The dawn at Rajawali High School broke with a pale, sickly gray hue, as if the sky itself hesitated to grant its blessing upon the day. A thick, low-hanging morning mist clung to the asphalt of the school's sprawling courtyard, where five massive tour buses—customized High Deck Double Glass models—sat idling like sleeping iron monsters. Their engines hummed with a low-frequency vibration, vomiting thin plumes of white exhaust into the cold air, creating an atmosphere that wavered between holiday excitement and military precision.
The digital clock on the school's main tower flickered: 06:00 AM.
Hundreds of Grade 12 students had already gathered, their colorful suitcases a chaotic contrast to the somber fog. The drab white-and-gray uniforms were gone, replaced by a kaleidoscope of casual wear. Some wore beach hats and sunglasses in a display of premature optimism; others donned heavy winter jackets, clearly overthinking the climate of a private island.
"Look at those buses, Lim! Unbelievable!" Dani exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with a manic energy as he stared at Bus Number 3. "Wi-Fi, onboard toilets, leg rests... man, this isn't a bus. It's a land-based private jet!"
Salim merely nodded, pulling the collar of his jacket tighter. The morning air was sharp, biting into his skin with an unnatural chill. He scanned the perimeter. There were no teachers running around with megaphones to organize the ranks. Instead, the faculty—including Pak Bambang and Bu Ratna—stood near Bus 1, the staff coach. Their faces were... frozen. They didn't offer the usual warm, parental smiles. They looked like people being watched.
And they were. At every bus door stood a man in a slim-fit black suit, an earpiece snaking into his ear. They didn't help with the luggage. They simply stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes moving like scanners, recording every face that approached.
"Attention," Mr. Adrian's voice cut through the student chatter, amplified by the central PA system.
Salim turned toward the assembly podium. Mr. Adrian stood there, flanked by medical staff wearing pristine white lab coats—white that was too clean, a jarring contrast to the dusty courtyard.
"Before you board the coaches and commence this journey," Mr. Adrian said, his voice a calm, clinical authority, "there is a mandatory health protocol we must observe. Given that our destination is a private island with a unique, endemic ecosystem, we must ensure there is no biological contamination brought in—or taken back."
"Therefore," he continued, gesturing to the medical staff, "every student is required to receive an 'Adaptation Inoculation.' This is a specialized vaccine designed to prevent tropical fevers and allergic reactions to the island's local flora."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Injections? Are you serious?" Nadia complained, standing with Group 37. "What if my arm swells up? I have a photoshoot next week!"
"Peace, Assets... I mean, students," Mr. Adrian corrected himself with a micro-second delay, a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes playing on his lips. "The process is swift. Painless. We have erected a Sterile Tent on the east side of the field. Enter according to your group numbers. Upon receiving the inoculation, you will be issued a Boarding Pass for your assigned coach. No injection, no departure."
The Sterile Tent. A massive, white military-grade marquee that had been erected overnight. It was sealed tight, with no gaps to peek inside.
"Groups 1 through 5, proceed," the field coordinator barked.
Salim watched Group 4 walk toward the tent. Rinto led the way with an arrogant swagger, though his pace faltered as he neared the entrance. Maya followed behind him, her face drained of color. She stole a fleeting glance at Salim in the distance, instinctively clutching her left arm with a visible tremor.
Ten minutes passed. No sounds of shouting or crying came from the tent.
One by one, the members of Group 4 emerged from the rear exit of the marquee. Their faces looked... blank. They looked confused, like people who had just woken up from a deep, dreamless sleep. They clutched the small bandages on their arms. No one spoke. They walked toward their bus as if guided by instinct rather than conscious thought.
"Something is wrong," Udin whispered, standing beside Salim.
"What do you mean?" Rehan asked, busy concealing his signal jammer in the deepest compartment of his backpack.
"Look at how Sucipto is walking," Udin pointed at his teammate from the Karate club in Group 4. "Sucipto is a fighter. His gait is always balanced, his center of gravity perfect. But just now... he tripped over his own shoelace and didn't even reflexively adjust his balance. It's like his motor skills are... lagging."
"Perhaps a side effect of a local anesthetic?" Alya offered a rational diagnosis, though her brow was furrowed. "But mass vaccinations don't usually have a sedative effect that quickly. Unless the dosage is extremely high."
"Group 27! Enter!" a guard barked.
Salim's heart hammered against his ribs. He looked at Salma. The Student Council President gave a sharp, decisive nod.
"Let's go. Don't show fear. We enter as a unit," Salma commanded.
The five of them walked toward the mouth of the white tent. The sharp, overwhelming scent of antiseptic—the same scent Salim had noted on Mr. Adrian—assaulted their senses the moment they stepped inside.
Inside, the environment resembled a field surgical theater. The ground was covered in heavy white plastic. Blinding fluorescent lights hung from the tent's frame. There were five separate cubicles, each guarded by a masked medical professional.
"One person per cubicle. Sleeves up. No questions," a medic ordered. His voice was heavy, not the voice of a friendly nurse. Beneath his white lab coat, Salim caught a glimpse of a black silhouette at the man's waist. A holster? Or just a radio?
Salim entered Cubicle 1. He sat on a cold, stainless-steel chair.
