A few days earlier...
"Got everything? Don't go leaving anything behind now," Frans's voice drifted from the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, shoulder pressed to the wood, watching Erika as she knelt by the bed.
The sunlight fought its way through the window, reflecting softly against her olive skin. Standing at about five-foot-nine with an athletic, well-proportioned build, Frans looked like a man who took care of himself without being vain about it. His quiff was sharp—tapered at the sides, short on top—framing a face defined by a hard jawline and cheekbones that cast subtle shadows in the morning light.
His eyes, a deep almond brown, were calm yet piercing, as if he were constantly reading between the lines of every sentence. A lopsided smirk played on his thin lips, hovering somewhere between a flirtation and a secret. The navy polo shirt clung to his frame, paired with dark jeans that lent him an air of effortless, mature composure.
"Of course I have. Are the others already at Dita's?" Erika replied without looking up, shoving gear into her yellow rucksack. Amidst the chaos of clothes and snacks, a power bank and charger sat nestled in the center—to Erika, these were more sacred than any makeup kit. Survival essentials, she thought.
Erika had just turned twenty-two. She was tall and slender, her movements quick but calculated. Her straight black hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, though a few stray strands escaped at her temples, vibrating slightly with every move she made. Her skin was clear, possessing a natural glow that needed no cosmetic help.
Today, she wore a white crop jacket and black shorts that accentuated her long legs—a casual look that somehow felt deliberately designed to command attention.
Together with Frans, her boyfriend, and five other friends, Erika planned to celebrate her birthday at a villa in the hills—a small getaway to bury the ghost of a grueling semester.
"Hard to say," Frans said, stepping slowly into the room. "You know the group. Punctuality isn't exactly their strong suit when it comes to meeting up."
"Do you think I've overpacked, Frans?" Erika asked, hoisting the bloated yellow bag, her face caught between doubt and pride.
Frans chuckled, taking the bag from her hand. "Damn, that's heavy," he remarked, weighing it. "But it's fine. Better to have too much than to realize you've forgotten something once we're already out there."
He swung the bag over his shoulder. "Let's move."
"Wait," Erika countered. She sat on the edge of the bed, thumbs flying across her phone. "Let me nudge the WhatsApp group first. Get them moving."
***
"Great. Just what we needed. Overcast," Mira grumbled, staring out the window. Outside, the sky was a heavy, bruised grey, as if holding back a downpour that was only a matter of time. In front of her, a cup of cappuccino sent up plumes of soft steam, the aroma mingling with the chilled air of the coffee shop.
With her bright, sun-kissed skin, Mira stood in sharp contrast to the cold palette outside—a splash of warmth in a darkening world. Her face was bare, yet she possessed a raw, magnetic pull. Her lips, full and sensual, pursed slightly as she sipped her drink—a small, unconscious habit that drew the eyes of anyone nearby. A textured bob framed her face, giving her an edge that was tomboyish yet undeniably feminine. She wore a sleeveless grey sweater and black trousers—effortless, yet somehow impossible to ignore.
Across from her, a friend of the same age sat relaxed, nursing a blueberry milkshake through a straw, her other hand busy scrolling through her phone.
"Hey, Erika just posted. She and Frans are heading to Dita's. Shall we head out?" the fair-skinned girl said, her eyes never leaving the screen.
Fani. She carried an aura of cheerfulness that followed her like a shadow. Her face was soft and round, her cheeks flushed with a natural rosiness that deepened in the cold. Round-rimmed glasses gave her a studious, slightly eccentric look, while her long brownish hair fell loosely over her shoulders. Dressed in a pastel tee and white trousers, she looked light, almost airy.
Mira and Fani were known as the closest pair in the circle of seven—a duo that always seemed in sync.
"Finally. Let's go, Fan. Hopefully, we beat the rain," Mira said, draining the last of her coffee before standing to grab her bag.
Fani nodded, tucking her phone into a small pouch. The sound of chairs scraping against the wooden floor was followed by the soft chime of the door bell as they stepped out—leaving the warmth of the shop for a sky that had begun to weep.
***
"Yes, Mom... I'm not just going with Toni. The others are coming too. They're all meeting here. We aren't doing anything weird, Mom. It's for a final project research trip. Just three days. Please?"
Dita pleaded with her mother, her voice soft and honeyed with persuasion. Her large, round eyes shimmered with a practiced pout that was hard to refuse.
The petite girl stood in the living room wearing a mustard crop tee and frayed denim cut-offs that showed off her legs. Though she stood only five-foot-one, her proportions made her look agile and self-assured. Her face was makeup-free, revealing flawless skin, a sharp chin, and a naturally high-bridged nose—looking like a lead from an indie Korean drama. Her long hair, dyed a dark ash brown, was tied haphazardly up, stray strands softening her rebellious look.
