Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ACT I : 

You say you're not afraid to die

But take off the armor ’round your chest

What's left inside?

Megat first meets Beja in Ungku Deramat’s Halls on a slightly chilly day.

“Nanti bila sampai bilik, terus kemas barang, jangan tangguh-tangguh.”

“Iye bonda,” Megat grumped in annoyance, toying with his phone, shifting as far as he could from his mother despite them both being in the back seat.

It’s his first day in boarding school but his father had simply arranged for a chauffeur to send him and his mother in his place.

Megat Shah wants to act spoiled.

But, unfortunately his mother is a strict woman. (not that he’s afraid of her, of course, that would just be ridiculous)

So he settles for feigning listening as she drones on to him of what to do and not to do.

A lecture on how he can’t smear his family’s name is inherently impossible to be excluded.

Megat scowls because he hates her lectures. He hates his parents relationship, hates the family name, hates ever–

“MEGAT SHAH!” 

Gritting his teeth, he answers on autopilot, “Iye bonda–”

Anything he could say to appease her was cut off when she wrenched his phone away. She levels him with a glare that could stupefy most people that come into contact with it.

Unfortunately for his mother, Megat has lived thirteen years of being glared at by her like that. He’s immune to it by now.

The only reason she wasn’t yelling was because of the chauffeur driving them–because his mother may be bitter, cynical and  controlling, but she would never humiliate him in public.

She always emphasized on that .

"Anakku, ketahuilah bahawa nama Shah yang kau warisi bukan untuk kau megahkan dirimu semata. Nama ini adalah sumpah ; ia membawa harapan rakyat dan restu dari langit.” His mother recited the rite of passage from the Malay Annals.

Megat stared silent, mind kept dutifully blank to make way for her new teachings.

“Setiap langkahmu harus teguh, setiap bicaramu harus benar, dan setiap tindak-tandukmu harus berpandukan akal yang bijaksana. Jadilah seperti pohon jati—kukuh berdiri walau angin ribut melanda."

They arrived in Kudrat just in time.

Megat made sure his clothes were pristine just as he made sure to stand straight as he trail after his mother who carried herself with regality. It’s registration day for the new intake of Form 1 students, so the crowd is to be expected.

She led him straight to the hall where they sat on the vacant seats as the principal began his boring speech. Megat saw a lot of snotty nosed kids sobbing like wimps or parents ignoring the speech altogether by chatting or using their phones.

His mother did no such thing.

She kept her gaze impeccable on the stage.

He stared unimpressed at the school’s logo hung like a mantle above the stage.

Taat. Teguh. Tabah.

What a load of bull–

Before he could follow through with his thoughts, his mother’s silent greeting caught his attention.

“Dato’ Abu Yamin,” she nodded lightly, “daftar anak jugak hari ni?”

Megat watched with curious eyes as his mother engaged in a conversation with the shorter man that talked heavily accented. Dato’....Patutlaa bonda berborak jugak…

His mother was also a stickler for forging alliances.

"Kenal lah, ni anak kawe yang nombor duo. Abdul Reza."

By the corner of her eyes, she sent him a sharp pointed glare and Megat fought off trying to frown and turned to look at where the man gestured.

The guy– Abdul Reza– smiles, blindingly charming and Megat resists the urge to punch him because without even talking to each other he knows that Abdul Reza is just full of shit.

“Salam perkenalan?” The asshat makes a show of holding out his hands and Megat is desperately trying not to sneer because who the fuck in their time and age says ‘salam perkenalan’? But because Megat still values his dignity, he offers a fake smile.

“ Shah –Nama aku Megat Shah.”

Megat first meets Beja in Ungku Deramat’s Halls on a slightly chilly day.

And from the first moment their hands touched in the hall, under the pretense of goodwill and flowery friendship in front of their deranged parents, Megat knew that there’s something more underneath the deceptive sweet smile Beja blatantly paraded.

Three months into Kudrat and Megat has tried becoming more social–fuck, he’s not a social butterfly but at least he fared better than stupid goody two shoes Reza–who’s new nickname is Beja because apparently the whole batch uses it.

Megat thinks it might have something to do with trying to make Reza sound more humane?  

Because the guy was like a robot (some of their batchmates preferred calling beja ‘the ice prince’) always placidly helping people.

Most of their batchmates liked him. Their seniors like him, their teachers–of course, no surprise–love the amazing, perfect Abdul Reza.

Heck, even the janitor that cleans the haunted bathroom in Block D likes him.

Megat is not jealous.

