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~ Jakarta, 1996 ~
It was late afternoon, almost evening. Urip had just walked Siska home to her house in Kelapa Gading. A modest house with a large crucifix hanging above the front door. Cool air from the air conditioner greeted them as the door opened.
Siska nodded toward a middle-aged man sitting in the living room, reading a Mandarin newspaper.
"Pa, this is Urip," she said briefly.
The man turned. His eyes narrowed, scanning Urip from head to toe. His face was expressionless, but not cold. He stood slowly and extended his hand.
"Gabriel Sulaiman."
"Stefanus Urip Mulio, sir," Urip replied, bowing slightly. "Thank you for letting me stop by."
Mr. Gabriel offered a faint smile, as if relieved.
"Where's your family from? You look like you're from Mauk, huh? High nose, darker skin... Black Chinese?"
Urip gave a short laugh. "No, sir. I'm Javanese… from Grogol. Born and raised."
Mr. Gabriel's smile faded. The hand that had been shaking Urip's withdrew immediately.
"Oh… Javanese, huh?"
Urip caught the tone. Siska looked uneasy.
"My father works at a state-owned company, and my mom is a housewife. But we're Catholic, sir. We go to Mass every Sunday at the Cathedral."
Mr. Gabriel scoffed softly, then sat back down without inviting Urip to sit.
"Hmph. Catholic, huh… What university?"
"Trisakti. Medicine."
Siska's father nodded slowly.
"Alright then. Just don't take Siska out too late. The roads aren't safe."
Urip bowed respectfully.
"Yes, sir."
They didn't stay long that night. And from that day forward, whenever Urip came to see Siska, Mr. Gabriel never greeted him the same way again. Sometimes he pretended not to see him. Sometimes he locked himself in his room and didn't come out.
On campus, Siska only said, "Papa's not racist. He just… has his own standards."
And Urip understood. It wasn't about religion. It was about blood, last names, ethnicity.
~ Back in Seoul, 2024 ~
The dinner table was quiet, the only sound was of spoons touching plates. Siska reached across the table to serve more food to Urip—or Lim Gabriel, as everyone called him.
"Eat plenty, Gaby," she said gently.
Urip nodded slowly, scooping rice onto his plate, but his mind was far from the scent of food. He still wasn't used to the taste—clean saltiness, a slight sweetness, yet somehow his tongue accepted it as though he'd eaten like this his whole life.
"Lim Gabriel… born in 2002…" he murmured inwardly, trying to piece together the fragments scattering in his mind.
In 1998, Siska had been pregnant with his child. He had gone to her parents. He was ready to take responsibility. But after the Trisakti tragedy and the moment his body hit the asphalt, everything went black. He never knew what happened afterward.
But if Lim Gabriel was born in May 2002… four years after that pregnancy…
"That means… he's not my child."
His thoughts grew louder. His chest felt tight. One question kept echoing in his mind:
"So… what happened to the baby Siska was carrying back then?"
After dinner, Urip—still living as Lim Gabriel—sat alone on the living room couch. He took a deep breath. Then opened his phone—this smartphone still confused him, but his fingers somehow knew what to do.
Instagram. He had opened the app a few times before. This time, he dove in deeper.
Profile: Lim Gabriel
Photos lined up. Hospital selfies. Food pics. Shots with medical school friends. Winter holiday photos. But most frequent: family pictures.
Siska, Lim Woo, and Gabriel.
Always the three of them.
Never a photo of another child. No birthday celebrations with a sibling. No "Happy birthday to my big brother!" or "Family trip with the sibs." Not even a single comment from anyone mentioning a brother or sister.
Silence. He scrolled all the way down. To the early years of Gabriel's IG, when the app was just getting popular.
Still just the three of them.
"So… really only one child…" he thought.
But one thing dug even deeper.
If Siska had been pregnant in 1998, and Gabriel was born in 2002, there's a four-year gap.
"If Gabriel is the only child… Then the baby Siska was carrying back then…? Was it never born? If that child isn't part of this family… then where did they go?"
~ Kelapa Gading, early May 1998 ~
That afternoon, the living room in Siska's Kelapa Gading house felt suffocating. No breeze came through. The ceiling fan spun slowly, offering no relief from the heat—or the tension.
Gabriel Sulaiman stood by the window, his back to Urip and Siska. His hand trembled slightly as he held a small rosary in his pocket. Siska sat with her head bowed, her face pale.
"Sir… I came here to speak sincerely. I… will take responsibility. I will marry Siska."
Gabriel set down his teacup with a sharp clink.
"What did you just say?"
"I will take responsibility, sir. I love Siska. We're both Catholic. And I'm a medical student. Once I become a doctor—"
"Stop right there." Gabriel's voice was low, but cold. Sharp as a blade.
"Do you know how expensive medical school is? How long it takes? Graduating doesn't mean you're a doctor yet. You still have to go through clinical rotations, internship, specialization if you want to compete. Meanwhile, my daughter…"
He glanced at his wife, then stood up.
"My daughter is a good girl. A modest girl. She only wants to become a religious teacher after graduation. I already stopped her from entering the convent because I didn't want her to disappear from my life. And now, she's pregnant?!"
Urip swallowed hard. "Sir, I'm not rich. But I—"
"Silence!!"
Gabriel pointed a shaking finger at Urip.
"Don't ever come to this house again. And don't ever see my daughter again. I'll take care of this. I'll restore her name."
Urip stepped forward. "Sir, please—"
"Get out!!" Gabriel roared.
That night, Urip returned to his parents' rented house in Grogol. Heavy rain soaked Jakarta, drenching his jacket since he left Siska's house.
Inside, his mother was praying the rosary in front of a small, worn statue of Mary. His father was asleep on a rattan chair, exhausted.
Urip took off his shoes, sat on the cold floor. His gaze was empty, but his mind kept replaying the events of that afternoon. His fists clenched.
"So you have to be rich to be a doctor?" he muttered. "Poor people aren't allowed to have dignity?"
Phone? He didn't have one. Not even a landline. But that night, Urip took a night bus to Salemba, to a friend's boarding house from UI medical school. There, students from various campuses had been holding secret meetings for the past week.
"I'm in," he said, seeing his friends painting banners with spray paint.
"You sure, Rip? This isn't just some regular protest. The military's already involved," said Anton, a law student from Atma Jaya.
"I'm not afraid," Urip replied softly. "I just… have nothing left to lose."
From that night on, Urip changed. He was present at meetings, spoke out passionately. At Trisakti, he began to be known as a new orator from the medical faculty—a soft voice, yet sharp, full of spirit and ideals.
"We're not just demanding reform! We're demanding the dignity of the little people!"
Thunderous applause followed. Banners reading Lower Prices, Down with Soeharto! waved above the makeshift stage built from wooden crates.
An economics student once asked, "Why are you so fired up, Urip?"
Urip only gave a faint smile.
"Because if I stay silent, I'll die slowly."
Then came May 12, 1998.
In the courtyard of Trisakti University, Urip stood on the back of a pickup truck. Megaphone in hand. Crowds packed together tightly.
And then, his pager vibrated.
The tiny screen that usually only displayed class schedules now showed two simple words:
Help me. —Siska
And the world suddenly slowed.
He hadn't replied to the message. Hadn't even stepped down from the truck. He only had time to glance at the screen…
Then BANG.
A burning pain in his chest.
His body staggered.
And everything went black.