes scanning everyone entering. One coughed wetly into his elbow.
Theo's work order was for a VRF system on the 15th floor. The elevator was empty. As he rose, he caught snippets from the building's PA system, usually used for muzak: "…quarantine zone in Sector 7… all non-essential personnel…" before it cut off with a sharp click.
On the 15th floor, the open-plan office was a ghost town. A few employees sat at their desks, but no one typed. They whispered. Theo caught the hissed words, hanging in the sterile air:
"...my sister, she said their neighbor just startedbarking.Like an animal. Then his skin—"
"—not a meteor, okay? My cousin's in the army, he says—"
"They're calling it the Crimson Flu now, but since when does flu make you—"
Theo focused on his job, the ritual of it. He opened the service panel on the VRF unit. The hum was wrong. Not a mechanical fault, but a load imbalance. The system was straining because the building's internal temperature was spiking, despite the AC running full blast. It was fighting the fever of the people inside.
His hands worked automatically, checking pressure, cleaning filters. But his mind was elsewhere. It was on Melin, in her small lab at the zoo, surrounded by plants and fragile, living things. The news advisory. Airborne irritant.
He pulled out his phone. The signal was weak, one bar. He called her.
It rang four times. Each ring sent a jolt of cold through his gut.
Then, her voice. "Theo?"
The sound was like a pressure release. "You okay? Have you seen—"
"I'm fine." But her voice was tight, a little breathless. In the background, he could hear the distressed shriek of a monkey, a sound he'd never heard from her lab before. "It's chaos here. They're talking about shutting down. Some of the animals are sick. Agitated."
"Come home," he said, his voice low, urgent. "Now. Don't wait."
"I need to secure the specimens first. The orchids—"
"Forget the orchids." He said it sharper than he intended. A nearby office worker glanced at him. He lowered his voice. "Please, Mel. Just come home. Lock the door. I'll be there soon."
A pause. He heard her take a shuddering breath. "Okay. Okay." Another pause. "Theo, the traffic feels... wrong."
"I know. Just be careful."
"I will." Her voice softened. "I'll make sambal. Extra spicy."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The call ended. Theo stared at the VRF unit, but he didn't see it. He saw Melin's face, the intelligent eyes now clouded with fear. He worked faster, his motions jerky. Equilibrium. Just restore the balance, finish the job, go home.
16:00. The Ride Home.
The city had descended into a silent, twitching panic. The haze had deepened, casting a blood-tinged twilight. Streets were clogged not with steady traffic, but with erratic, desperate movement. A car had been abandoned in the middle of the road, doors hanging open. He saw a man standing perfectly still in the median, head tilted back, staring at the red sky, his mouth moving as if in conversation with nothing.
Theo swerved, heart hammering. He took back alleys, the bike's engine too loud in the unnatural quiet. He passed a small neighborhood mosque, its gates shut. From inside, he heard not prayer, but the sound of weeping.
His world, the system he understood, was experiencing a catastrophic pressure drop. Chaos was rushing in to fill the vacuum.
17:20. Their Street.
The alley was dark. The power was out. No fluorescent glow from the Indomaret, no flicker of televisions from open windows. Only the oppressive, bruised-orange sky provided light.
His apartment building loomed, a silent slab. His balcony, usually a beacon of green life, was a dark silhouette. No Melin tending her plants.
He took the stairs two at a time, his toolbelt clanking. The third-floor hallway was pitch black. He fumbled for his keys, the sound unnaturally loud.
He unlocked the door.
"Mel?"
Silence.
He pushed it open.
Darkness. And cold. The apartment's residual heat had already bled away.
"Melin?"
His hand found the light switch. Click. Nothing. The power was dead here too.
The fading light from the balcony door outlined the room. Everything was in its place, yet profoundly wrong. The bed was neatly made. Her gardening shoes were lined up by the mat. The pot for tonight's rice sat on the counter, still empty.
But the air… it smelled of damp soil, of her lemongrass, and underneath, a faint, sharp, coppery scent he couldn't place. Ozone. And something else.
His eyes adjusted. He saw the balcony door was slightly ajar. The sheer curtain billowed inward with a cold whisper.
He walked forward, each step heavy. He pushed the curtain aside.
Melin's garden was a scene of quiet devastation. Two tomato plants were snapped at the stem. A pot of basil lay on its side, soil spilled across the tiles like dark blood. The passionfruit vine had been ripped from its careful guide, its tendrils dangling, broken.
And in the center of the small space, placed neatly on the little table where they ate dinner, was Melin's phone. Its screen was a spiderweb of cracks, dark and dead.
Theo stood there, the cold from the open door seeping into his bones, deeper than the temperature. The hum of the city was gone. The only sound was the whisper of the strange wind and the frantic, escalating drum of his own heart.
The system had failed. The equilibrium was shattered.
His wife was gone.