(why would he be? He’s the one elected as the batch leader. 

and maybe his grades are not as stellar as reza’s–who the fuck gets 100 on BM anyway? megat sincerely thinks reza bribed the teacher or something

and he’s also the better looking one compared to reza

why in hell’s chance would he ever be jealous of abdul reza, the scheming snake–)

Really, he’s not.

But, there’s something definitely weird about Abdul Reza. 

Particularly how he only brushes Megat off (quite rudely he might add), as opposed to how he always accommodates everyone else.

Beja even treats that one Indian and Chinese kid–the firsts of their batch not belonging to the Malay race to enter Kudrat.

Even the seniors steer clear of those lot, especially after the whole protest and demonstration his mother helped curb.

So he tries discreetly to toss the idea to his current group of buddies.

“Kau tak rase ke Reza tu pelik,mana ade orang baik macam tuu, entah-entah dia–”

He presents his case in the most convincing way he knew, imagining how his mother would do it. It only gets him a bunch of snickers and confused faces.

“Merepek laa kau nii, Megat. Beja tu sebaik-baik orang kau tahu tak–”

He curses his traitorous friends mentally.

A nagging voice inside his head, his mother's voice, echoes,  “ Pilih teman yang sekufu denganmu, Shah.”

Megat made a face. 

"Jika seorang raja memilih orang yang salah untuk mendampinginya, kerajaannya akan hancur. Namun, jika raja itu berpegang kepada orang yang bijaksana, maka amanlah negeri dan rakyatnya." the memory of his mother’s lessons continued

So Megat bounced, past a group of boys clampering around Reza and straight back to his room.

He ignores the slight coldness he felt, akin to having a predator’s eyes on his back when he turned the corner. 

It’s fleeting, but the intensity of whoever it was, glaring daggers into his back was real. Megat ignores it.

Who the f cares about dumb Abdul Reza anyway.

Not when he could be thinking about his future destiny.

Soulmates.

Japanese folklore believes in the tale of the red string of fate. Megat thinks isn’t that convenient to literally have a string leading you to a fated person.

In any rendition though, it’s clear that the soulmate thing kinda hopefully exists.

He knows because both his parents have soulmate identifying marks on them.

But not with each other.

( his mother pulls him away just a few days after he finishes his upsr with a glum look on her face

he remembers how she reveals the tattoo like insignia of her soulmate mark; a pretty stem of an unknown flower and how excited he was to see his father’s

“bukan dia.” two words that made megat’s worldview spins

his mother’s soulmate died years before he was born. 

his parents’s marriage was a sham, a dumb political sham and his father kept his soulmate as a mistress)

He had spiraled then.

A few rooms ruined by his tantrums, running away for a couple of nights, a bunch of fury induced screeching matches with his father but Megat is almost okay now.

All his life, his father was nicer, but he realizes it’s because his father was a traitor from the very beginning. He also tells himself that it’s the reason why his mother is so cold and terrifying and miserable.

For as much as he is grateful to her, he doesn’t want to end up as miserable as she is.

His mother would probably call him foolish but Megat didn’t care.

His parents denied their fate, denied the chosen divination as blatantly as they ignored the marks on their bodies. And as result his family was flawed, messy and miserable.

Megat will not repeat their mistakes.

When he gets his soulmate mark, he’s gonna make sure that person belongs to him, and only him.

It is his right.

"Maka tiada patut bagi segala raja-raja daripada anak cucu Raja Iskandar Zulkarnain itu menaruh ketakutan dalam hatinya; Barang siapa yang meragui aku sebagai Raja , maka dialah yang menolak takdir. ”

Fate must be fucking with him because of all sport he could’ve spontaneously decided to join, it had to be the same one Reza joined.

Basketball.

 Megat didn’t even care for basketball.

He only joined because the team name looked cool; Noxus

It’s doped but not as doped as it should be with Mr Perfect Ice Prince prancing there. It pisses him off because it’s not enough that they’re in the same house, same class, constantly competing for everything, Beja just had to spoil this for him too.

There’s not many juniors joining the practice. There’s only two Form 3 player and around five Form 2s. 

The interested Form 1s, him and Reza included made for around eight players.

Cemana nak main kalau sikit macam ni? Diorang tak train pelapis ke?

After two hours of squatting in the scorching sun he realizes why.

Like every single aspect in Kudrat, the basketball seniors there were bullying the juniors.

No one from the lower forms were even allowed to hold the ball for fuck’s sake, heck, he even saw one of the seniors telling the Form 2s to buy them snacks.

Patut laa tak ramai player. Sial laa tempat nii.

He cast a glance towards Reza who was also in the line just as he was–forced to do these stupid, tedious exercises.

