Novel Translation: Blue Night Frequency
00:00 WIB (Western Indonesian Time).
Night in Bandung isn't just about the day changing. For me, it's a dimensional shift.
In a quiet corner of the Turangga district, in a room lit only by the bluish glow of a 24-inch monitor, I sit in silence. The outside world is probably dead, buried in darkness that swallows all sound along the empty street in front of the house. But behind the rhythmic blinking of the PC light—like a machine's heartbeat—my mind is just reaching its peak.
I'm not just listening to music. I'm dissecting the anatomy of sound.
On the screen, waves of sound dance across the DAW (Digital Audio Workstation) software. Green and purple, rising and falling like the breath of a living creature. I call this state Arctic Mode. A condition where my emotions are perfectly isolated—exactly like noise silenced completely by the noise-canceling feature on the studio headphones now wrapped around my ears. Muted. Cold. Static. But safe.
In Arctic Mode, I don't have to hear Ayah Hendra's voice, the one that always measures my life on a scale of discipline impossible for me to fulfill. I'm focused on the latest project for MBF Records (Malam Biru Frekuensi / Blue Night Frequency). I'm mixing a song called "Jendela Kaca" (Glass Window) for Laras, an indie vocalist from Bandung whose voice has the texture of velvet but is fragile.
I'm searching for the clearest frequency gap within the pile of instruments. My fingers slide the fader slowly. The drum hit needs to punch right in the solar plexus, not just the ears. The bass needs to fill the lower space, creating a solid foundation without making the sound muddy. I cut at 250Hz, boost slightly in the high end to give 'air' to Laras' vocals.
Everything must be precise. Everything must be synchronized. Because in the real world, my life has never been this synchronized.
But suddenly, I catch something wrong.
I open a recording file of the ambiance on the house porch that I took this afternoon. It was meant to be stock for nature sound effects or foley. The sound of wind hitting mango leaves, the creak of a rusty iron fence, the distant voice of a cuanki vendor. But at minute 02:14, there's a strange clump in the waveform. Its shape is messy, asymmetrical, far from the pattern of natural sounds that usually have an organic rhythm.
I zoom in on the wave down to the smallest sample level. This sound appears at a low frequency, around 40Hz, almost inaudible to the human ear without a quality subwoofer. I crank the gain to the maximum limit.
Hsss... rannn... aaa...
The hairs on my neck stand up. That's not the wind. That's not electrical interference from a leaky cable. It feels like a whisper slowed down ten times over, crawling into my eardrum, cold and sharp. My hand reflexively rubs the back of my neck—a habit that always surfaces when I feel a situation slipping out of control.
"Just distortion," I mutter, trying to find a logical justification. "Maybe feedback from a microphone that was too sensitive."
I try to believe my own words, but my ears cannot be lied to. That frequency has a pattern that is... alive.
Knock. Knock.
The sound of knocking on my wooden bedroom door feels like an explosion in the midst of this silence. I reflexively hit the spacebar on the keyboard, silencing the whisper instantly.
"Dhan? Not asleep yet?"
It's Mama's voice. Soft, but there's always a tone of anxiety slipped in there—a frequency of worry I can never filter out of my life. I swivel my chair. The joints in my spine crack stiffly, protesting being forced to sit upright for four hours straight.
The door opens a crack, letting in a sliver of yellow light from the house corridor that contrasts with the blue light of my room. Mama appears in her old batik house dress, her hair tied up carelessly. "Tomorrow is the first day of 11th grade, Dhan. Ayah has been asleep for a while. Don't be late again like during the grade promotion ceremony."
Mama's tone shifts slightly when she mentions Ayah. Quieter. More careful. As if the name "Ayah" is a secret code that must not be spoken too loudly lest it wake a sleeping giant.
"Yes, Ma. Almost done. Just exporting the file real quick," I reply flatly.
"Oh yeah, Ayah left a message earlier..." Mama pauses mid-sentence, her eyes looking at the pile of musical instruments in the corner of my room with an unreadable gaze. "After school tomorrow, don't go anywhere. Come straight home. He wants to talk to you in the living room."
