The city was cloaked in a thin, gray mist—just enough to make everything look a little more haunted.
Arka straddled his rented motorbike across the street from a dull gray building with peeling letters that read: Rikson Panjaitan – Private Investigator. It had taken him three whole days of digging and tailing to find this man. Three days bouncing between grimy motels, paying in cash, living off vending machine snacks, and obsessively scanning headlines about the now-viral "identity thief."
He took a sip of his cold instant coffee from a crumpled paper cup. His bloodshot eyes stayed locked on the building's front door.
According to all sources, Rikson arrived at precisely 7 a.m. every day, reviewed paperwork for an hour, and then vanished into the streets chasing down suspects.
"You can't screw this one up," Arka muttered, brushing a thumb over the Cadurian ring on his finger. "One slip and it's over."
At exactly 7:05, a black sedan pulled up. Out stepped a broad-shouldered man with streaks of silver at his temples. Rikson Panjaitan looked just like the newspaper photos—minus the stiffness. In person, he radiated presence, sharpness. Danger.
Rikson paused at the curb, scanning the street like a seasoned cop who never forgot how to survive. He moved with the instinctive caution of someone who expected trouble.
Arka watched. Waited. Thirty minutes ticked by. Then he started the engine and rolled into the basement garage.
"Morning," he greeted the security guard with a fake smile, flashing a freshly printed business card. "Hendra Kusuma, Adimitra Insurance. I've got an eight o'clock appointment with Mr. Rikson Panjaitan."
The guard barely glanced at the card. "Fourth floor. Room 407."
Perfect.
He parked in the darkest corner of the lot, grabbed his backpack, and slipped into the basement restroom. In ten minutes, he'd transformed. Gone were the worn jeans and hoodie. Now, he looked like any young professional in a tidy blazer, hair neat, eyes sharp. Just another client seeking help with a personal problem.
He rode the elevator up, heart steady but alert. The hallway on the fourth floor was quiet. The hum of the air conditioner and his footsteps on yellowing linoleum were the only sounds.
He stopped in front of frosted glass with bold letters:
RIKSON PANJAITAN – PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Three knocks.
"Come in." A low, commanding voice.
Arka opened the door. The office was a cluttered battlefield of case files and aging furniture. Behind a worn desk sat Rikson, flipping through photographs. He looked up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a stranger.
"Good morning, Mr. Rikson," Arka greeted with a polite smile. "Sorry for the sudden visit. I'm Hendra Kusuma. I was hoping to consult with you on a personal matter—might require a detective's expertise."
Rikson didn't reply immediately. His eyes scanned Arka from head to toe like an X-ray. Then a subtle nod. "Sit down." He gestured toward the chair and cleared a few files. "What kind of matter?"
"Identity theft," Arka said calmly, knowing exactly which buttons to press. "My bank account was hacked. The thief used my name to apply for loans all over the place."
That got Rikson's attention.
"Interesting," the detective muttered. "I'm working on a similar case right now. Bigger scale, though."
"Oh? You mean the one all over the news—the guy impersonating a CEO?"
"Exactly." Rikson's eyes never left him. "But I can't share the details with outsiders."
"Of course, I understand," Arka nodded, feigning awe. "Actually, that's why I came to you. The article said you were the best in cases like these."
A flicker of pride passed through Rikson's expression before he masked it. "So... tell me more."
Arka launched into the fake story he'd rehearsed down to every detail. As he spoke, his eyes darted subtly around the room—camera in the corner, curtained window, only one door. He noted everything. Even Rikson's habits: upright posture, the rhythmic tap of his index finger when he thought, the way he rubbed his right temple when focusing.
"...and that's why I figured I needed professional help," Arka concluded. "It's getting out of hand."
Rikson leaned back, thoughtful. "You know… cases like this are usually better handled by the Cybercrime division."
"I already reported it," Arka lied smoothly. "But it's taking forever, and I'm afraid the longer it drags on, the more evidence disappears."
Rikson sighed. "Fine. I'll help. But not right away. The case I'm on now is time-consuming."
"Understood," Arka handed over the fake business card. "Maybe you could call me when you're free? Or… I could treat you to coffee while we talk? I'm honestly desperate."
Rikson checked his watch, then the pile of files on his desk. "I do need a break. There's a decent café across the street."
Bingo.
They locked up the office and rode the elevator down. Mid-ride, Rikson picked up a call. His voice turned serious—something about "new CCTV footage" and "partial fingerprints being analyzed."
Arka kept silent but observed every detail: Rikson's stance favored his right leg. His left hand hovered near his hip—probably a concealed weapon. His eyes never stopped scanning.
"Sorry about that," Rikson said after the call ended. "Important update on my case."
"No problem. Good news, I hope?"
"Could be," Rikson replied shortly. "Let's get you that coffee."
They crossed the street to a dimly lit vintage café. Rikson ordered a black espresso. Arka went with cappuccino.
"So," Rikson said once they were seated. "You said the thief used your identity to take loans. How much are we talking?"
