The gates of Rajawali High School did not merely open; they welcomed those who belonged with a silent, imposing grace. Two marble pillars, soaring five meters high, flanked the entrance like the guardians of an ancient temple. They stood as a dimensional boundary, separating the modest, humdrum streets of Sukabumi from the miniature utopia known as the "Elite Enclave."
It was exactly six-forty-five in the morning.
Outside, Sukabumi was still draped in a thin, cold veil of mist that smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. But inside the gates of Rajawali, the atmosphere had already warmed, heated by the unwritten exhibition of opulence. This wasn't just the morning school rush; it was a high-stakes runway for an automotive fashion show.
A charcoal-black Rubicon glided through the gates, its massive all-terrain tires rolling over the smooth asphalt with a whisper. Following close behind, a pearl-white BMW sedan trailed with aristocratic elegance. Pak Asep, the school security guard whose uniform was pressed more crisply than a traffic officer's on a holiday, stood at attention. He bowed with practiced respect, offering a greeting to the tinted windows that concealed the heirs of empires.
And then, there was that sound.
Sputter... wheeze... BANG!
A rhythmic, choking cacophony—reminiscent of an elderly man hacking on a cheap clove cigarette—shattered the symphony of turbocharged engines. A plume of thin, white smoke puffed out from the rusted tailpipe of a 2005 Honda Supra X. Its black paint had long since surrendered to the elements, fading into a dull, chalky grey.
Perched atop this "Iron Grasshopper" was Salim Nur Hidayah. His standard-issue helmet was a relic; the visor hinge had grown so loose that every time he hit a speed bump, the plastic shield would slide down and clip the bridge of his nose. With a practiced flick of his index finger, Salim pushed the visor back up—a muscle reflex honed over two years of survival.
"Morning, Pak Asep," Salim called out casually as his bike shuddered to a halt beside the security post. He was forced to wait behind a massive Alphard that was currently disgorging a wealthy socialite's child.
Pak Asep chuckled, waving a hand with genuine familiarity. "Morning, Master Salim. Is the 'Iron Grasshopper' feeling a bit hoarse today? Did he forget to take his medicine?"
"The usual, Pak. The 2-stroke oil is having a bit of a mood swing," Salim replied dryly. "Am I cleared for my usual VIP parking?"
"The corner next to the generator shed? By all means, Den Salim. I'm afraid the red carpet is still at the cleaners," Pak Asep joked back.
Salim offered a faint smirk. He twisted the throttle gently, nursing the engine so it wouldn't stall at the critical moment. He rolled past a line of vehicles whose collective price tag could probably buy out half of his home village.
He didn't feel inferior. Honestly, he had purged that particular emotion from his system back in the tenth grade. Now, as a senior, he only felt a sense of detached amusement. To him, Rajawali High was a unique ecosystem, and he was the invasive species—the outlier that survived through one thing and one thing only: pure, unadulterated intelligence.
He parked his bike in the two-wheeler section. Ironically, the area was dominated by Ninja 250cc sportbikes and Vespa Matics that cost more than some used cars. Salim's Supra looked like a museum artifact among futuristic droids.
Just as he unbuckled his helmet and tried to smooth out his wind-blown hair, a deep, resonant rumble vibrated through his chest. It wasn't the high-pitched scream of a racing bike, but the heavy, guttural bass of a large-displacement American V8.
A Ford Mustang, painted a yellow so bright it could cause retinal damage, screeched to a halt right in front of the motorcycle lot, effectively blocking the path. The driver's side door swung upward.
Out stepped Dani.
His hair was sculpted with expensive pomade that smelled of sandalwood and success, a scent that probably carried for ten meters in any direction. His uniform was unnaturally smooth, and the watch on his left wrist probably cost more than Salim's entire college fund.
"Behold! The commoner has arrived!" Dani shouted, throwing his arms wide with a grin that was as large as his ego.
Salim rolled his eyes, shouldering his backpack. One of the straps was held together by a large safety pin—a temporary fix that had lasted for three months. "You're loud, you oversized refrigerator. New car again?"
