2:42 AM.
In the distance, a faint siren wailed. Not the usual kind. Not a patrol—this was quieter. Too precise. Too calculated.
Ari grabbed his backpack. Sekar tucked the hard drive into the inner lining of her double-layered hoodie. Outside the back window, a man in a red scarf signaled with three fingers from behind a black motorcycle.
"That's S.K.?" Sekar asked.
Ari nodded. "Or someone he sent."
They exited through the back door. Their steps were fast but deliberate. When they reached the bike, the man handed Sekar a helmet.
"Get on. We'll take the rail tunnel."
The camera light turned red.
Ari stared into the lens, silent for a moment. His breath was steady—but heavy.
"My name is Muhammad Ari Pratomo," he began. "I'm a lawyer. But tonight, I speak as a citizen—one who's sick of being lied to by a broken system."
In that dimly lit room, Ari's voice echoed with clarity, broadcasted live to five platforms—two of them tied to international journalism networks resistant to censorship.
"What you're about to see… is not fabricated. These are real recordings. Illegal arrests. Abuse. Document forgery. And not by street thugs—by those sworn to uphold justice."
He paused.
Sekar stood in the corner. Her eyes were misty, but she refused to cry. She watched Ari's back—strong, determined—but she knew the weight he carried was too much for one person.
"If he disappears… who will carry this on?" she thought.
Bungas monitored the screens, his eyes sharp on the live feed analytics. Viewer counts surged—thousands every minute. Comments poured in: "We stand with you, Ari!", "This is no longer justice!", "Save the stream!"
But Bungas knew what they didn't: the server was being tracked.
"If we don't migrate the signal to the backup node, they'll breach us in 12 minutes," he muttered.
Sekar turned. "Can you do it?"
He hesitated. "Yes. But someone needs to stay behind to reroute manually."
He looked at Ari.
"The risk—"
"I'll go," Ari interrupted. "You stay. Sekar and I will take the underground tunnel. How long do you need?"
"Twelve minutes," Bungas replied.
"And if it takes longer?"
Bungas simply smiled.
They prepared quickly. Ari gripped Bungas's hand firmly. No words were exchanged—but everything was understood.
The broadcast continued.
Bungas typed fast, shifting the signal. Meanwhile, Ari and Sekar descended into a dark iron stairwell, moving through a forgotten tunnel.
Outside, sirens howled closer.
Inside, Ari's face was still on-screen. But time was running out.
At minute 10, Bungas pressed the final key.
Signal migration complete. Connection secured.
But at that exact moment—the warehouse door burst open.
Ari and Sekar were already gone. But Bungas never made it out.
The stream stopped five minutes later.
From that night on, Bungas was never seen again.
But the evidence he helped leak… became the weapon that reshaped the nation's legal history.
But it was enough.
"Then it's too late."
"And I know after this, I may not get to speak again."
His voice was deep, steady, and detached. As if this wasn't his first rescue mission.
Without hesitation, the three rode off into a narrow path that didn't exist on any GPS. Above them, the rumble of a helicopter grew louder. Ari ducked, pressing closer to the body of the bike.
"How did they find us?" Sekar whispered.
Ari didn't answer.
They arrived at an old warehouse on the city's edge—once a factory, now forgotten. Inside, a dim 10-watt bulb flickered. In the corner, a man in a black hoodie stood with his back turned, booting up a laptop.
"You made it just in time," he said.
Ari recognized the voice.
Bungas.
He turned around. His face was thinner than the last time they met, but his eyes remained sharp.
"I knew you'd reach this point," he said, powering on the main screen.
A digital map appeared, with glowing red dots scattered across the country.
"The system is in motion now. Not just to capture you—but to erase every record that might restore public trust."
Ari stepped closer. Sekar stared at Bungas, searching his face.
"You'll help us?" she asked.
Bungas looked at them and gave a faint smile.
"I'm not helping you.I just don't want history rewritten by algorithms…and the ones who paid to control them."
And that night, for the first time, they realized this was no longer a legal case…
This was a data war.And the truth was no longer what was real—but who controlled the last trusted server.
Bungas pressed a key. Several monitors lit up, showing connections to international servers. Logos from independent media networks in Berlin, Tokyo, and Nairobi appeared.
"Our network reaches beyond borders," Bungas explained. "We can upload this—not just to social media—but to independent journalist networks, untouched by local censorship."
Sekar nodded slowly. "But if they find out, won't they block the international lines?"
"They will," Bungas said. "That's why… we have to stream it live.Once. Unstoppable."
Ari stood before a camera hanging from the ceiling. He wore his old black suit, only two buttons left. His face was tired, but his eyes were burning.
Bungas rotated the camera. The mic went hot.
"The world won't know if we stay silent.
So tonight…
We won't."
The broadcast light turned red.
At the same time, in another room—an unknown team began tracing their signal.
The countdown had begun.