“Come in, Arga.”

The voice was cold, echoing from within the vast living room of the Wiratama estate. Outside, the sky was heavy with storm clouds; flashes of lightning occasionally lit up the windows, deepening the tension that hung in the air.

Arga stepped forward — calm, but with purpose in every stride.

In the center of the room, his mother, Madam Wiratama, sat gracefully on the long velvet sofa, clad in an elegant black gown. Beside her stood his father, arms crossed, expression neutral yet heavy with unspoken authority.

“Sit down,” his mother said without looking at him. “This won’t take long. I just want to talk… before it’s...