Dani laughed heartily, throwing an arm around Salim's shoulders. He didn't seem to care that the road dust on Salim's jacket might stain his designer shirt.
"The usual, Lim. My old man won some government tender or something, I don't know the details. This was the 'good job' gift. But man, the fuel consumption is a nightmare. I suspect this thing drinks holy water mixed with premium racing fuel."
"You're complaining about gas mileage to a man whose bike dies if the tank is less than half a liter full?" Salim countered flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Dani was an anomaly. He was wealthy—obscene wealth, really. But his brain was, for lack of a better term, slightly misaligned. More importantly, he never saw Salim as the "scholarship kid." Since middle school, Dani was the one who lent his notebooks, and Salim was the one who actually filled them with the correct answers. It was a symbiotic relationship that had evolved into a genuine, albeit strange, friendship.
"Look, there's Rizki and Maya," Dani said, nodding toward the main corridor.
Two figures approached to complete their odd quartet. Rizki walked with a measured, steady gait. He had a calm face that always looked as if he were contemplating the future of a nation. Beside him, Maya walked with an effortless grace.
Maya was the definition of "deadly elegance." She didn't use the heavy makeup favored by the school's 'influencer' crowd, but the aura of "Old Money" radiated from her. Her school bag was a branded luxury item, but she carried it as if it were a plastic grocery sack.
"Morning, Lim. Morning, Dan," Rizki greeted, his voice a steady baritone. "Another new car, Dan? Yellow? Really? Are you trying to be Bumblebee or a New York taxi driver?"
"Shut it, Ki. This is art!" Dani protested.
Maya didn't join the banter immediately. Her eyes went straight to Salim. For a fraction of a second, their gazes locked. Salim, with his usual expressionless mask, gave a slight nod. Maya offered a thin smile—so subtle most would miss it—but her cheeks flushed a soft, dusty pink.
"Hi, Lim. Have you had breakfast?" she asked softly, ignoring Dani's flamboyant Mustang entirely.
"Not yet. I'll grab some fried snacks at the canteen later," Salim replied shortly. He reached into his pocket, fingering the single twenty-thousand rupiah bill—his daily ration.
"More fried food? The cholesterol, Lim..." Maya said quickly, her voice trailing off as she caught herself sounding too worried.
Dani elbowed Salim in the ribs, whispering loudly enough for the entire parking lot to hear. "Signal received! 4G LTE connection confirmed! She's worried about your heart, buddy!"
"Knock it off," Salim brushed Dani's hand away, his face remaining as stoic as stone. "Let's go. First period is Mrs. Ratna. You're late by a minute, and she'll have you sweeping the courtyard."
They walked together toward the main building. The contrast was a stark visual: Dani's exuberance, Rizki's gravitas, and Maya's elegance represented the school's aristocracy. And then there was Salim. He walked in sneakers with soles worn thin and a uniform that had faded from too many washes. Yet, his stride was the most certain among them.
In Rajawali, money spoke the loudest. But within this small circle, Dani's wealth, Rizki's family power, and Maya's social standing were worth no more than a dry joke from Salim's mouth.
Class XII Science 1. The Elite Track.
Inside this room, the atmospheric pressure felt heavier. It wasn't just the central air conditioning set to a frigid 18 degrees Celsius; it was the ambition evaporating from the heads of thirty high-achieving students. Everyone here had a target: Medical School at the University of Indonesia, Engineering at ITB, or a full ride to an Ivy League.
Salim sat in the third row from the back, near the window. A strategic position. Far enough to avoid unnecessary attention, but close enough to see the board. Beside him, Dani was busy sketching a caricature of the principal in his notebook.
Mrs. Ratna, the Mathematics teacher who was notoriously "killer" yet fashionably dressed, was currently scrawling an integral trigonometry problem across the board. The equation was so long it resembled a freight train.
"Right," Mrs. Ratna turned around, adjusting her thick glasses to scan the room. "Who can solve this in under three minutes? This was a national olympiad problem from last year."