For once, he looked pissed.

Reza’s face was ice cold, jaw set into a grim line and it’s almost impressive how threatening he looked despite that they were the youngest and smallest ones there.

“Woi F1! Kau mengelamun apa?!”

Megat snapped back his attention to the front.

A couple of the Form 5 players were skitting to a stop in front of them.

The Form 5 player who shouted at Megat had a cocky smirk on his face, arms crossed as he loomed over them.  

Megat tensed, already irritated beyond belief, but before he could say anything, another senior clapped a hand on his shoulder—hard.  

“Kau ingat ni tempat berangan ke, budak?” the senior sneered, giving his shoulder a rough shake. “Kalau tak boleh tahan, angkat kaki. Tak payah menyemak.”  

Megat clenched his jaw, swallowing the insults he wanted to throw back. He could feel his mother’s words echoing in his head, reminding him of the family name, the dignity he was supposed to uphold.  

Instead, he turned his glare toward Reza, expecting him to say something.  

Because, honestly, if there was anyone here who would have the guts to go against these seniors, it would be him.  

And yet, Reza stayed silent.  

But it wasn’t the usual calm, accommodating silence he gave to others.  

It was heavy.  

Like the calm before a storm.  

Megat watched, almost enthralled, as Reza slowly straightened up, his dark eyes narrowing in a way that made the Form 5 players falter for just a second.  

Then, Reza spoke.  

“Bang,” he said, voice even and dangerously polite. “Saya datang sini nak main bola, bukan nak layan orang yang rasa dia besar sangat.”  

The air around them shifted.  

Megat almost gawked. Was this guy insane?  

The seniors, taken aback for a moment, quickly recovered. One of them scoffed, stepping closer to Reza.  

“Kau cakap apa tadi, budak?”  

Reza met his gaze unflinchingly. “Saya cakap, kalau abang-abang semua taknak ajar kami main, boleh terus terang je. Tak payah bazirkan masa kami.”  

The silence that followed was tense, like a taut wire ready to snap.  

And then—  

“Berani, ah?” One of the seniors chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Form 1 dah pandai besar kepala.”  

The others around them started snickering, and Megat could already see where this was going.  

His instincts screamed at him to step back. To let Reza deal with the consequences of his own mouth.  

But somehow, Megat found himself shifting closer instead.  

Because if there was one thing he hated more than Reza’s stupid, too-perfect existence—  

It was watching someone stand alone against a pack of wolves. 

“Kudrat tempat lahirnya armada lelaki Melayu terakhir.”

It’s where the strong gather.

It seeks the fearless and defiant.

After Reza's stupidly courageous show of it, Megat and a couple of others tried approaching him.

“Weyh Beja, asal kau cakap camtu doo, kau tak tahu ke senior kita tuu dalam High Council?”

“Ye dooo, Abang Izzat Ketua Rumah Tuah–dia brutal gila–”

Megat stayed uncharacteristically quiet, he wanted to see it unfold.

Predictably, Reza shot them a kind smile,  "Guano pulok nak takut sangat gitu, hormat senior lain, etika dalam permainan pon lain. Demo jange lah senang sangat takut."

Megar thinks that it’s definitely a trick–the way Reza seamlessly switched between the standard boring selangor Malay slang and his authentic Kelantanese drawl. 

How much faster their batchmates accepted the dumb excuse he gave just because he sounded friendlier with the accent and not like the actual cold psycho persona he had underneath.

He’s such a boring goody two– hold up, was Reza clenching his fists on his side?

Megat made a fake yawn as he stretched, but let his eyes trail over the other boy and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of annoyance directed at their chattering batchmates.

When Reza caught Megat staring, he almost blanched and Megat didn’t bother looking away.

But the animosity was there and Megat remembers thinking what the fuck was this guy’s deal anyway.

Except that it wasn’t just a thought because Megat actually asked it out loud when it was only them left.

“Apa masalah kau, sial?”

Reza feign ignorance, “Maksud kau?”

“Apa yang kau beef sangat ngan aku,” Megat really wanted to punch his dumb teeth in, “ngan orang lain elok kau berlakon baik.”

“Bila masa aku berlakon?”

Megat scowled petulantly.

So, instead of wasting his time by talking, he decided to take proactive measures.

He swung his fists like a cool delinquent that he aspires to be, and aimed straight at Reza’s dumb princely face.

Megat yelps because fuck, Reza was so fucking fast when he side steps, catching his fist in the process and immediately twist his arm with more ease than a goody two shoes like him should have.

