Quelqu’un qui t’aime comme au premier jour

"Hurry up, Joni. I don't have all day," Rangga said, tapping his fingers frantically on the dusty wooden desk.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Rangga. These documents require absolute precision," Joni sighed, dabbing a handkerchief against his sweaty forehead. "You're selling a historic property. A Langi estate."

"It's a pile of rotting wood and bad memories. Just point to where I sign."

"You really hate this place that much?" Joni asked, looking up through his thick glasses.

"Hate doesn't even cover it. I want to forget Toraja ever existed. I want to forget the rituals, the funerals, the family name. Everything. Now, pass the pen."

"Are you sure about the buyer? He's paying in cash, but he seemed very eager to get you to sign quickly."

"Eager is good. Eager means I get my money and a one-way ticket to Jakarta before sundown." Rangga snatched the pen, his hand shaking slightly.

"You can't outrun your shadow, Rangga. People here don't forget who you are. The Langi family has responsibilities."

"Responsibilities to who? A bunch of ghosts?" Rangga scoffed. "No thanks. I'm choosing life."

"Mr. Salim called me thirty minutes ago, you know. He sounded incredibly nervous. He kept asking if anyone else was watching this transaction."

"Why would anyone watch? It's just an old house. It's not like there's gold buried under the floorboards."

"Maybe not gold," Joni murmured, looking uneasy. "But there are rumors. Secrets your father took to his grave."

"My father was a lunatic who died penniless. Don't romanticize him. Now, where do I sign?"

"Right there. On the blue line."

Rangga pressed the tip of the pen to the paper. "There. One. Two. Done. I'm free."

BOOM.

The heavy wooden door didn't just open; it flew off its hinges, splintering violently against the wall. Dust and plaster exploded into the small room.

"What the hell!" Rangga yelled, jumping up from his chair.

Three men in black tactical gear stepped inside, their rifles held low but ready.

"Stand down," a calm, commanding voice echoed from the hallway.

Arung Buntu walked in, stepping casually over the shattered wood. He wore a pristine charcoal suit that looked entirely too expensive for this dusty, cramped office.

"Who the hell are you?" Rangga demanded, backing up against the wall.

"Arung," Joni whispered, his face turning paper-white. "Young Master Arung..."

"Joni," Arung said, not even looking at the notary. His cold, dark eyes were locked entirely on Rangga. "Leave us."

"Wait, no! Joni, don't you dare leave!" Rangga shouted. "We have a contract! I just signed it!"

"The contract is void," Arung said smoothly, pulling a leather glove tighter over his hand.

"You can't just void a contract! Who do you think you are?"

"The man who bought your buyer," Arung replied. He gestured to one of his guards, who tossed a heavy leather briefcase onto the desk. It fell with a heavy thud, bursting open to reveal neat stacks of cash. "Your buyer took a very generous settlement to walk away. You are dealing with me now."

"I'm not selling to you," Rangga spat. "I don't care how much money is in that bag. I'm leaving."

"You aren't going anywhere, Rangga," Arung said, taking a slow step forward. "Because you don't just owe me a house."

"I don't owe you anything!"

"Your father did," Arung countered. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He laid it flat on the desk, right over Rangga's fresh signature. "Recognize this?"

Rangga squinted at the paper. His heart dropped into his stomach. "No. That's fake."

"Your father's signature isn't fake," Arung said. "Neither is his thumbprint in blood. He pledged the Langi estate—and the head of the Langi family—as collateral for a loan he never repaid."

"My father is dead!" Rangga screamed. "He's been dead for six months!"

"Which makes you the head of the family," Arung countered. His voice was entirely devoid of warmth. "And therefore, my property."

"You're insane," Rangga said, his chest heaving. "This is kidnapping. This is illegal!"

"In Toraja? I am the law," Arung said simply. "Joni, is this contract legally binding?"

Joni stammered, looking between the two. "I... yes. The Buntu family covenant is recognized under local customary law. If the debt isn't paid..."

"I don't care about your stupid customary laws!" Rangga yelled.

"You should care," Arung said, taking another step. "The customary council approved this transfer of custody yesterday. Legally, physically, you belong to me."

"No way in hell," Rangga muttered.

He looked at the window behind Joni's desk. It was a straight drop to the alley below, but there was a fire escape.

"Don't," Arung warned.

"Screw you!" Rangga bolted.

He vaulted over the desk, kicking a stack of files into Joni's face, and threw his weight against the window frame.

But Arung was faster.

Before Rangga's hands could even touch the glass, Arung grabbed his collar. With a sickeningly powerful wrench, Arung threw him backward.

Rangga crashed onto the hard concrete floor, his breath escaping him in a violent gasp.

"Ugh... damn it..." Rangga groaned, clutching his bruised ribs.

Arung stood over him, not a single hair out of place. "I told you not to."

"Go to hell," Rangga hissed, trying to scramble up.

"Grab him," Arung ordered.

Two guards immediately lunged, grabbing Rangga by his arms and hoisting him off the floor.

"Let go of me! Let me go, you bastards!" Rangga thrashed, kicking wildly, but the guards were like stone walls.

"We're leaving," Arung said, turning his back.

"Joni! Call the police! Do something!" Rangga screamed as they dragged him toward the shattered doorway.

Joni only stared at his desk, shaking, refusing to meet Rangga's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mas Rangga. I can't."

"Coward! You're a dead man, Joni! I'll kill you!" Rangga yelled, his voice echoing off the dusty walls.

They dragged him down the creaking wooden stairs of the notary office and out into the humid, blinding afternoon sunlight.

A massive, sleek black SUV was waiting at the curb, its engine purring like a predator.

"Get him in," Arung commanded, opening the back door.

"No! No! I'm not getting in there!" Rangga screamed, planting his feet against the car's frame. "Help! Someone help me!"

The few pedestrians on the street quickly turned their heads away, speeding up their pace. Nobody wanted to cross the Buntu family.

"Nobody is coming to save you, Rangga," Arung said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You should have paid your debts."

"It wasn't my debt!" Rangga roared.

"You carry his blood," Arung said. "That makes it yours."

One of the guards shoved him hard from behind, sending him sprawling across the leather seats of the SUV.

Rangga scrambled to the opposite door, clawing at the handle.

Click.

The heavy automatic locks engaged with a solid, absolute sound.

Arung slid into the seat beside him, closing the door. Instantly, the hum of the city was completely cut off. The air conditioning blew cold, carrying the sharp scent of expensive cologne and old leather.

"Let me out," Rangga whispered, his defiance finally giving way to a cold, creeping terror. He squeezed himself against the door, as far from Arung as possible. "Please."

Arung didn't answer immediately. He leaned in closer, his dark eyes locking onto Rangga's. He reached out, his gloved fingers gently tracing Rangga's jawline, gripping it just tightly enough to prevent him from turning away.

"You thought you were worth the price of a rotting house?" Arung whispered, his breath warm against Rangga's ear. "The house was just a formality. Your real price was paid a long time ago. And now, you belong to me."