Dion Pratama was two deliveries away from a 4.8 rating when Mrs. Kartika's fate literally spelled itself out above her head.
The words appeared in a cheap Arial font, pale blue against the water stained ceiling of her living room. They shimmered like heat haze rising from asphalt on a Jakarta afternoon.
"Will slip on bathroom tile. Minor concussion. Sue the cleaning service."
Dion blinked hard. The text didn't disappear. It never did. Not since it started happening three months ago, right after he bombed his bar exam for the second time and seriously considered throwing his law degree into the Ciliwung River.
"Keep the change, young man," Mrs. Kartika said, pressing a crumpled twenty thousand Rupiah note into his sweaty palm. She smiled. She was maybe sixty five, with kind eyes and the faint smell of clove cigarettes clinging to her batik house dress.
Dion knew he should just say "thank you" and leave. That was the protocol. Pick up food. Deliver food. Collect rating. Repeat until death or until he saved enough to move out of his parents' house. Whichever came first.
But the text was still floating there, pulsing gently.
"Minor concussion."
He thought about Mrs. Kartika lying on her cold bathroom floor, confused and bleeding. He thought about the ambulance ride and the hospital bills her family would probably struggle to pay. He thought about how he was the only person in the entire world who could prevent it.
Dion sighed internally. This was supposed to be his day off from being haunted.
"Ma'am," he heard himself say. His voice sounded strange. Too serious for someone holding a warm plastic bag of bakso. "Maybe... wear slippers in the bathroom today?"
Mrs. Kartika's smile froze.
She gave him The Look. It was the look every single person in this city gave a delivery guy who dared to speak outside the script. The "Did I ask for your opinion on my home safety, you failed lawyer turned traffic menace?" look.
Dion bowed quickly and retreated before she could reduce his rating to a 3.0. As the door clicked shut, he heard her mutter something about "young people these days" and "unsolicited advice."
He took the stairs two at a time, his green QuickBite jacket sticking to his back in the oppressive humidity.
Dion Pratama. 4.7 Stars.
That little number on the app was the only validation he had left in this world. It meant he was reliable. It meant he was invisible enough to be trusted with other people's lunch. It was the exact opposite of his parents' expectations, who still introduced him to relatives as "Our son, Dion. The lawyer." They conveniently left out the part where he had a panic attack during the bar exam and couldn't remember the difference between civil and criminal procedure.
The ability to see the "Fate Captions" above people's heads wasn't a gift from God. It wasn't a superpower that came with a cool costume and a billionaire playboy alter ego.
It was spam mail for reality.
"Will forget anniversary. Fight with wife." (The guy at the coffee shop).
"Will trip on uneven sidewalk. Scrape knee." (The little girl with the pink backpack).
"Will check phone while walking. Walk into glass door." (That one was Dion's personal favorite. He actually stopped to watch. It was hilarious).
Mostly, he ignored it. What was he supposed to do? Tap strangers on the shoulder and whisper, "Excuse me, but you're going to get food poisoning from that satay cart later"? He had tried that once. The man threatened to call the police.
So Dion shut up. He delivered food. He chased that 4.8 star rating like it was the Holy Grail.
He swung his leg over his beat up Honda Beat, the seat cracked and repaired with duct tape. The engine sputtered to life with a sound like a dying lawnmower. He checked his phone for the next order, eager to get back on the road and forget about Mrs. Kartika's bathroom.
The screen lit up.
New Order.
Pickup: HokBen Menteng.
Dropoff: Avaria Tower, Floor 25.
Customer: Kiana Arcelia.
Dion stared at the name for a solid five seconds.
Avaria Tower. The glass fang jutting out of Jakarta's skyline like it was trying to stab God. Eighty floors of pure, unapologetic wealth. And Kiana Arcelia. Even delivery guys had a gossip network more efficient than the CIA. She was known as the Ice Queen of Sudirman. A young CEO who had inherited a struggling conglomerate from her late father. Rumor had it she had fired an entire PR team via email and possessed a heart made of the same obsidian as her office desk.
Dion had delivered to her floor twice before. She never tipped. She always gave exactly four stars. No more, no less. She was a mystery wrapped in a designer blazer.
He accepted the order.
Twenty minutes later, he was weaving through the sticky, honking madness of Sudirman traffic, the 2 PM sun turning his helmet into a portable oven. He pulled up to Avaria Tower, a sleek monument of black glass and steel that made him feel about two inches tall.
The security guard in the lobby, a mountain of a man named Pak Budi, eyed his green jacket with the usual disdain.
"Delivery for Arcelia," Dion said, holding up the paper bag like a peace offering.