"Guano masalah mu, nate?" Reza snarls, and just like that, his impeccable perfect mask has fallen.

Megat felt his pulse quicken, his instincts buzzing with warning.

Not from fear.

From the thrill of it.

Because finally—finally—

Something about this place wasn’t boring anymore.

  "Setakat ni jah tahap puok mu?” Reza had asked with the ease, condescending and cruel, “Untuk ore yang panggil diri Shah, mu bukey kuat mano pun."

Megat knows he should feel more offended by Reza’s choice of words, but more than that Megat actually feels pissed in the way Reza sounds so bored.

Fury colors Megat’s vision as he take in Reza’s smug face. 

As if he thinks that Megat is so weak as to not be able to hold his own.

As if Megat is helpless–

He hears a satisfying crack, and Megat is satisfied when manages to take Reza off guard, simultaneously breaking free and landing a resounding hit.

Megat feels more alive now.

In the past, his mother had made dozens of remarks saying that Megat needed to keep his temper in check. And also his unchecked agression.

She wasn’t here now though, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

So he squared off his shoulders and gets into a proper stance.

To his surprise, Reza does not do the same.

Instead, he reverts back to his annoyingly calm and calculative self and Megat openly glares at him.

But before he could say anything, a different voice cuts in.

“Korang ni baru F1 dah buat perangai,” someone drawls out, and Megat immediately straightens because fuck it’s the Kapla of the High Council himself.

Shit.

There’s nothing he could say that would make this situation good for him, was there?

‘Kudrat lain daripada tempat lain. Ade peraturan, takleh suka-suka hati bertumbuk.’

Kudrat has a hierarchy.

Pilihanraya.

Manifesto.

Megat bit his lip but then he saw how the Kapla looked bored instead of pissed. Speaking of which, he looks also surprised? Which was kinda weir–

“Macam mana kau boleh kene tumbuk, Beja?” Their senior asked conversationally before turning to Megat, “yang kau tuu–Ketua Batch kan? Apehal kau langgar rules yang kitorang dah bagitau time orientasi?”

Megat tries thinking of anything his mother has said before that might help his situation but finds his mind blank.

“Takde apa-apa laa bang.” Reza cuts in, “Salah faham sikit je.”

“Salah faham pon, kau yang patut paling tahu peraturan Kudrat, Beja–aku dah pesan kau suruh bagitau budak batch kau, kan–”

Megat wants to cut in, truly he does, but he can’t–and all the sudden he realizes it; Their senior–the esteemed head of the High Council—regard Reza as the actual leader. 

And it seemed like he didn’t think that someone like Megat, is capable of hurting someone like Reza.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Reza’s face twist into a lazy smirk.

Megat feels all the more pissed–he wished he hit the bastard harder.

In the aftermath, for the next couple of days though, were absolute hell, and Megat seriously considered quitting basketball.

He’s not scared of quitting, it’s what he’s always done. Piano, Violin, Petanque, Calligraphy.

His mother tried her hardest to nudge him into broadening his horizons and polishing his soft skills. 

She doesn’t force him to continue, but she doesn’t look thrilled by his early quits either.

Megat counts that as a win-win.

And there’s nothing really there for him here in basketball. Two of their batchmates had already called it quits after having their allowance finished just by buying drinks and snacks for the seniors.

Nasib sekolah ni memang ade dewan makan, tak ke kebulur–

They are all being put through hell but Reza got the short end of the stick.

He wonders if the Kapla knows?

Kudrat’s system is interesting.

High Council; the student body that oversees the students' activity. Lesen given to the seniors who earn their right–and ones who cough up the money–to act like assholes.

He’s not really sure how he feels about it, for one he’s not bullied like his other batchmates who had to wash the senior clothes or clean their dorms. 

The seniors always made Be–Reza the worst chores–cleaning their dirty shoes, wiping the balls spotless, blatantly jogging around the field dozens of times to calculate the steps–and it’s almost impressive how he has not break yet

Megat has been told that he has the attention span of a goldfish (he takes pride in it because goldfish are hella dope and there’s gold in them).

So his fixation with Reza is mostly short-lived because the guy immediately reverts back to his cardboard persona of some fairytale prince, but Megat still remembers his quick reflexes that kinda makes him want to see more.

But he’s not a beggar, he refuses to grovel for Reza’s attention because technically it should be the other way around.

He has the highest standing.

It’s him that should be revered instead of dumb Beja.

And now, at present time, Megat sees how Reza has gotten himself into a whole new mess.

Because for as much as Reza pretended he was the model student in Kudrat, he still broke the rules when he sneaked off, dribbling and practicing with the balls secretly when the seniors weren’t there.

