December 21, 2015 – The News of Hendra's Death
That morning, sunlight had just begun to filter through the large window curtains when Evan's phone buzzed on the marble table. He had just stepped out of the shower, still wearing his robe, when he saw his assistant Richard's name on the screen.
Without much thought, Evan picked up the call. "What?"
Richard's voice was tense. "Hendra Wijaya passed away last night at the hospital."
Evan paused, absorbing the information. Then, one eyebrow rose slightly, and the corner of his lips curved.
"I see," he said flatly, with almost no emotion.
"The news is starting to spread in the business media. Many are calling it a tragedy. Some are already wondering what will happen to the company he left behind."
Evan walked to the small bar in his apartment and poured himself a glass of red wine, even though the day had just begun. He stared into the glass and gave a faint smile.
"Hendra's death secures our victory," he said calmly. "Without him, that company is bound to fall apart. Good."
Richard went silent for a moment before asking cautiously, "Will you attend the funeral?"
Evan shrugged. "Of course. I have to appear... human, don't I?"
Then, he chuckled softly.
December 22, 2015 – Hendra's FuneralA light rain fell over the cemetery that afternoon, as if the sky itself was mourning. People dressed in black gathered around the grave, some bowing their heads, others wiping tears from their cheeks.
Evan stood slightly apart from the mourners, dressed in a crisp black suit and white shirt. His expression was carefully neutral—projecting respect.
But deep in his heart, he was applauding.
Hendra wasn't just defeated—he was eliminated from the game. Evan had won, completely.
His eyes scanned the crowd, and then he saw her—Sienna Wijaya.
The girl stood at the foot of her father's coffin, her small frame rigid. She didn't cry, but something in her gaze made Evan uneasy. Her eyes were blank, but within that emptiness, something stirred—a flicker that prickled at his instincts. It made his back stiffen slightly, without clear reason.
Evan brushed the feeling off. She was just a child who had lost her father. Nothing more.
When the ceremony ended and the mourners began to leave, Evan stepped forward.
Sienna still stood frozen, staring at the freshly covered grave. Rain dotted her hair, but she didn't move.
Evan slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a business card, and held it out to her. "Keep this."
Sienna looked up at him with an unreadable expression. She didn't reach out—just stared.
Evan raised an eyebrow. "You might need it someday."
After a few moments, Sienna finally took the card. She said nothing, only closed her small hand around it.
Evan didn't wait for a reaction. He gave a small, insincere smile, then turned and walked away, leaving the girl alone with her father's grave.
December 23–30, 2015 – Evan Returns to Normal LifeAfter the funeral, Evan returned to his routines.
He attended business meetings, celebrated his victory with fine wine, and lived as if no tragedy had occurred. The world went on—and so did he.
His company grew stronger with Hendra gone. Many who had been uncertain now turned to support him. Everything was going according to plan.
Still, one thing kept bothering him.
Now and then, he would remember Sienna's eyes at the funeral. That blank stare. That unreadable expression.
Whenever the image surfaced, Evan would shake his head and push it away. It didn't matter.
He had won.
That was what mattered.
December 31, 2015 – January 1, 2016New Year's Party. Victory Party. Birthday Party.
Music blared, glasses clinked, and laughter filled the grand ballroom. In the middle of it all stood Evan Nathaniel, a glass of red wine in hand, enjoying the best night of his life. A new year, his 26th birthday, and victory over Hendra Wijaya—what could be more perfect?
"To Evan!" one of his friends toasted.
"To the New Year!"
"And his 26th birthday!"
Cheers erupted. Everyone raised their glasses.
At the center of the ballroom stood a three-tiered birthday cake. Small candles flickered, and the number 26 stood proudly on top, molded from white chocolate.
The clock began to strike midnight.
00:00 – January 1, 2016
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!"
Trumpets blared, laughter and hugs were exchanged, confetti rained from above.
Evan chuckled, raising his glass. This was his life. His world.
"Birthday boy, time to blow out your candles!" someone shouted, patting him on the back.
Evan stepped toward the cake—but paused mid-step.
His eyes narrowed.
The number on top of the cake...
It should've been 26. But now...
25.
He frowned and looked around, thinking someone was playing a prank. But everyone was still cheering and smiling.
"Why is the number...?" he muttered.
Before he could finish the thought, someone clapped his shoulder again.
"Bro, happy 25th birthday!"
Evan scoffed, shaking his head. "Ha-ha. Real funny. Who's behind this prank?"
More voices chimed in.
"Still 25 and already this rich? Insane!"
"Happy 25th, Evan!"
He rolled his eyes. Okay. It was a prank. Someone had changed the number on the cake, and now everyone was in on it.
"Lame joke," he muttered, blowing out the candles anyway.
Applause. Laughter. Evan lifted his glass again, letting himself enjoy the night.
But deep inside, something felt... off.
Too many people were involved in this "prank." Every guest, every greeting—even the article he glimpsed on someone's phone screen...
Evan Nathaniel, 25 years old.
His spine tensed.
No. This had to be part of the joke.
It had to be.
Amid the booming music and laughter, Evan's phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. One hand still holding his champagne, he glanced at the screen—Mom.
Slightly annoyed, he stepped away from the crowd before answering.
"Yeah, Mom?"
His mother's cheerful voice came through. "Evan, happy birthday, darling! Happy 25th birthday!"
Evan gave a half-snort, assuming it was part of the prank. "Huh? Mom, you're wrong. It's my 26th birthday."
She laughed softly. "Silly! You were born in 1991. It's 2016 now. That makes you 25."
Evan froze.
The cake had changed. Everyone said 25.
Now his mother, too. Even his birth year—1991, not 1990.
"Evan?" she said, sounding concerned.
He shook his head quickly, trying to dismiss the growing unease. "Yeah… yeah, Mom. Sorry. It's loud here."
She sighed. "I know you're probably partying, but don't forget dinner with your dad and me tomorrow, okay? We want to celebrate your 25th together."
Again. 25th.
Evan swallowed. His head started to ache.
"…Sure, Mom. I'll let you know."
"Okay, don't forget to take care of yourself. Love you."
Click.
The call ended.
Evan stared at his phone, blankly.
He knew he was born in 1990. He knew he was turning 26.
But right then, something cold crept down his spine.
As if something far bigger—and far more terrifying—was happening.
Something beyond explanation.