My heart suddenly feels heavier, as if a limiter is weighing down its beats. "About what, Ma? My grades again?"
Mama just shakes her head slowly, then closes the door without another sound.
I turn back to the monitor screen, which now displays the visualization of that strange whisper. Ayah wants to talk. That sentence loops in my head like a broken audio track. I know what it means. Hendra Radhagusta is not the type of person who initiates a conversation to ask "how was your day?". If he asks for time to talk, it means there's a new demand, or an old mistake about to be dredged up again.
I know Ayah Hendra loves me. He raised me since I was two years old after my biological father left for God knows where. He gave me the surname "Radhagusta." But at the same time, I know he always sees me as a risk. An "asset" that could be damaged at any time because I carry the blood of a man named Rakael Thazo Vortan.
Rakael. That name is the biggest distortion in my life. A legendary Bandung thug whose name is still whispered in fearful tones in the coffee stalls around Turangga. Every time I look in the mirror for too long, I feel those eyes—sharp, dark, and slightly wild—staring back at me from behind my own pupils.
I force the monitor off. The screen goes dark, leaving only the pale reflection of my own face. Tomorrow is July 18, 2022. I have to be the perfect Student Council Vice President. I have to be the upright Pradana of the Scouts. I have to prove that I am not him.
---
Monday, 06:50 WIB.
Bandung's morning sunlight pierces through my room's ventilation brutally, stinging my eyelids which are still glued shut. My head feels incredibly heavy, the effect of staying up late and getting less than four hours of sleep. As my limp hand grabs my phone from the bedside table, the lock screen lights up, displaying numbers that instantly bring my entire nervous system online.
06:50.
"CRAP!"
The word just explodes. I leap out of bed with a movement that is almost inhuman. My feet hit the cold floor, but the cold is unfelt because adrenaline is flooding my bloodstream. My body moves on autopilot, a muscle memory from years of living under strict rules.
A lightning-fast shower, barely wet. I put on my white OSIS uniform while half-running—buttons go into the wrong holes, I fix them with trembling hands. I comb my comma hair carelessly with my fingers. When I see my reflection in the wardrobe mirror, I stop for a moment. I look at my hands. Clenched.
I hurriedly open them. I force my fingers straight. "Don't clench your fists, Dhan. Stay calm," I whisper to myself. According to the rule: if I'm angry or panicked, my palms must be open. If I clench my fists, it means the "Rakael" side is trying to take control.
I run out of the room, almost crashing into Revan, who is standing in front of his own door fixing the collar of his middle school uniform. Revan Ardiansyah Radhagusta. My stepbrother, with a personality as cold as ice and a tongue as sharp as a razor.
"Just keep on staying up late, Bang. Until you're really late and Ayah's name gets dragged through the mud at school," Revan mocks without expression. He always knows how to make me feel guilty with just one sentence.
I don't have time to answer. I keep running downstairs, taking the steps two at a time, nearly face-planting.
In the living room, Ayah Hendra is standing in front of the large mirror. He's fixing his work tie—a movement that is very precise, very measured. He looks at me through the mirror's reflection. His gaze is flat, but I can feel a frequency of judgment there.
"Breakfast, Dhan," Mama calls from the kitchen, her hands busy feeding Kenzie, my youngest sibling who is barely a year old.
"No time, Ma! I'm off!" I kiss Mama's hand in a flash, then turn to Ayah. He just gives a small nod as I greet him, his focus unbroken from the knot of his tie.
"This afternoon, don't forget. I'll be waiting in the living room at four," Ayah's voice is heavy, like a boulder being rolled.
I immediately run to the porch. My hope of arriving on time completely crumbles when my eyes catch the sight in the corner. The old black vintage bike, my grandfather's inheritance—the only vehicle I'm allowed to use—has a completely flat rear tire. Flattened against the cement. The last hiss of air escaping from the valve with a soft sigh, as if laughing at my misfortune.
"Damn it!" I curse under my breath. The distance to Mandala High School is about two kilometers. If I run now, maybe I'll only be ten minutes late.
I start running.