The medic in front of him didn't offer a greeting. The man picked up a glass vial filled with a clear, slightly viscous liquid. There was no brand label on the bottle. Only a barcode and a small, printed code: N-M PROTOTYPE V.4.2.
"What kind of vaccine is this, Sir?" Salim asked, trying to bait for information while rolling up his sleeve. "I have a penicillin allergy."
The medic didn't answer. He drew the liquid into a syringe. The needle looked thicker than a standard vaccination needle. It looked more like a cannula for blood donation.
"Remain still and relax," the man said coldly.
In the adjacent cubicle, Udin's voice rang out.
"Hey, easy there! Are you injecting a human or a horse? That's rough, man!" Udin protested.
"Silence!" the medic in Udin's cubicle snapped. There was a dull thud, as if a body had been forced back against the chair.
Salim swallowed hard. He felt the cold alcohol swab on his upper arm. The scent was dizzying, making his head spin almost immediately.
Jleb.
The needle pierced his skin. Pain. It was far sharper than a standard injection. It felt like a hot iron rod being forced through his muscle tissue.
But the true horror began when the liquid was pushed in.
Salim gasped. The liquid wasn't warm. It was... cold. Terrifyingly cold. It felt like liquid ice was being poured directly into his bloodstream.
"Sshhh..." Salim hissed through his teeth, fighting the urge to pull away.
He felt the cold flow racing from his arm to his shoulder, then spreading to his neck. His heartbeat suddenly missed a beat, then raced twice as fast.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Salim's vision blurred. The lines of the fluorescent lights above him seemed to fracture into digital pixels. In his ears, a high-pitched, agonizing ring erupted. Eeeeeeeee...
"Finished. Exit," the medic ordered, ripping the needle out and slapping a small circular bandage over the puncture.
Salim stood up, his legs feeling like lead. He gripped his head, fighting the sudden vertigo.
What kind of drug is this... Salim thought, his mind struggling to maintain its analytical edge.
He walked out of the cubicle, joining his teammates at the tent's exit. Rehan was deathly pale, massaging his temples. Udin was clutching his arm, his jaw clamped shut.
"That wasn't a vaccine, Alya," Udin whispered. "I know the feeling of a vitamin shot or an anti-tetanus. This was different. It felt... heavy. Like liquid metal entering my veins."
Alya inspected the injection site on her own arm. She stared at the small bandage with a look of clinical horror.
"There's no blood," Alya murmured. "A needle that size should have caused a minor capillary hemorrhage. But it's sealed. The coagulation is too fast. There's a coagulant agent in that mixture."
"And the bottle had no regulatory label," she added, looking at her friends with a terrifying seriousness. "That's illegal. We were just administered an experimental substance."
"It's too late for a protest," Salma interrupted, her face tense but her voice firm as she tried to maintain control. "We've already been injected. Now, our focus is to stay together. Whatever the effects of this drug are, we face them as a unit."
A man in a black suit approached them, handing out five Boarding Passes with unique barcodes.
"Coach 3. Rear seats. Move," he ordered.
They were escorted out of the tent toward the buses. The sun had risen higher, but to Salim, the world looked a shade dimmer. The colors had lost their saturation.
As he climbed the bus stairs, Salim felt a massive wave of nausea. He gripped the handrail. In front of him, Dani—who had boarded earlier with Group 17—offered a weak, sluggish wave.
"Hey... Lim... my head is spinning..." Dani groaned, his usual boisterousness replaced by a sickly lethargy. "The vaccine... it hits like a freight train."
Salim trudged toward the very back row. The seating was 2-2. Salma sat with Alya. Udin took the seat in front of them. Rehan sat by the window, immediately pulling his hoodie over his face. Salim sat next to the empty seat where his bag lay.
He leaned his head against the cold glass window. Outside, he watched the familiar school gates begin to blur.
Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
Salim tried to perform a simple multiplication to test his cognitive state.
12 times 12 equals 144. 25 times 25 equals 625.
His brain was still functioning. His logic was intact. But his emotions... they felt blunted. The fear he had felt just moments ago was evaporating, replaced by a strange, artificial tranquility.
He looked at his wrist, seeing the paracord bracelet Maya had given him. It was the only thing that felt "real" in this moments.
The bus began to move. The vibration of the diesel engine hummed through the cabin.
"Farewell, children," Principal Handoko's voice drifted faintly from outside, waving with a smile that looked forced and brittle. Beside him, Mr. Adrian didn't wave. He simply watched the coaches depart, then tapped a command on his tablet.
"Sleep..." Salim whispered unconsciously. His eyelids felt heavy, not with natural fatigue, but as if his entire system was being forced to reboot.
In the seat next to him, Rehan had already fallen into a deep sleep—or perhaps a faint. Alya leaned on Salma's shoulder, her eyes closed. Udin was still fighting to stay awake, staring at the bus door with a wary gaze, but his head was drooping lower with every passing second.
The convoy of five luxury buses slid out of the Rajawali High gates, escorted by two black SUVs with no license plates. They didn't head for the airport as promised. They turned toward the highway leading to the remote cargo ports at the edge of the province.
Inside the silent bus, the AC hissed softly, blowing cold air that seemed to freeze the fate of the two hundred students within.
The journey to hell had begun. And the entry fee was already flowing in their blood.