Arka spun more details, his tone earnest. But Rikson watched him like a hawk. Every word. Every pause.
Then—Rikson leaned forward.
"There's something off about your story."
Arka tensed. "What do you mean?"
"It's too clean. Too well-organized. Victims of identity theft? They're usually frantic. Disorganized. Panicked. But your story... sounds prepared."
His heart raced, but Arka's expression didn't crack. "I work in insurance, sir. We're trained to document everything clearly."
Rikson didn't respond right away. Just studied him. Then, finally—a smile. Thin. Calculated.
"Impressive. You're very... detailed, Hendra. That helps. Makes my job easier."
A subtle breath of relief escaped Arka.
"So… you'll help me?"
"I will. But not now." Rikson slid a card across the table and scribbled on the back. "That's my personal number. Call me Saturday night."
Arka accepted the card, pretending to read it even though he'd already gathered more than enough.
"Thank you, sir."
"One more thing." Rikson's gaze locked onto him. "If you're lying about anything—I'll know. I always know."
The weight in that stare sent a chill down Arka's spine. Did Rikson suspect the truth? Was this a subtle warning?
"I have no reason to lie," Arka said calmly. "Just a victim, seeking help."
They finished their coffee in tense silence. Rikson occasionally glanced his way. Arka acted oblivious.
Eventually, Rikson stood. "I should get back. Don't forget—Saturday night."
"Got it. Thanks again."
Arka stayed behind, watching as Rikson crossed the street and disappeared back into the building.
He pulled out his phone and started typing—documenting every move, every gesture, every tic Rikson had displayed.
From the café window, he could still see the light on in Rikson's fourth-floor office.
He'd stay here the rest of the day. Watching. Waiting. A plan was forming. Dangerous. Delicate. But necessary.
And in two days, he'd know Rikson's entire routine. The man was predictable: office at seven, lunch at the same café almost every day, occasional visits to Hartono Capital and the police station, and always back to his Menteng apartment by eight.
But Wednesday nights? That was different.
Rikson went solo. A boxing gym in the outskirts. No partners. No backup. Just him, a pair of gloves, and sweat.
It was the perfect opportunity.
Arka followed at a safe distance, his motorcycle trailing the sleek black sedan as it weaved through the wet streets. A hoodie covered his face. His fingers tightened around the handlebars, heart beating steady, calm—like he'd rehearsed this in his head a hundred times.
And maybe he had.
The gym's parking lot was dim and nearly deserted. Rikson's car stopped. Arka did too, three spots away. He cut the engine, watching.
Waiting.
In his backpack were all the tools he needed: gloves, a small syringe loaded with enough tranquilizer to knock out a grown man for hours, and a compact pistol from the black market—just in case things went south.
At ten sharp, Rikson walked out. Sweat glistened on his neck, his stance loose with post-workout fatigue. The rain had faded to a mist, turning the lot into a quiet, ghostly place.
Now.
Arka moved.
He slid off the bike and approached quickly, silent as a shadow.
"Mr. Rikson," he called softly.
The man froze.
He turned, instinct blazing in his eyes. Even in the dark, the tension in his body was clear—every nerve alert.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Arka raised both hands. Calm. Harmless. "It's me, Hendra Kusuma. We spoke at your office a few days ago?"
Rikson didn't relax. "The identity theft case. What are you doing here? How did you know I'd be here?"
"I saw your car by coincidence," Arka lied smoothly. "I live nearby. Walk past here often. I'm sorry to disturb you, but… something came up. I thought it might be important."
Still wary, Rikson squinted at him, shoulders easing just a little. "This isn't exactly the place for a chat. It's dark, and quiet."
"It won't take long." Arka stepped closer. "I just got some new information. I think it might connect to a case you're working on."
That caught Rikson's attention. "What kind of information?"
"This," Arka reached into his jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope. "A photo. Someone suspicious—caught on camera using my stolen card at an ATM."
Rikson took it, eyes scanning the contents.
He didn't see Arka slip a hand into his pocket.
He didn't see the syringe until it was too late.
"This is just—" he looked up, frowning. "It's blank—"
Arka's eyes had gone cold. The friendly tone was gone. So was the harmless smile.
Rikson reacted fast. Years of training as a cop kicked in—he swung a fist toward Arka's jaw, but missed by inches. Arka dodged with a predator's grace, closing the distance before Rikson could reach the weapon tucked behind his back.
The needle sank into Rikson's neck.
"What the—" His legs buckled. The world spun.
"Sorry, Mr. Rikson," Arka whispered, catching the man's collapsing body in his arms. "But I need your identity."
Rikson's lips moved, trying to speak. But the words never came.
He was out cold.
Arka worked quickly. No witnesses. No sound but the whispering drizzle.
He secured Rikson to the back of the motorcycle, binding the limp body to his own like a twisted piggyback ride. Then he drove—steady, cautious—toward an old warehouse on the city's edge. A place he'd rented under a fake name just three days ago.
Remote. Quiet. Forgotten by most.
Perfect for what came next.