The Turangga asphalt, beginning to heat up under the morning sun, pounds against the soles of my feet through my thin sneakers. The vibration of every footfall is felt right up to my shins. The morning air, which should be fresh, feels like a razor blade slicing my throat every time I take a deep breath. Sweat starts soaking my forehead, dripping into my eyes, making them sting. The back of my white shirt begins to cling damply with sweat—a disgusting sensation, like being wrapped in plastic under the midday sun.
I pass rows of old houses with high fences. I catch a few glances from neighbors watering plants or waiting for the vegetable vendor. Their stares aren't just curiosity at seeing a school kid running. There's something colder in them. As if they're seeing the shadow of Rakael Thazo being chased by the police twenty years ago.
I hate this feeling. I run faster, ignoring the pain in my calves. I have to get there. I have to be "the perfect one" at Mandala.
---
SMA Mandala.
When the tip of my shoe finally hits the cement tiles of the school gate, the oxygen in Bandung suddenly turns into a luxury item with an exorbitant price tag. I bend over nearly ninety degrees, both hands gripping the cold, rusty green iron bars of the fence tightly. Inside my chest cavity, my heart races wildly.
I straighten up, take a deep breath that hurts my chest, and adjust my dark blue OSIS blazer which has slipped askew. The thick fabric should be a symbol of authority. But in this humiliating moment, the blazer feels more like a robe of punishment, making my body even more stifled.
Then, the audio catastrophe hits.
The sound from the school's main speaker blasts across the entire field. A local remix song is played at maximum volume. Instantly, the music producer instinct in my head screams in agony. The audio setting is absolute garbage. It's screechy, the bass is terribly distorted on every beat. This is pure noise pollution.
I try to sneak along the edge of the field, hugging the classroom walls so as not to be caught on the radar of Pak Bambang, the student affairs teacher with eyes as sharp as an eagle's.
"Whoa! Long live this kid! Just talked about him and here he appears!"
That baritone voice belongs to Vanra Sadyahujaya. He's leaning casually against a pillar in the corridor near the OSIS room, holding a clipboard, twirling a pen expertly between his fingers.
"Crazy, Dhan. Marathon from where? Your face looks like laundry that hasn't been ironed—totally crumpled," teases the guy next to him with a wide grin. That's Satriarka Bagas Vandira—Arka. Broad-shouldered, skin slightly dark from his hobby of playing volleyball under the blazing sun. Arka isn't wearing an OSIS blazer, just the white-and-grey uniform with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He slaps my shoulder hard, nearly making me stumble.
On the concrete bench beside them, Taufandisya Abimansyah, aka Taufan, just glances at me briefly. He's busy scribbling something in the small sketchbook he always carries. Taufan is quiet, but his drawings always have a dark aura.
"Rumpled," Taufan comments softly, his voice flat. But his observations are always valid.
"Shut up, all of you. My alarm is a traitor. My bike tire joined the protest too," I retort, still breathless. I roughly wipe the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.
Vanra reaches into his blazer pocket, pulls out a pack of filter cigarettes with a slightly dented box, and offers it to me with a subtle gesture. "Here, have a puff. So your heart doesn't feel like it's about to burst. Relax a bit, you're scaring me, looking like you're having a heart attack on the first day."
I immediately push his hand away, but gently. "You senile? I don't smoke, remember? If Pak Bambang catches us, my position as Student Council Vice President disappears in seconds."
"Well, who knows, maybe your faith wavered after running two kilos," Vanra replies casually, putting the cigarettes back in his pocket.
"Idiot," Taufan chips in without looking up from his drawing.
"Taufan's right! You should join my volleyball warm-up later this afternoon, Dhan. So your lungs actually get healthy," Arka chimes in, mimicking a volleyball serve that sends a breeze right to my face.
I snort, my hand reflexively rubbing the back of my neck again. That uneasy feeling returns.
At that exact second, Arka's joking is completely cut off. Like someone yanked the power cord from the main socket by force. A strange silence suddenly falls over the four of us, even though the school speaker is still blaring unintelligibly in the field.
Taufan stops scribbling. He looks up, his usually dull eyes now staring straight past my shoulder. Vanra, who was about to say something, suddenly clams up.