The class fell into a heavy silence.
Salim propped his chin on his left hand, staring at the board with a glazed look. In his mind, he didn't see the numbers as threats. He saw patterns. To him, the integral was like a jumbled jigsaw puzzle where the pieces were starting to align themselves.
Substitute 'u'... break the fractions... then integrate by parts... ah, there's the trap in the sin 2x, Salim thought.
His mind drifted. What should I eat for break? If I buy Pak Man's meatballs, the price has gone up to 15k. That leaves 5k for gas. If I buy fried snacks, 5k gets me three pieces. Is that enough to stop the hunger? Maya said cholesterol. Whatever. Cholesterol doesn't kill you today; hunger does.
"I'll try, Ma'am!"
A confident voice rang out from the front row. Nadia.
Salim glanced over lazily. Nadia was his eternal rival for the top rank, though he never actually considered her one. To Nadia, however, Salim was her nemesis. She stood up with poise, marker in hand, and began working the problem on the board.
Her steps were neat. Her handwriting was beautiful. Dani nudged Salim. "Lim, is she getting it?"
Salim narrowed his eyes slightly. "Line three. She forgot to change the integral limits when she substituted the variables. Her final result will be negative, but it should be positive."
"Aren't you going to correct her?"
"Why? Let her be happy for a moment," Salim replied nonchalantly, his mind returning to the fried snacks.
Sometimes, Salim's random nature surfaced at the worst times. He could be deeply concerned about a hungry stray cat but remain chillingly indifferent to academic competition.
Sure enough, five minutes later, Nadia finished with a proud flourish. Mrs. Ratna nodded slowly, then turned to the class. "Anyone have a different answer? Or does anyone wish to correct Nadia's work?"
Silence again. Most of the students hadn't even reached the halfway point on their scratch paper.
"Salim," Mrs. Ratna called out suddenly. Dani nearly jumped out of his skin; Salim didn't even blink.
"Yes, Ma'am?" Salim straightened his posture.
"You've been staring out that window for quite a while. Is Nadia's answer correct?"
Salim exhaled a soft breath. He stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. He didn't walk to the front. He stayed exactly where he was.
"The answer is 14 over 3, Ma'am," Salim said succinctly.
Nadia turned around sharply. "My answer is negative 14 over 3. You're just guessing, Salim."
"Line three, Nad," Salim said, his tone as flat as if he were giving directions to a parking attendant. "You changed the variable 'x' to 'u', but your upper limit was still the 'x' limit. Pi over two should have become zero the moment you plugged it into the equation u = cos x."
Nadia froze. Her eyes widened as she stared back at the board. Her face flushed a deep crimson the moment she realized the fatal, yet simple, error.
"Arrogant jerk," Nadia muttered under her breath, though it was loud enough to be heard.
"I'm not arrogant, I'm just hungry," Salim whispered to himself, sitting back down before Mrs. Ratna could even offer her praise.
"Exactly right, Salim," Mrs. Ratna said, a rare smile touching her lips. "Extra points for you. Nadia, be more careful with your precision. Please sit."
Dani slapped Salim on the back. "You're insane! Without even a scrap of paper? Where do you calculate? In the clouds?"
"In the gaps between thinking about bakwan, Dan," Salim answered honestly.
When the bell for recess finally rang, Salim was the first one out of his seat. Not because he wanted to flaunt his intelligence, but because the hunger in his stomach had started a protest for basic rights.
However, as he walked out, he could feel Nadia's glare piercing his back, and the admiring whispers of his other classmates. In this school, Salim was an anomaly. He was poor in wealth, but he held the most valuable currency in Rajawali: pure, raw intelligence.
But to Salim, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was whether the canteen still had his favorite shrimp bakwan left. For a scholarship kid living on the edge, happiness was simple: a full stomach and enough gas in the tank.
He didn't know yet that the very calculation skills he used to budget for fried snacks would, very soon, be the only thing keeping him from a cold, violent grave.