And now, supposedly, one ball has gone missing.

The whole thing blows up fast, like a forest fire fueled by dry grass and way too much kerosene.

The missing ball has everyone on edge, but instead of searching for it quietly or brushing it off, the seniors are making a show out of it.

"Siapa curi bola tu?!" the captain yells, his voice echoing through the basketball court.

Megat’s pretty sure they’re just using this as an excuse to make the juniors’ lives even more miserable. 

The missing ball isn’t really the problem; it’s just a convenient excuse to assert dominance.

The juniors are lined up under the midday sun, sweat dripping down their faces. Nobody says a word, but Megat can feel the tension crackling in the air.

For a moment, Megat smirks–well, maybe he couldn’t start anything without pissing his seniors off (his mother should be informed that despite her beliefs, he still has some sense of self preservation), but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sight of Beja harassed by their seniors.

Megat rocks on his heels, arms crossed lazily over his chest, pretending like he’s more interested in a loose thread on his sleeve than the absolute circus happening in front of him.

Reza—Beja—whatever the fuck he wants to be called—is standing stiff-backed, his expression blank. Not even a twitch of irritation.

Megat would have respected it if it didn’t piss him off so much.

"Kau tahu apa jadi kalau benda ni tak jumpa, kan?" one of the seniors sneers, stepping into Beja’s space.

Still, nothing.

Damn, Beja really knows how to play the part.

But Megat sees the tiny shift in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitch just slightly before curling back into his palms.

Oh, he’s pissed. He’s just not showing it.

Interesting.

"Kalau takde orang mengaku, semua kena," the captain announces, sweeping a slow glare across the line of Form 1s.

Megat almost rolls his eyes. What a predictable load of bullshit.

One of the juniors—Nanda, was it?—looks like he’s about to pass out from heat exhaustion. Another is biting his lip so hard it might actually bleed.

Megat can see it, the way fear is sinking its claws into their batchmates, wrapping tight around their ribs and making it harder to breathe.

And Beja—Reza—is just standing there.

Like he’s used to this.

Like he’s waiting.

Megat grits his teeth, feeling something ugly coil in his gut.

He’s not a hero. He doesn’t give a shit about playing savior.

But—

The words slip out before he can stop them

.

"Kau rasa kalau budak F1 nak mencuri, dia nak sangat ke curi bola?" Megat’s voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it.

Silence.

All the seniors’ heads turn to him, their expressions flickering between mild surprise and thinly veiled irritation.

Beja’s gaze snaps to him too, sharp and unreadable.

Megat just raises an eyebrow, tilting his head.

“Bola tu bukannya bola baru pon kan? Entah dah bocor ke, terselit celah rak ke, senior bodoh mana tak letak balik tempat asal ke—”

He doesn’t even get to finish before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

"Mulut kau tu, Megat."

Oh.

Maybe he should have thought this through.

(so much for having self-preservation –his mother is going to kill him for this but its not like he’s gonna be in too much trouble.

the seniors knows his mother–knows how powerful her name carries–he’ll be fine)

Something unreadable flickers across Beja’s face, too quick for Megat to pin down. But then—then—he smirks.

Right at Megat.

A slow, lazy smirk, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Like he’s daring Megat to react.

Megat’s gut twists with something hot and furious as Beja shifts his gaze to the seniors and, with the most casual fucking ease, says—

"Hmmm, senanya kan, bang…" He even has the audacity to pause before continuing, eyes still on Megat like he’s enjoying this way too much. "Saya dengan Megat yang terhilang kan bola tu time kitorang main semalam."

For a moment, Megat’s mind goes blank.

Then it snaps back with the force of a fucking explosion.

What the fuck.

That was a fucking lie.

What the actual fuck?!

His blood boils over.

It’s not just the lie—it’s the fact that he knows Beja said it just to fuck with him. To ruin the good impression he’s painstakingly cultivated with the seniors.

Megat has spent weeks making sure he doesn’t step on the wrong toes, that he doesn’t give the seniors a reason to fuck with him more than they already do.

And now, with one smug little quip, Beja has just fucked it all up.

Megat doesn’t even think.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Before he can stop himself, his body moves on pure rage-fueled instinct.

He lunges.

His fist collides with Beja’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

Beja staggers back, caught off guard for half a second.

Just half a second.

And then—Megat sees it.

Sees it.

That spark in Beja’s eyes.

Not pain. Not anger.

Something worse.

Amusement.

Excitement.

Like he wanted Megat to hit him.