I turn my head slowly.
There, two transfer students are walking past the 11th-grade corridor towards the principal's office.
The girl in front walks with great confidence. Her back is straight, her hair tied in a ponytail that swings in rhythm with her steps. Azura Sitivarya. An old friend from middle school. She's still the same—possessing a "sun" aura that can make people around her feel blinded.
But the girl walking right behind her... is a complete anomaly.
She walks with her head bowed sharply down. Her shoulders are hunched, both arms wrapped in front of her chest, as if trying desperately to shrink her existence so no one will look. A black face veil covers her face, leaving only a pair of eyes hidden beneath the shadow of her headscarf.
Amidst the crowd of students in bright white and grey, she looks like a drop of pitch-black ink that fell and ruined a boring white canvas. Her pale fingers grip the strap of her shoulder bag tightly, her knuckles slightly whitening from the excessive pressure.
"Ninja," Taufan murmurs very softly.
I squint. This Ninja is like unexpected noise in the middle of a harmonious song. Logically, she shouldn't be there, but her existence forces my ears to find out: what secret is hidden behind that silence? She carries a quietness that, strangely, is louder than the remix song in the field.
"Hey? Ardha? Vanra? Taufan?"
Azura stops right in front of us. Her bright face displays a feigned look of surprise. "Whoa, Zura? How'd you end up lost here?" Vanra responds quickly, his hand swiftly straightening his own blazer collar.
"Yeah, I know! I thought you guys wouldn't be going to school here! Hey, Arka's here too," Azura greets cheerfully.
"Yup! Mandala without me is like a volleyball court without a net, Zur! Bland!" Arka chimes in with his usual cheeky style.
I, whose breathing has started to normalize, join in. "Btw, where'd you transfer from, Zur? How come you suddenly appear on the first day of 11th grade?"
The question comes out smoothly. Even though my focus has already passed Azura's shoulder and locked onto the figure standing stiffly behind her.
The Ninja remains silent in her own bubble of quiet. She doesn't move at all. She doesn't look at us. She just stands there, head down, like a statue placed haphazardly in the middle of the noisy hallway.
"I transferred from Al-Husain Nurrahman Islamic Boarding School in Darmahindya, Dhan," Azura's bright voice shatters my concentration. "Just wanted a change of scenery. Oh, let me introduce you, this is my friend from the boarding school too..."
Azura gently pulls the Ninja's wrist. I can see the girl flinch slightly, her movements jerky, like someone just forcibly pulled from the depths of water to the surface. She bows her head even lower, her veil swaying slightly in the breeze.
She says nothing. No "Hello" or mention of a name. Just absolute silence.
I feel something is off. When Azura speaks, I see her eyes glance at the Ninja for a split second. And there, I catch something changing in Azura's eyes. A strange flash that vanishes as quickly as I blink. Not anger, not annoyance. More like... something I can't define. A micro-fracture behind her perfectly bright smile.
"Hey, we gotta go first, need to head to the Principal's office, sort out the paperwork for tomorrow," Azura excuses herself with her wide smile. She pulls the wrist of the Ninja, who is still frozen like a statue.
I just stand there, rooted to the spot. My gaze is fixed, observing the two backs of contrasting colors slowly shrinking at the end of the corridor.
Azura walks lightly, cheerfully. On the other hand, the Ninja walks with heavy shuffles. Every inch of her movement is restrained. Her black robe flutters softly in the morning breeze, and faintly...
The scent of jasmine.
Very soft. That fragrance silently pierces my respiratory tract, slipping through the smell of my own sweat, and lingers there like an echo in an empty room.
I'm still silent, feeling the residual vibration of their presence. Suddenly, I feel a gaze fixed on the side of my face.
I turn. Taufan is still sitting on the concrete bench, but he's no longer scribbling. He's looking at me deeply. His sharp eyes say nothing, but I can catch the message clearly. A non-verbal communication louder than any scream.
That kid... is really weird, right?
I don't answer. I can only feel my throat suddenly going dry, drier than when I had just finished running from Turangga.