The guard grunted. "Twenty fifth floor. Use the service elevator."
Of course. The service elevator. Because God forbid a delivery guy's sweat contaminate the executive lift.
Dion rode up in the cramped, slightly rattling metal box, trying not to think about how much this building cost or how many years of his current salary it would take to afford a single square meter of it.
The doors opened onto the twenty fifth floor, and he stepped into a different universe.
The air conditioning hit him like a wall of money. It was silent except for the soft clicking of keyboards and the distant murmur of a business call in English. The floors were polished white marble. The receptionist had better skin than a K drama star.
"Delivery for Ms. Arcelia," Dion said, his voice sounding too loud in the sterile quiet.
The receptionist pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward a corner office. "She's waiting. Please be quick."
Dion walked down the hallway, his worn out sneakers squeaking slightly on the pristine floor. Through the floor to ceiling glass windows, he could see the entire city sprawled out below, a chaotic patchwork of green, brown, and gray.
And then he saw her.
Kiana Arcelia was exactly like her Instagram photos. Sharp jawline that could cut a diamond. Eyes like dark, polished stones that gave away absolutely nothing. Hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that probably required a team of stylists to achieve that "effortless" look. She wore a cream colored blazer that Dion was certain cost more than his motorcycle, his phone, and his entire wardrobe combined.
She was signing a document, her movements precise and efficient. She didn't look up.
"Leave it on the table," she said. Her voice was cold water. Clear. Crisp. And absolutely devoid of warmth.
Dion stepped forward, the plastic bag crinkling obscenely in the hush of her office.
And then he looked up. Not at her face. But at the space just above her perfectly styled dark hair.
The plastic bag slipped from his fingers. The container of HokBen hit the marble floor with a soft, sad thud.
The text wasn't blue.
It wasn't the usual pale, mundane warnings about slipping on tiles or forgetting anniversaries.
It was red.
A jagged, angry, blood red font that looked like it had been carved into the air with a rusty knife. It pulsed with a malevolent energy that made the hair on Dion's arms stand up.
*"Regan Adinata's Next Prey." *
And below that, in slightly smaller but equally terrifying red text:
*"Financial Ruin. Forced Marriage. Outcome: Mental Death." *
Dion couldn't breathe. The air in the room had turned to ice. He had seen hundreds of flags in the past three months. He had seen people destined for minor injuries, bad dates, and career setbacks. He had even seen a few that hinted at illness or grief.
But he had never seen a flag this specific. This cruel. This... final.
A Death Flag. A real, genuine, "game over" flag.
"Are you going to stand there until my lunch fossilizes?" Kiana Arcelia's voice sliced through his frozen panic. "Or do you intend to actually hand it to me?"
Dion forced his eyes down from the horrifying red text to her face. She was looking at him now, her dark eyes narrowed in annoyance. She glanced at the fallen bag on the floor.
"And pick that up. The floor is cleaner than the table in your house, I'm sure, but it's still the floor."
He bent down mechanically and picked up the bag. His hands were shaking. Regan Adinata. Dion knew that name. The man was a young conglomerate, always smiling on magazine covers. He was famous for his charity work and his "humble" demeanor despite being richer than several small countries.
And according to the floating text above Kiana Arcelia's head, he was a monster who was going to destroy her.
Dion placed the bag on her desk. She didn't say thank you. She just turned back to her document.
He should have walked away.
He should have gotten back in the service elevator, ridden down to the real world, and pretended he never saw anything. That was his thing. He ignored the flags. He chased his 4.8 stars. He was invisible.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Because as he turned toward the glass window, Dion caught his own reflection in the polished surface.
And for the first time since this curse, this spam mail, this ability started, he saw words above his own head.
They weren't blue.
They weren't red.
They were gold.
A soft, glowing, ancient gold, like sunlight catching on a temple's dome. The font was elegant, almost calligraphic.
*"The CEO's Savior." *
And then, just below it, in the same shimmering gold:
*"Or Die Trying." *
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a notification from the QuickBite app. Mrs. Kartika had updated her review.
"⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️. Delivery was fast. Gave good advice about slippers. Will order again."
Dion stared at the five stars. Then he stared at the golden death threat hovering above his own reflection. Then he looked back at Kiana Arcelia, the Ice Queen of Sudirman, whose head was crowned with a bloody prophecy of ruin.
His 4.7 rating was the last thing on his mind.
Because for the first time, the spam mail in his vision wasn't addressed to a stranger.
It was addressed directly to him.
And it was telling him that if he didn't save the coldest woman in Jakarta from a psychopath in a tailored suit, he was going to die trying.
Dion swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper.
He really should have studied harder for the bar exam.