Rage surges hot and wild through his veins. He’s worked his ass off for a good impression with the seniors, clawed his way into their barely-there respect—and Beja’s just tossed it into the fire with a smirk.

The snap is instant. Before he knows it, before he even thinks—

His fist is already flying. Again.

“SIIIAAAALLLLLLL!!!” 

Lying, licking your blade

Do you really bleed if it washes away?

Take a ride, rough as you can

Tell you a secret, right as your dogs are closing in

Abdul Reza first meets Megat in Ungku Deramat’s Hall on a fucking scorching hot day.

Not chilly.

Not pleasant.

Not remotely comfortable in the slightest.

The air was thick, suffocating, the kind of heat that made the back of his collar stick to his neck and had his father muttering about "Kerajae nih tok reti nak pasang aircond ko?" under his breath.

But that day wasn't about comfort.

It was about politics.

It was about laying the groundwork for something greater.

It was a year before he’d even step foot in Kudrat, but there was never a question of whether or not he’d get in. Of course he would. He was Abdul Reza bin Abu Yamin. 

His father had been there. His brother had been there. His name meant something in places like this.

He was here because his father wanted to introduce him to someone important.

A public figure. Someone whose influence stretched far beyond the walls of Kolej Ungku Deramat.

Beja had been prepared to meet the woman. He had practiced the perfect polite smile, the respectful nod, the strategic pauses to let her speak first.

She carried herself with poise, with power, a woman accustomed to being heard.

Too bad her son was nothing like her.

Beja had not been prepared for him.

Megat Shah.

Pompous fucking name for an even more pompous-looking kid.

And instead of introducing himself properly, instead of even acknowledging Beja’s existence, Megat had barreled straight into him, his too-sweet chocolate drink spilling all over Beja’s new, expensive shirt.

And he didn’t even bother apologizing.

Just huffed, mumbled “Eh lek ahh bhaii" like Beja was the unreasonable one, and sauntered off without a single backward glance.

That had been their first meeting.

The one Megat doesn’t even fucking remember.

Which, honestly, tells Beja everything he needs to know.

So when he sees Megat again—a whole year later, standing in Ungku Deramat’s Hall, eyes locked onto the other with a look of forced interest, palm outstretched under pretense of friendship under their respective parent’s gaze—

Beja does what he should’ve done from the very start.

Ignores him.

Megat Shah is not worth his time.

Not when Beja has bigger sharks to hunt.

Not when he has Kudrat’s entire system to climb.

“Apa yang kau beef sangat ngan aku,” 

Beja truly couldn’t decide what was worse; Megat’s ignorance, or the pride he had in his ignorance.

“ –ngan orang lain elok kau berlakon baik.”

Maybe it’s simply both, Beja decides as he is met, yet again with the unimpressed stare of the  resident Kapla of Kudrat’s High Council for the 2001 session.

“Abe-Mo, aku dah cakap dah kat kau, Form 1 tahun ni memang melampau nak mampus kurang ajar dia.” The basketball’s team captain huffed.

Beja made a quick analysis of his surroundings; a flimsy store room that’s been occupied quite several times judging by the apparent arrangement of the old chairs and desks along with several cans used as makeshift ashtrays.

Beja was careful enough to mask his disdain when the awful stench of smoke invaded his nose. Repulsive.

Said Kapla was lounging languidly on the tables pressed against the wall, regarding the two juniors in front of him with an almost bored look before he turned to look at his batchmate–his supposed second in command.

“Ejat,” he nodded at him, “Ape yang kau kepoh sangat kat aku ni. Cer kau citer dulu.”

Beja watched as the other senior turned all shades of red in embarrassment and anger at his leader’s callousness and he suppressed the urge to scoff.

Weak.

All dogs who bark too loud had little bite, after all.

Instead he watched his seniors’ interaction carefully, hyper analyzing each tilt or twitch the glorious Kapla adorn. 

He ignores the slight shift he felt besides him, no doubt the other mutt from his own batch that is the very bane of Beja’s existence.

Then the great leader himself flicked off the remaining cigarette butt to the window pane, taking his last puff before he collapsed his hands together with a wry smile on his face.

“Okay lah, Jat. Kau gi dulu, aku ‘setel’-kan budak-budak ni sendiri.”

“Tapi, Be–” Izzat cried out indignantly as he was cut off and was almost comically frog-marched outside the room.

Beja’s eyes stayed fixed on the Kapla, cataloging every detail—the subtle flex of his fingers, the easy tilt of his head, the smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Calculating. 

Dangerous.

But it was Megat’s restlessness that grated against his senses.

The idiot couldn’t keep still.

