The air inside the police station was thick with the scent of sweat, stale coffee, and bureaucracy. It was a cold, unwelcoming place—designed to intimidate rather than offer justice. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting an eerie glow on the scuffed linoleum floor as the sobs of a grieving mother echoed through the halls.
"Please, sir, my son was not a criminal!" Sari Prasetyo's voice cracked with desperation, her fingers clutching the edge of the counter as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her face was streaked with tears, her breath ragged. "Raka was a good boy. He was coming home from school, not from some gang fight!"
Her husband, Darman, stood beside her, his fists clenched at his sides. He was trying—struggling—to keep his composure. His entire body was tense, his shoulders squared as he addressed the officer in front of them. "We demand an internal investigation. There has to be a mistake," he said, his voice firm but controlled.
The officer at the desk, a young man with tired eyes, looked at them with forced sympathy. He opened his mouth, perhaps to offer some rehearsed words of condolence, but before he could speak, a heavier presence entered the room.
Inspector Rudi Hartanto.
His uniform was crisp, his demeanor unreadable as he approached the grieving parents. There was no warmth in his gaze, no sorrow. Only an air of finality.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said in a tone so devoid of emotion it felt like an insult. "But your son was found in the middle of a gang fight. He was carrying a weapon."
A sharp intake of breath. Sari's eyes widened in disbelief, her body trembling. "That's a lie!" she cried, shaking her head violently. "Raka would never—he doesn't even own a weapon! He's never been in trouble before. This doesn't make sense!"
Darman stepped forward, placing a protective arm in front of his wife as if shielding her from the words being thrown at them. His dark eyes bore into the inspector's. "Then prove it," he demanded. "Where is the weapon? Where is the footage? Jakarta is full of CCTV cameras. There has to be proof."
Inspector Rudi exhaled sharply, as if growing impatient. "The evidence is conclusive. Several witnesses saw your son with a knife, and his fingerprints were on the weapon. It was a tragic incident, but the officers at the scene acted in self-defense."
The words felt like a punch to the gut.
Sari staggered backward, clutching her chest. Darman caught her, his heart pounding against his ribs. How could this be happening? How could they twist the truth so effortlessly?
"Please," Sari whispered, her voice hoarse. "We just want justice."
Rudi's expression remained impassive. "My advice?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Mourn in peace. Let your son rest, and don't stir up unnecessary trouble."
Darman's jaw tightened. He could feel his pulse hammering in his skull. "You're asking us to stay silent?" he said through gritted teeth. "After what happened to my son?"
The room tensed. A few officers glanced their way but quickly returned to their paperwork, pretending not to hear. The tension was suffocating.
Rudi let out a small, mirthless chuckle. "Be careful with your accusations, Mr. Darman. Grief can make people say dangerous things."
Sari let out a broken sob, gripping her husband's arm. But Darman stood tall. "We will not let this go," he vowed, his voice shaking with restrained fury.
Behind closed doors, the narrative was already being rewritten.
Commissioner Bima Santoso sat in his office, reviewing the fabricated report. The gang fight, the knife in Raka's hand—it was all a neatly constructed story, complete with "witnesses" ready to testify. The evidence had been tampered with. A random street knife had been wiped clean and pressed into the teenager's lifeless fingers. The CCTV footage from the area had conveniently gone "missing."
"We can't afford a scandal," Bima murmured, rubbing his temples. "Rudi, make sure this story holds."
Rudi nodded, leaning back in his chair. "The family won't drop it," he said. "They're demanding an internal investigation."
Bima scoffed. "Then we make sure it never happens. Keep the media distracted. If they try to take this to the press, we shut it down."
The order was clear. The cover-up had begun.
In the dimly lit locker room, Officer Daniel Wijaya sat on the bench, staring at his shaking hands. He had been there. He had seen everything.
Raka wasn't armed. He hadn't even fought back. He was just a scared kid, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet, they had shot him without hesitation.
Daniel clenched his jaw, bile rising in his throat. He had sworn to uphold justice, to protect the innocent. But the system he served was corrupt. He had seen it before, but this… this was different.
He had wanted to speak up when the report was being written. But one glance from Rudi had been enough to shut him up. He had a family. A wife. A child. Going against the force meant putting them at risk.