Meanwhile, Toni sat on the sofa nearby. He could only offer a strained smile, nodding occasionally, pretending to be calm while his pulse hammered. Incredible, he thought. Dita's actually asking for permission on the day of departure.
Toni looked casual in a grey hoodie and black shorts, but his demeanor was steady and mature. His black "comma" hairstyle framed an oval face with fair skin and a slight cleft in his chin—a masculine detail on an otherwise soft face. Despite the small height difference, they looked the part of a perfect couple—a "Korean-wannabe" pair, sweet and a little absurd.
"Three days is a long time," her mother said, her voice gentle but laced with hesitation. "Have you and your friends ever been there before?"
"It's safe, Mom," Dita interjected quickly, her smile awkward but sincere. "Besides, it's Fani's uncle's villa. It's totally fine. And there's a group of us."
The mother fell silent for a moment, searching her daughter's face. Finally, she let out a long sigh.
"Fine. But I want updates. Constantly. And remember—don't do anything foolish in a strange place."
With that, the middle-aged woman turned to Toni. Her gaze was calm but stern, ensuring the weight of her words landed.
"Toni, I'm trusting you with Dita. Look after her. And I mean it—don't let things get out of hand," she added with a smile. But the tone was sharp enough that Toni couldn't tell if she was joking or issuing a threat.
"Ah, yes, ma'am. Of course. I'll look after her. I promise," Toni stammered, nodding vigorously with his widest smile, flashing his deep dimples—his go-to move for diffusing tension.
"Yay! Thanks, Mom!" Dita cheered, lunging forward to hug her mother.
"Alright, I'm heading back to work. Don't forget to text me when you leave. How are you getting there?"
"Frans's car, Mom. Okay, I'll definitely let you know."
Once her mother had left, Toni finally felt free to speak his mind.
"That was insane. You told the group chat yesterday that she'd already said yes. Why were you just asking her now??" Toni asked, bewildered, as Dita stood in the doorway waving at her mother's departing car.
"Hehe, I was waiting for the right moment. Catching her right before work makes it harder for her to say no. It worked, didn't it??" Dita replied, flopping down onto the sofa beside him.
"Did you change your shampoo? It doesn't smell like the usual stuff," Toni remarked, leaning in to sniff her hair.
"Yeah, it's lemon. Do you like it?" Dita asked, lifting a lock of hair to his nose. "Smells good, right?"
A few moments later, the low rumble of an engine vibrated through the house as a car pulled up front.
"That'll be Frans and Erika," Toni said.
Dita sprang from the sofa, moving toward the door to greet them.
"Hey! You're finally here!" she shouted as Erika stepped out of the car.
Shortly after, the whine of a scooter engine approached. From a distance, Mira could be seen struggling to turn into the driveway. A massive rucksack was wedged between her feet, making the maneuver clumsy. Behind her, Fani—who was more heavily built—clutched another large bag on her back. The scooter wobbled dangerously before finally coming to a halt by the porch.
"Look at that, everyone arriving at once," Toni noted, standing in the doorway.
***
12:15 PM.
Rian was still face-down on a thin mattress laid directly on the floor of his rented room. In the corner, his phone—which had been plugged in all night—was chiming incessantly.
"Nghhh..." He stirred, forcing his eyelids to crack open. Lazily, he dragged his body across the floor to reach the device, crawling over a graveyard of charging cables, a small tripod, and an external hard drive.
Twelve missed calls burned on the screen.
Who the hell is calling this early... so loud... he muttered to himself.
He rolled onto his back. His black hair was straight, medium-length, and a complete mess—the signature look of an indie creator who hadn't seen a barber in months because he was too busy editing. Dark circles shadowed his eyes—the physical receipt of a days-long bender finishing content for his rising YouTube channel. His eyes were weary and bloodshot, but they retained the sharp flicker of an intelligent mind that spent too much time staring at screens.
Despite the exhaustion, his jawline was sharp and his nose narrow. There was a strange magnetism to his disheveled state—like a protagonist from an urban documentary.
He tried to unlock his phone via face ID.
Face not recognized, the screen read.
Rian grumbled, rubbing his eyes with one hand before trying again. Success. He squinted at the wall of notifications. Between WhatsApp messages, Discord pings, and editing software alerts, he found the one that made his heart skip a beat.
"CRAP! I'm dead!" Rian gasped. He threw the phone onto the mattress and scrambled to his feet. In a panicked blur, he grabbed a towel and sprinted for the bathroom. His t-shirt was nearly torn at the shoulder, and his shorts looked like they hadn't been changed in three days.
Meanwhile, on the mattress, the unlocked screen displayed a text from someone who was undoubtedly ready to tear him apart:
Sender: Dita Adriella
Riaaan, pick up the damn phone! We're all gathered. Are you coming to the villa or what??