A subtle shift of sneakers scraping the dusty floor. A sharp inhale through flared nostrils. 

His arms twitching at his sides, as if barely holding himself back from—what? Charging the Kapla? Bolting for the door?

It was infuriating.

“Megat Shah,” Beja muttered, voice low, teeth barely unclenched, “Kalau kau nak gaduh, at least jangan nampak terdesak sangat.”

Megat stilled— almost —but Beja caught the quick flick of his thumb cracking his knuckle. Pent-up energy radiated off him like a live wire.

Then— click.

The lock slid into place with a soft but decisive snap, the metal sound oddly loud in the heavy, stale air.

The Kapla turned back to them, his grin widening, but the glint behind his eyes sharpened into something far less amused.

He hummed at first, voice smooth but thrumming with authority, “Kali first korang cari pasal, maybe boleh la lepaskan…”

His gaze swept between them, slow and weighted.

“…tapi dua kali ni…” His smile, razor-edged, turned cold.

“…ni macam sengaja , pulak.”

Beja’s lips twitched—just the barest curve. Sengaja , was it? If only he knew.

Beside him, Megat’s breathing slowed—controlled. His fingers curled loose at his sides, tension wound tight, but no longer jittery. 

Nervous? Maybe. But cowed? Never.

And Beja? Beja just tilted his head, meeting the Kapla’s stare without so much as a flicker of fear.

 Just as he was about to open his mouth, the dumbass by his side opened his instead.

“Abang Kapla, saya ade bende nak bagitahu abang,” Megat paused his speech, leaning in an all most conspiratory voice.

The older boy raised a delicate eyebrow in question.

“Semua ni salah Reza, dia punca sume bende ni so kalau nak hukum, abang hukum dia je laa.” Megat finished dryly, unabashed in the way he threw Beja under the bus.

Beja felt his eye twitch in annoyance but can practically feel the amusement radiating from his senior.

“Soo, kau nak cakap yang semua ni salah Be–Reza?” The Kapla parroted back, fake smile in place.

Undeterred, Megat nodded and Beja resisted the urge to face palm.

Their senior did the humming thing again, circling them and Beja faintly registers it’s a trademark predatory move.

Like a lion king circling its prey.

“Ade tiga bende basic yang patut korang junior tahu bila masuk Kudrat,” Beja stood straighter as their Kapla’s tall figure loomed over them. “Pertama, Kapla control sekolah.”

The confidence Megat previously donned had wavered. 

“Kedua; segala masalah kat Kudrat mesti kene lalu High Council–badan penyelia pelajar.”

There’s a pointed glare directed at him and Beja wills himself to remain impassive.

“Terakhir, apa-apa pon jadi, jangan jibam.” The words were uttered dangerously low, a thinly veiled threat for the boy next to him and Beja is secretly glad that it’s not him that gets the brunt of it.

Their senior somehow has decided he’s had enough of standing and instead plops himself onto the table again, crossing his legs, completely unbothered.

“Jadi,” the Kapla drawled, fingers tapping lazily against his knee, “macam mana kita nak ‘setel’ masalah hari ni?”

His eyes flicked to Beja, sharp and testing, and Beja knew— knew —that the bastard was waiting for him to crack. To stammer. To panic.

Instead, Beja smiled. Slow. Thin. Devoid of warmth.

“Abang yang Kapla kan?” he said, voice smooth and crisp as glass. “Kitorang ikut je apa yang abang decide.”

“Iye?” The Kapla’s eyes glinted, leaning forward with an edge of mockery. “kalau aku suruh korang masuk pilihanraya korang nak? Kan sibuk sangat bergaduh, ni gaduh laa betul-betul.”

Beja felt Megat twitch beside him again—restless, like a dog on a leash. But this time, he shot him a warning glance. Jangan bodoh.

Because Beja knew this wasn’t about who was guilty. It never was.

It was about who breaks first.

The Kapla’s gaze pinned him, the silence stretching taut.

Then—

“Oii KB Form 1.” The older boy shifted his focus, a smirk curling his lips. “Megat eh nama kau?”

Megat’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching loose. “Ye saya, bang.” His voice dropped a note lower, rougher. “Nama saya Megat Shah–”

“Oh? Megat Shah?” The Kapla chuckled, soft and patronizing. 

"Maka datanglah peredaran dunia, maka Sultan Iskandar Syah pun mangkatlah, maka anakanda baginda Raja Kecil Besarlah Kerajaan menggantikan ayahanda, gelar baginda di atas kerajaan Sultan Megat." 

Beja narrowed his eyes. He’s familiar with the excerpt from Windset and Shellabear rendition of the Malay History.

