LOGINAt five minutes past two, Michi was already standing in front of the steel door of Basement Studio Number Three, chin held high. She'd deliberately arrived late—giving herself a five-minute buffer past the time Rimba had asked for yesterday evening—just to make a point that she wasn't beholden to anyone's expectations, least of all his. It was a small, petty rebellion, the kind she rarely allowed herself, and she'd spent the walk down the emergency stairwell half-convincing herself it counted for something.
The moment the soundproof door swung open, what greeted her wasn't Rimba's usual mischievous smirk, but a different voice entirely—one far more authoritative, and one she never in a hundred years expected to hear in that room.
"Ah, so the collaboration team is finally complete."
Michi froze in the doorway. Professor Hendra Wicaksana stood in the middle of the studio, arms folded across his chest, wearing the cream blazer he usually wore while proctoring final exams. Rimba stood off to one side of the room, his face tenser than Michi had ever seen it—jaw locked, hands shoved rigidly into his pockets.
"Good afternoon, Professor." Michi hurried to straighten her spine, locking her expression into the professional smile she'd spent years perfecting. "Is there something we can help you with?"
"I'm only stopping by briefly." Professor Hendra walked over to the mixing desk, studying the stacks of scattered score paper with an unreadable expression. "The dean's office has started fielding questions from several of my colleagues in the classical composition department. They're curious—and a little concerned—about the direction the two of you are taking this collaboration."
"Concerned about what, sir?" Michi asked, working hard to keep her voice level even as her heart had already started thudding uncomfortably.
"Because from what I've been told," Professor Hendra flipped over a sheet of score paper, squinting to read the notation printed across it, "this project is being talked up as a major showcase, representing the conservatory's name in front of the public. If the final result strays too far from the classical principles that have always been Swasemesta's identity, it isn't just the two of your grades on the line. It's this institution's reputation."
Rimba finally spoke up, his voice sharper than usual, a muscle working faintly along his jaw. "With all due respect, Professor, wasn't it the dean's office itself that asked for a modern element in this year's concert repertoire? If it all has to end up sanitized and safe anyway, what was the point of running a cross-genre collaboration project in the first place?"
"I never said it had to be sanitized, Rimba." Professor Hendra looked at him directly, not the least bit shaken by the challenge in his tone. "I'm only reminding you that experimentation and recklessness are two different things. So far, I haven't seen a final draft convincing enough to prove to me that the two of you actually understand where that line sits."
The room went quiet for a moment. Michi could feel the professor's gaze shift toward her, probing, as if waiting for a rebuttal or a defense.
"We'll have a complete draft ready before the end of this week, sir," Michi finally said, her voice steady even as worry had already begun creeping through her chest. "I promise the result will still honor classical principles, while offering something genuinely fresh."
Professor Hendra studied her for a long moment before finally giving a slow nod. "Very well. I'll hold you to that, Michiko. Remember—the Suryokusumo family's reputation in this city's music world isn't an automatic pass through my evaluation."
The line landed like a direct hit. Professor Hendra walked out of the studio without another word, leaving a heavy silence hanging between Michi and Rimba.
Michi let out a long breath the moment the door shut tight again, sinking down into the keyboard chair, her strength feeling entirely drained after only a few minutes.
"You okay?" Rimba asked, his tone this time stripped of every teasing element that usually decorated his sentences.
"Tired," Michi murmured, honestly—far more honestly than she usually allowed herself to be in front of him. "I'm tired of constantly being someone who has to prove herself to everyone. To Professor Hendra. To the dean's office. To my own parents." She let her head fall back against the chair, closing her eyes for a moment. The fluorescent hum of the studio suddenly felt very loud in the silence that followed. "Sometimes I forget what it even feels like to just be myself, without someone evaluating every single move I make. I don't even remember when I started keeping score on myself the way they do."
For once, Rimba didn't fire back with a jab or a joke. He pulled up an empty chair and sat down beside Michi, keeping a reasonable distance, without the slightest intention of stirring up the usual friction between them.
"Then let's prove that man wrong," Rimba said quietly, staring at the score sheets scattered across the desk. "Not by playing it safe, but by building something even he can't find a single flaw in."
Michi opened her eyes and looked at Rimba, who, for the first time, appeared genuinely serious, stripped of every layer of arrogance he usually put on display. Something about today felt different—not just two people trading jabs in a cramped room anymore, but two people standing, however briefly, on the same side, facing down the same threat together. It was a strange, almost dizzying feeling, being on a team with the person who'd spent weeks trying to needle her into losing her composure.
"Okay," Michi finally said, straightening her back again, reigniting a spark of determination that had briefly gone out. "But this time, we work on this for real. Not just so you can look like some indie celebrity who failed to impress a cranky old professor."