Still, his conscience gnawed at him. He couldn't let this go.
Maybe there was another way.
24 HOURS BEFORE.
The night air was damp, thick with the scent of asphalt and the faint metallic tang of rain yet to fall. The streets of Jakarta were never truly empty, even as the hour crept past ten. Neon lights flickered in the distance, illuminating the narrow alleyways where the city's pulse beat on, oblivious to the tragedy about to unfold.
Raka Prasetyo pedaled his bicycle steadily, his school bag strapped securely to his back. His heart was light despite the long day—his tutoring session had gone well, and he was looking forward to getting home. His mother had promised his favorite meal tonight. His father had been busy lately, but Raka hoped they would have dinner together.
The roads weren't as crowded as usual, but Jakarta never truly slept. He took a familiar shortcut through a quieter street, the hum of distant traffic his only company.
Then came the headlights.
Bright. Blinding. Fast.
Raka barely had time to react before the impact sent him sprawling.
The world turned into a blur of pain and confusion as he crashed onto the pavement. His bicycle crumpled beside him, the metal frame twisted unnaturally. Blood trickled from his forehead, and his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. His breath came in short, panicked gasps.
A sleek black police vehicle screeched to a halt a few meters away. The driver's door slammed open, and heavy footsteps followed.
Inspector Rudi Hartanto staggered out, his hand instinctively going to his holstered gun before realizing there was no immediate threat. His breath was laced with alcohol, and the world around him swayed slightly. He wasn't supposed to be on duty tonight, but old habits—and the badge—granted him privileges. The bar he had just left had been kind enough not to question how much he drank before getting behind the wheel of his government-issued vehicle.
He hadn't meant to hit anyone. The street had been empty a second ago. But now—
A boy.
His heart pounded against his ribcage as he approached. The kid was still alive, groaning in pain, his chest rising and falling erratically. Rudi crouched down, wiping a sweaty palm on his uniform. He could call for help. He should call for help.
But then reality sank in.
If he called it in, it would be over for him. A police officer, caught drunk driving? Running over a teenager? His reputation would be ruined. His career—gone. No one would cover for him. Not even Bima. Not for something like this.
The kid was looking at him now. His dark eyes were clouded with pain, unfocused, but they saw him. They registered his uniform.
"P-please…" Raka's voice was barely a whisper. "Help… me…"
Rudi hesitated, his pulse hammering against his temples. If he got the kid to a hospital, there was a chance he would survive. But there was also a chance—no, a certainty—that Raka would tell the truth.
He couldn't let that happen.
His hand moved before his mind had even fully made the decision. The gun was out of its holster, cool and familiar in his grip.
Raka's breaths grew more labored. His body twitched, his fingers weakly grasping at the asphalt as if trying to ground himself.
Rudi's grip tightened on the handle.
One bullet.
That was all it would take.
He exhaled sharply. His finger curled around the trigger.
The muffled crack of the gunshot echoed into the empty street.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, the slow, almost peaceful release of breath from the boy's lips.
Rudi's hands trembled. He stared down at the lifeless body before him, his mind racing. He had done it. He had just—
No. No, he couldn't afford to think. Not now.
He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to move. His training kicked in, replacing guilt with logic. He scanned the area, ensuring no one had witnessed the scene. The street was deserted. He had time.
His phone felt heavy in his pocket as he dialed a number he never thought he'd have to use for himself.
It rang twice before Commissioner Bima Santoso picked up.
"Rudi?" Bima's voice was gruff, annoyed. "It's late."
"Sir," Rudi swallowed, his throat dry. "I need your help."
A pause. Then, "What did you do?"
Rudi glanced at the body on the ground, his stomach twisting. "It was an accident," he said quickly. "But… it can't look like one."
Another silence. Then, a slow exhale. "Where are you?"
Rudi gave his location, his fingers tightening around the phone as Bima's response came low and measured. "Stay there. I'll handle it."
The call disconnected.
Rudi wiped the sweat from his brow. His mind was already working through the details. He needed a cover story. Something believable. Something airtight.
A gang fight.
Yes. That could work. Jakarta had its fair share of street violence. People would believe it.
