The Enemy oh My Enemy

The fluorescent lights of the corridor hummed with a low, oppressive frequency that matched the violent thumping behind Dimas’s temples. He dragged his feet across the polished tile, one hand instinctively clutching his left armpit to keep the strip of silver duct tape from peeling away under his blazer.

"Looking sharp, Dimas. Nothing says corporate elite quite like industrial-strength adhesives," a smooth, condescending voice cut through the hum.

Dimas stopped, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second before turning. Aris stood leaning against the glass wall of the conference room, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than Dimas’s annual rent. A smug, polished grin stretched across Aris’s face, sharp and predatory.

"It’s a vintage look, Aris. You wouldn’t understand. It has texture," Dimas fired back, keeping his left arm pinned tightly to his side. "What do you want? I have a mountain of financial models to ignore."

"I want to save you from yourself," Aris said, straightening his cuffs. He pushed off the glass wall and stepped closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Word is, your little rebrand proposal for the New Horizon milestone pitch is gaining traction with the junior partners. That’s cute. But ambition without a safety net is just a very public suicide."

"Are you offering me a parachute, Aris? Because unless it's stuffed with cash, I'm not interested," Dimas said, his tone dry.

"As a matter of fact..." Aris reached into the inside pocket of his pristine jacket and withdrew a thick, heavy manila envelope. He held it out, letting it dangle between them like a pendulum. "This is fifty million Rupiah. Cash. No paper trail. All you have to do is bomb the upcoming presentation. Stumble on your stats. Forget your slides. Let the traditional luxury pitch win by default."

Dimas stared at the envelope. Fifty million. It was a life-changing sum. It would wipe out his credit card debt, pay his back rent, and leave enough over to buy a wardrobe that didn't require hardware store supplies.

"Fifty million," Dimas repeated, tasting the numbers on his tongue. He looked up, locking eyes with Aris. "To throw the pitch?"

"Think of it as severance pay before you’re even fired," Aris smiled, misinterpreting the hesitation as greed. "You're drowning, Dimas. I can see the panic under that faux-cynical exterior. Take the envelope. Walk away."

Dimas slowly raised his right hand, his fingers brushing against the heavy paper. The temptation was an electric shock running up his arm. But as he looked closer at Aris’s smug, untouchable expression, something snapped. The amount wasn't just an offer; it was an insult. It mapped out precisely how cheap Aris thought his integrity—and his desperation—actually was.

"Fifty million?" Dimas’s voice dropped, laced with a sudden, cold fury. "Aris, my outstanding credit card debt alone is seventy-two million. If you’re going to buy me off, at least run a proper credit check first. Your valuation is pathetic."

Aris’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. "You’re making a monumental mistake, Wibisono."

"No, I’m just bad at math," Dimas said, stepping back and swatting the envelope away with the back of his hand. It hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, scattering a few crisp bills across the tile. "Keep your pocket change."

A sharp intake of breath echoed from down the hallway. Both men snapped their heads toward the sound.

Hana stood twenty feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her blazer, her dark eyes flashing with a dangerous mix of calculation and amusement. She had witnessed the entire exchange.

"Fifty million? Really, Aris? Is that all our flagship project is worth to you?" Hana walked forward, her heels clicking sharply against the floor like a series of small gunshots. She didn't even glance at the money on the ground as she stepped right past it.

Aris’s face drained of its color for a split second before he recovered his corporate mask. "Hana. You’re misinterpreting—"

"I’m not interpreting anything yet, Aris. But the fact that you’re sliding cash envelopes to a junior strategist in the hallway tells me your conventional pitch is about as sturdy as a house of cards," Hana interrupted, her voice ice-cold. She stopped beside Dimas, her shoulder brushing his. "And as for you, Wibisono..." She turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto his. "If you’re going to sell out, at least negotiate for a six-figure sum next time. You’re embarrassing us both."

"Noted. I'll demand a company car next time," Dimas muttered, the tension between them shifting into something sharper, stranger, and entirely transactional.

"Walk with me," Hana commanded, turning on her heel without waiting for an answer.

Dimas shot one last look at Aris, who was kneeling to pick up his scattered cash with a face twisted in silent venom. Dimas turned and fell into step beside Hana, leaving the money behind in the dust.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Dimas asked as they rounded the corner toward the elevators.

"I enjoy survival, Dimas," Hana replied, pressing the call button with a sharp jab of her fingernail. The digital display flickered, descending rapidly. "And right now, you and I have a common enemy. That doesn't make us friends. It makes us co-conspirators."

"A fragile alliance," Dimas observed, watching the floor numbers tick down.

"Extremely fragile," Hana agreed, the elevator doors sliding open with a soft chime. She stepped inside and turned, blocking the threshold with one hand. "Try not to ruin your duct-taped jacket before the board meeting, Dimas. I need you breathing when we take Aris down."