Rimba let out a small laugh, reaching for his guitar again with an energy that felt noticeably different from usual. "Deal, Classical Maestro. Let's make Professor Hendra eat his own words."
One year later.The main auditorium of the Swasemesta Music Conservatory was packed with visitors that night, far exceeding its normal capacity for the Graduating Class Culmination Night—an annual tradition in which the top graduates from each department are given one more chance to perform in front of the public before officially stepping out through their alma mater's gates. Strings of white fairy lights had been draped along the balcony railings for the occasion, and the smell of fresh flowers from the front-row arrangements drifted faintly all the way backstage.Backstage, Michiko Arunika Suryokusumo stood in front of a dressing mirror, wearing a long black gown, elegant yet simple. But unlike every formal performance she'd given over the past four years, this time there was one detail she had never once allowed to appear on an official conservatory stage before: a pair of drumsticks tucked neatly inside a small bag hanging from the side of her dressing chair
Two weeks passed since that night on the porch, and slowly, the rhythm of their life together began finding its shape again.The campaign video never resurfaced. Not because Surya had truly given up—Rimba knew his father well enough to know that a man like that never truly stops, only waits for a more advantageous moment. The last update to reach Rimba's ears was that his father's media team had their hands full managing the agenda ahead of next year's election season, and for the time being, neither Rimba's name nor Michi's was useful enough to bother with. The threat hadn't disappeared. It was only sleeping, waiting for a better time to wake up again.What he knew for certain was that, for the first time in years, he was no longer carrying every anxiety that surfaced from his father's shadow alone. Every time that name crossed his mind, he told Michi about it, sometimes Bayu too, sometimes Kelana over the long phone calls they'd started making a regular habit e
Michi was rearranging some sheet music in her room when the notification sound on her phone rang out—a message from Rimba, brief but different from the empty messages she'd been receiving so often lately, the kind that used to arrive hours late with nothing real inside them.I'm outside your house. Can I come in? I promise, this time I'll tell you everything.She stared at that screen for a long time before finally heading downstairs, opening the front door with a hand that trembled slightly. Rimba stood there, his face tired but his eyes showing something different from the past few weeks—no longer that evasive look, but a seriousness he rarely ever showed.They sat on the front porch, among the potted flowers Akari usually tended, lit by the dim yellow light that evening, the same porch light that had watched over every homecoming and every quiet argument this family had ever had."Chi, I'm sorry," Rimba said, starting with
Maharani's dance studio was still lit even though the hour had grown late, dim lights illuminating the wooden floor her students usually used to practice Pakarena dance in the afternoons. The building was otherwise silent, the kind of silence that only settles into a place built for music and movement once both have gone quiet for the night. Rimba found his mother alone there, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the empty room, staring silently at the large mirror reflecting her own image back at her."Not asleep yet, Ma?" Rimba stepped inside, sitting down on the floor not far from his mother."Hard to sleep with a head this full of thoughts." Maharani turned, smiling thinly at the sight of her eldest son's tired face, far more tired than he usually let show. "You look the same way, Rim. What's wrong?"For a few moments, Rimba simply sat still, staring at his own reflection in the mirror, trying to arrange words that had felt too heavy to say out loud for wee
Michi hadn't spoken much since that night in the studio. She still went to her classes as usual, still smiled in front of her parents, still answered every question at the dinner table the way she always had, but Bayu—who had grown up learning to read his sister since childhood—knew perfectly well that something was wrong behind that thin, forced smile.He didn't ask right away. Bayu wasn't the type to push someone to talk before they were ready, a restraint he'd learned the hard way after his first, clumsy attempt to interrogate Rimba in this same basement months earlier. But this time, he pointed his old habit—following political news, digging through the track records of public figures purely as material for casual class debates—toward one name that had kept appearing on his social media timeline these past few weeks: Surya Pratama.That night, in his room, Bayu sat for hours combing through old news archives, political discussion forums, eve
Ten days passed since that meeting, and the campaign video that had briefly caused an uproar was finally taken down quietly, as though it had never existed at all. For everyone else, the problem felt resolved. For Rimba, that was exactly where his unease truly began.He knew his father wasn't going to stop that easily. And the only solution he could think of to make sure Michi wasn't targeted again was to distance himself—to make the two of them look no longer close enough to be turned into material for any story.He started canceling plans one by one, quietly, without ever framing it as what it actually was. The excuse of "a lot of studio work" became the sentence that left his mouth most often. Replies to messages that used to come quickly now arrived hours later, short, half-hearted. Even in the basement studio, the very place that had once witnessed the beginning of all their secrets, Rimba started showing up alone at odd hours more often, leaving behind mess