His movements became mechanical as he staged the scene. He removed his gloves before pressing Raka's limp fingers against the handle of a knife he had confiscated from an arrest earlier that week. He placed it near the boy's hand, angling it just right.
It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be. It just needed to be enough to raise doubt.
The sound of approaching vehicles made his heart pound. Soon, a black SUV came into view, stopping a few feet away. The doors opened, and Commissioner Bima stepped out, flanked by two other officers.
His expression was unreadable as he took in the scene. Then, he sighed. "You're an idiot, Rudi."
Rudi said nothing. He just stood there, waiting.
Bima turned to his men. "Make the calls. The media gets nothing except what we feed them. CCTV footage from this area—gone. The official statement will say it was gang violence. A routine response."
One of the officers nodded, already pulling out his phone.
Bima turned back to Rudi, his eyes cold. "If this goes wrong, you take the fall. Understand?"
Rudi's throat was dry. He nodded.
Bima sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Get out of here. Go home. We'll handle the rest."
Rudi swallowed, stepping back as the officers moved in. He took one last look at Raka's lifeless body before turning on his heel and walking away, his heart a stone in his chest.
This wasn't the first cover-up he had been involved in.
But it was the first one that terrified him.
Kenzo stood with his arms crossed, watching the chaotic scene unfold before him. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the anger bubbling beneath his calm exterior. This was exactly the kind of case he had covered before—police brutality, cover-ups, the media twisting the truth to fit an agenda.
He had seen it too many times.
Raka's parents were still pleading at the front desk, their voices hoarse from desperation. His mother, Sari, was on the verge of collapse, her body trembling as she clung to her husband, Darman. The father tried to stay strong, but even his voice cracked as he demanded answers. Yet the officers barely acknowledged them, dismissing their cries with cold indifference.
Kenzo's jaw clenched. He could already see the narrative being crafted in real-time—the way the officers carefully worded their statements, the way the news reports painted Raka as a troubled teenager rather than an innocent victim. They were setting the stage for the public to forget him.
"They're controlling the story," he muttered under his breath.
The others turned toward him.
Audrey, standing beside him, looked like she was barely holding herself together. Her sharp gaze was locked onto the police officers, her eyes filled with something between fury and agony. "They know they're lying," she whispered. "They know it, and they don't even care."
She could see it, Kenzo knew. Audrey's ability to perceive truth and deception was stronger than his—she didn't just suspect the lies; she could see them as clearly as daylight.
Hana, arms crossed, shifted her weight slightly, her face unreadable. "What did you expect?" she said, her voice low. "This is how the world works. People with power rewrite the truth however they want."
Damian, uncharacteristically silent, was watching everything with an unreadable expression. But Kenzo knew him well enough—he wasn't ignoring the situation. He was calculating, observing the moving pieces like a puzzle. "The cops aren't the only problem here," he finally said. "Someone higher up wants this covered. Who benefits? Who's pulling the strings?"
Kenzo exhaled sharply. "That's what we need to find out."
They had seen enough.
Back at their hideout, Kenzo paced the room, his mind racing. "The only way we fight this is by making it too big to ignore."
Audrey leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "And how do we do that?"
Kenzo turned to face them, his expression set in stone. "We expose the truth. We make sure the world sees exactly what happened."
Hana raised an eyebrow. "You mean hacking into the police records?"
Kenzo nodded. "We need hard proof. Reports, autopsy results, CCTV footage—anything they're hiding."
Damian smirked. "Risky. I like it."
"But," Kenzo continued, "we need to be smart. If we come forward, they'll bury us before the truth even reaches the public. We leak the evidence anonymously."
Audrey's eyes narrowed in thought. "And how do we get this evidence?"
Kenzo turned to Hana. "That's where you come in."
Hana tilted her head. "You want me to manipulate memories?"
Kenzo nodded. "You can get inside their heads. Make them forget what's restricted and let us walk right in."
She considered it, then finally shrugged. "Sounds fun."
Damian cracked his knuckles. "And if we run into trouble?"
Kenzo smirked. "That's where you come in."
Audrey sighed. "This is dangerous."
Kenzo met her gaze. "So is letting them win."
A heavy silence filled the room. Then, one by one, they nodded.
The fight for justice had begun.