All Chapters of Cents and Sensibility: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

"You look like a walking biohazard," Hana said, leaning against the glass door of the office and staring pointedly at Dimas’s left arm."Good morning to you too, Hana. And for your information, this is structural engineering," Dimas muttered, keeping his arm pinned tightly to his torso to prevent the silver strip of duct tape from snapping. "The fabric gave out. It’s an organic reaction to working twenty hours a day under fluorescent lights.""It’s embarrassing. You’re representing the agency now, even if you’re currently one step away from debtor’s prison," Hana crossed her arms, her diamond-encrusted watch catching the office light. "Get your bag. We’re leaving.""Leaving? Where? We have the stakeholder review in three days. I haven't slept since the gala—""Precisely why you look like a corpse wrapped in a carpet. We are going to Blok M," Hana interrupted, cutting him off with a wave of her hand that brooked zero argument. "If you show up to pitch the New Horizon project wearing a

The mahogany doors of the primary conference room swung open with a muffled, expensive thud, instantly cutting off the low murmur of anticipation rippling through the Jakarta elite. Aris glided into the room first, his charcoal suit pressed to absolute perfection, a polished silver tie clip catching the midday glare from the floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn't just walk; he owned the trajectory, moving with the practiced, predatory grace of a man who believed the corporate ladder was built exclusively for his boots. Behind him, Dimas hauled a heavy, matte-black projector case, his newly acquired thrift-store charcoal jacket feeling slightly stiff across the shoulders. A tiny, defiant strip of silver duct tape remained hidden beneath the inner lining—just in case—but his posture was straight, his chin up. Hana followed close behind, her heels clicking a sharp, unforgiving rhythm against the imported Belgian carpet, her expression

"I’m telling you, the plumbing in this building is sentient and it hates me," Dimas muttered, balancing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee in one hand while fumbling with his apartment keys. Before the key could even hit the brass cylinder, the heavy wooden door swung inward with a dry, splintering creak. Dimas froze, his coffee sloshing dangerously over the rim. Sitting uninvited on his sagging, threadbare sofa was Pak Broto, the building’s notoriously sharp-eyed landlord, chewing lazily on a clove cigarette and dropping ash directly onto the linoleum floor. "Good evening, Mr. Wibisono. Nice of you to grace us with your presence," Pak Broto said, his voice like grinding gravel. "Or should I say, nice of you to finally answer your phone?" Dimas stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him and forcing a tight, defensive smile. "Pak Broto. What a surprise. I didn't realize the rental office made house calls a

"There’s no traffic excuse for missing your watch, Dimas," Hana whispered, her eyes sharp as she slid a thick leather dossier across the table. "Use page four on the primary investor before Aris tries to corner him." Before Dimas could even open the folder, the overhead crystal chandelier flickered violently. A sharp, electrical pop echoed through the dining room, and the entire restaurant instantly plunged into absolute, pitch-black silence. "What the hell?" a wealthy executive shouted from across the room, the sound of crystal clinking against china betraying sudden panic. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the Jakarta sky lit up with a deafening roll of thunder, followed instantly by the roar of a sudden monsoon lashing against the building. The city's power grid had flatlined. "A blackout? Really? Right now?" Dimas muttered, staring down at his blank laptop screen. The glowing Apple

"An offshore shell company?" the primary investor repeated, his voice dropping an octave as the emergency amber glow hit the financial statements. "In the middle of a blackout, you're handing me a federal indictment?" "It’s not an indictment yet, sir. It’s an internal audit that Aris forgot to shred before the power went out," Dimas said, his voice steady against the howling monsoon outside. Aris lunged forward from across the table, his face draining of all color in the harsh light. "He’s lying! That’s fabricated dossier nonsense, a desperate stunt by a glorified copywriter who can’t even afford a real watch—" "Quiet, Aris," the investor snapped, flipping through the transaction logs with cold, practiced efficiency. "I recognize this routing number. This is the exact account structure we flagged during the preliminary compliance review. You told me those disbursements were for local v