Chapter 14 - The Tiger's Den and a Cream Cardigan

Studio Rongga was not a friendly place for a conservatory student in a neatly knit cream cardigan and a crisply ironed midi skirt. The smell of hand-rolled cigarettes, empty soda cans scattered across the rough cement floor, and dusty posters of underground bands greeted Michi the moment she stepped into the basement space, far grimier than anything the campus studio had ever put her through.

The three other members of Rimba's band—a dreadlocked bassist named Bara, a stocky drummer named Jefri, and a second guitarist named Satria, busy tuning his strings—all stopped talking at once the moment the door opened. Their eyes swung toward her in unison, sweeping Michi up and down with a mixture of bewilderment and thinly veiled amusement.

"Whoa, so the dean's most-wanted fugitive really did get dragged into the tiger's den?" Bara quipped, letting out a rough laugh as he tossed an empty peanut wrapper onto the worn-out couch. "And here I thought that was just an empty threat, Rim."

Michi lifted her chin, pulling her expression into an ice-cold mask to cover the discomfort clawing at her stomach. She refused to look small in front of a group of scruffy guys who were staring at her like she'd just stepped out of some alien spacecraft. "I didn't come here to be your circus sideshow," she said, her voice cold, cutting through the room's noise with a razor-sharp edge. "We only have two hours to test the arrangement before I have to get back to the library."

Before Bara could fire back with another joke, a hand suddenly landed briefly on Michi's shoulder—a quick gesture that was enough to catch the pianist's breath in her throat—before the flannel-jacketed arm swung away to clap Jefri on the back instead.

"Cut the chatter, unless you want her to shred this score sheet right here, right now," Rimba's deep voice cut in, casual but absolute, drawing an invisible line that immediately silenced the laughter in the room. He stepped forward, positioning himself right beside Michi, as if shielding her from the mischievous stares of his own crowd. "She's running point for the classical department. Not a bet for you idiots to make."

Michi shot a sharp glance at the shoulder Rimba's arm had just brushed, then let out a soft huff to hide the strange flutter creeping through her chest. She hated the swaggering way he always inserted himself to run interference for her, and worse, she hated the fact that the protection somehow felt genuinely calming.

"Relax, don't get so tense, Miss Pianist," Jefri called out, grinning, tapping his drumstick lightly against the floor. "We're just messing around. It's not every day Rimba brings a polished-looking girl down here. Usually he just drags in a scratched-up guitar and a broken amp."

"Speaking of drums," Bara cut in, adjusting his bass strings as if something had just come back to him, "Jef, did you end up listening to that demo I sent last week? That indie band that played The Vault."

"Midnight Frequency?" Jefri nodded eagerly, setting his drumstick down for a moment. "Man, that drummer is insane. I didn't think anyone could play that tight and still sound that raw in exactly the right way. Like she's counting every beat with a calculator, but the second she actually hits it, it still comes out wild."

"That's exactly why I'm dying to know who it is," Bara added. "Apparently they're keeping the identity a secret on purpose. Kind of weird, honestly—usually drummers are the ones dying to be seen."

Michi went rigid where she stood, her heart hammering hard the instant she heard the band's name dropped so casually right in front of her. She glanced quickly at Rimba, watching for his reaction.

Rimba nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. "Yeah, I caught that demo too. The precision's genuinely strange—way too mathematical for a typical indie band." He glanced briefly at Michi, his brow furrowing slightly, as if matching something up in his head. But the next second, he gave a small shake of his head and let out a short laugh at himself. "Nah, that's impossible anyway. There's no way it's connected."

"No way what's connected?" Jefri asked, confused.

"Nothing." Rimba waved off his own thought, slinging his guitar back over his shoulder. "Just remembered something that doesn't make any sense. All right, let's get started before Michi actually makes a run for it."

Michi let out a breath of relief, nearly silent, her heart still pounding hard against her ribs. She knew exactly how close Rimba had just come to the truth, and exactly how easily he'd chosen not to believe it.

"Enough small talk," Michi cut in, decisive, striding briskly toward the old digital keyboard tucked in the corner of the room. She opened her canvas bag, pulled out her score sheets, and set her expression into something as cold and smooth as marble. "Where's your guitar, Rimba? We start now, or I walk out this instant."

Rimba let out a low chuckle, walking over to grab his electric guitar where it leaned against a battered Marshall amp. "All right, everyone," Rimba called to his bandmates, slinging the guitar strap over his shoulder. "Listen up, and don't make our model student here lose it. We're starting from the transition section at bar twenty-five."

The moment Rimba's guitar cut through the silence with its first note, quickly followed by the crash of Jefri's drums and the heavy thump of Bara's bass, Michi drew in a deep breath. Her fingers hovered above the keys, ready to fuse into that wild noise, even as some small corner of her mind stayed fixed on just how thin the line between safe and exposed had become that night.

The instant her fingers hit the first key, the sharp classical line of Chopin collided with the alternative-rock distortion, slamming into the walls of Studio Rongga without mercy. The sound was jarring in its contrast, and yet it melted together so completely that Bara and Jefri, who'd been openly dismissive only minutes ago, suddenly went still, forgetting their jokes entirely to listen with something close to reverence.

Across the room, standing beneath a low-hanging pendant light swaying gently overhead, Rimba played his guitar while keeping his eyes locked steadily on Michi the entire time. In the middle of all that distortion and wild, hammering rhythm, their eyes stayed caught on the same silent frequency—a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment that this arrangement had stopped being just a school assignment a long time ago. It had become a secret battle between two worlds slowly devouring each other whole.