Chapter 3: A Contract Written in Blood

"Get in."

Arung shoved Rangga toward the heavy teak door of the bathroom. The room was a sprawling, stone-tiled cavern that looked more like an ancient spa than a private suite.

"A bath? You’re kidding me, right? I’m covered in pig muck, and you want me to bathe like some pampered pet?" Rangga spat, wiping a streak of filth from his forehead.

"You smell like a farm animal. It’s insulting to the table," Arung said, his voice flat. "Clean yourself. You have twenty minutes before dinner. Don't test my patience by trying to find a drain to crawl through."

"What if I don't?"

Arung stepped forward, crowding Rangga against the vanity. "Then I’ll wash you myself. And I promise, it won't be as gentle as you'd like."

Rangga’s heart hammered against his ribs. He shoved Arung’s shoulder, but the man didn't budge—he was as immovable as the mountain itself. "You’re twisted. You know that?"

"I’m waiting, Rangga."

*

The dining hall was lit by dozens of flickering candles, the scent of burning sandalwood thick enough to choke on. Rangga sat at the far end of a table long enough to host a wedding. He wore a crisp white silk shirt that felt alien against his skin.

"Sit," Arung commanded, sliding into his chair. He looked different under the candlelight. His skin looked almost translucent, and there was a tremor in his hand as he poured the wine.

"So, what is this? The 'prisoner’s last meal' before you kill me?" Rangga asked, picking up a silver fork and twisting it in his fingers.

"I don't want you dead. I need you alive. Very much alive."

Rangga let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Alive for what? To be your trophy? To sit here and rot in this mansion while you play lord of the manor?"

"You think this is about power?" Arung leaned forward. His eyes, usually dark and piercing, seemed to dull, as if he were fighting an invisible exhaustion. "The Langi line didn't just borrow money from the Buntu family, Rangga. They signed a covenant of blood."

"A covenant. Great. We're doing mythology now? My father was a fraud, and you’re just a guy with too much money and a god complex."

"Your father was a coward who spent his life running from the burden of our ancestors." Arung’s voice dropped, a hint of genuine pain bleeding through. "He was supposed to be the anchor. Without his energy to ground mine, I’m… fraying."

"Fraying? You look like you’re having a bad day, not falling apart."

"I’m dying, Rangga."

Rangga paused, his fork hovering mid-air. "Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you? Because honestly? I hope it’s slow."

"You don't understand the price of the Buntu legacy," Arung whispered, reaching out to touch the side of his own neck, where a faint, dark vein pulsed visibly. "The energy in this region—the spirits, the history—it demands a balance. I am the vessel, and without a partner of your specific blood, I’m being consumed from the inside out."

"So, what, I’m your battery? Your therapy dog?"

"You’re my anchor."

Rangga stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards. "This is insane. You’ve got me here because you believe in some ghost story? You’re a lunatic, Arung."

"Am I?" Arung held up his hand. A jagged, black shadow seemed to flicker beneath his skin, swirling like ink in water. "Tell me, does a lunatic look like this?"

Rangga backed away, his throat tight. "What the hell is that? What did you do to yourself?"

"It’s not what I did to myself. It’s what this family does to the ones who try to survive without their soul-bound."

"I’m not soul-bound to you! I’m a guy from Jakarta who wants a life!"

"You had a life. Now you have a purpose," Arung said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly smooth, calm register. "Sit down, Rangga."

"No. I’m done. I’m leaving this dump, and if you try to stop me, I’ll scream until the whole mountain hears me."

Rangga grabbed a crystal wine glass from the table and hurled it at Arung’s head with every ounce of his frustration. It was a fast throw, intended to smash and distract.

It never reached its target.

In a blur that defied human perception, Arung’s hand whipped up. He caught the glass mid-air, inches from his temple. His fingers didn't just catch it—they gripped it with such force that the crystal shattered into fine dust, trickling through his closed fist like sand.

Rangga froze. The air in the room suddenly grew freezing cold.

Arung stood slowly. His eyes weren't dark anymore. They were glowing—a deep, molten crimson that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the candles.

"I said," Arung’s voice vibrated through the floorboards, "sit down."

Rangga’s legs went weak. He slumped into the chair, his breath hitching in his throat. The defiance that had been boiling inside him evaporated, replaced by a primal, shaking terror. He wasn't dealing with a man. He was dealing with a monster.

"Better," Arung murmured, his eyes slowly returning to their normal, piercing black. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small, silver dagger, its blade etched with intricate, swirling patterns.

He slid the knife across the mahogany table. It stopped perfectly in front of Rangga.

"What is this?" Rangga whispered, his voice trembling.

"The final piece of the contract," Arung said, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. "We don't need a notary for this one, Rangga. I need a drop of your blood to seal the bond. Right here. Right now."

Rangga looked at the knife, then back at Arung’s impassive, hungry expression.

"And if I refuse?"

Arung smiled—a slow, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Then you never leave this dining room. And believe me, the hunger I feel isn't just for a bond."

Rangga stared at the blade. The house felt like it was leaning in, the shadows in the corners stretching toward him, waiting for his move.

"One drop," Rangga choked out, his hand shaking as he reached for the hilt. "And then what?"

"And then," Arung whispered, leaning across the table until he was inches away, "you finally start living as mine."