Some historians believed that Sultan Iskandar, the last ruler of Singapore and the first ruler of Malacca, was called "Megat Iskandar" because his descendants carried the "Megat" title. 

However, in Malay tradition, ruling sultans were never given titles that suggested a lower status than their royal lineage.

The confusion likely arose from a misinterpretation of the word "Megat ," which was actually a misheard or miswritten version of " Makuta " or "Makota," derived from the Sanskrit word "Mukuta," meaning " crown" or "mahkota" in Malay. 

Thus, the correct title of the second ruler of Malacca was not "Sultan Megat" but "Sultan Mahkota."

It was an ironic notion; the very basis of their heritage written by the ones who colonize them, yet instead of it being discarded, it was revered as one of the most notorious records of the Malay Archipelago. 

How impertinent.

Beja could practically feel Megat bristling .

He moved before Megat could—just the slightest step, barely a shift, but it was enough to angle himself in front of his hot-headed companion.

“Be–Abang,” Beja’s voice sliced through the tension, measured and cool, “Macam yang abang cakap, Kudrat ade peraturan. Sekarang dah nak lights off, so kitorang patutnya takleh lama-lama.”

That caught the Kapla’s attention. His eyes snapped to Beja, amusement flickering into something darker. “Oh?”

“Kalau abang nak hukum kitorang, kena cepat,” Beja continued, head tilting just so, “saya faham kuasa Kapla paling tinggi kat asrama, tapi depan warden nanti, siapa nak jawab?”

A silence, thick and charged.

Then—

The Kapla laughed.

Short. Low. Amused in a way that didn’t ease the threat in the air, but sharpened it.

“Betul-betul berlagak laa form 1 tahun ni…” he said slowly, eyes glinting, “…tapi takpe.. .”

The smile he wore now was thin, dangerous.

"Besar legasi mak ayah kau cuba bagi," the Kapla drawled lazily, ignoring Beja’s caution and instead addressing Megat. "Megat Shah. Megat. Kau tahu makna gelaran tu?"

His voice dripped with something dangerously close to mockery, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee, as if waiting for Megat to stumble—waiting for him to betray the uncertainty he was so sure was there.

Megat’s jaw clenched, his fists curling ever so slightly, but his face remained impassive.

"Gelaran kau berat, tau?" their senior said breezily as if he’s discussing the weather. "Seberat darah yang pernah lalu sebelum kau. Kau tau ke kau mampu galas benda tu?"

Silence stretched.

Beja, for once, didn’t move to intercept. Because this wasn’t his to handle. It never was.

Megat inhaled slowly. Then—he exhaled, lips curling into something sharp, something almost smug. "Kata periuk belanga hitam."

The Kapla’s fingers stilled.

"Eh, korang adik-beradik, kan? Macam mana pulak dengan korang?” Megat sneered.

Beja narrowed his eyes. So, Megat wasn’t as oblivious as he thought.

Megat tilted his head, eyes gleaming Berat tak tanggung nama Dato’ Abu Yamin tu?"

The air changed.

Beja went rigid.

Beja saw his brother blinked once, twice—expression blanking for half a second before something dark flickered in his gaze.

Megat didn’t stop there.

"Abdul Murad bin Abu Yamin. Abdul Reza bin Abu Yamin." Megat enunciated each name with deliberate ease, his smirk widening. "Apa cer? Korang pun bukan sama je ke?"

Beja turned to him then, slow and measured. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. "Banyak kau tahu, Megat." His voice was light, but there was an edge to it.

Megat shrugged. "Banyak yang orang lupa nak tapis, sebenarnya. Tapi bukan senang nak lupa nama Ketua Pengawas yang menang lawan Kapla dalam kudeta dulu."

Beyyad didn’t speak immediately. He simply stared, gaze now unreadable. Then, ever so slowly, he let out a low chuckle.

Short. Low. Dangerous.

" Hahhhh, ni laahh padah jadi Kapla tahun nii ," Beyyad muttered, rolling his shoulders back.

Beja didn’t need to look to know that Megat had just made things worse.

Chandrawasi burong sakti,

Sangat berkurong didalam awan.

Gonda gulana didalam hati,

Sahari tidak memandang tuan.

Beja was starting to think that the so-called missing basketball never existed in the first place.

He kicked a stray pebble across the patchy grass, scowling as it clattered against the rusted goalpost. 

The setting sun cast long shadows over the school field, painting everything in hues of orange and gold, but there was nothing beautiful about his situation.

He and Megat had been stuck in this ridiculous punishment for what felt like hours now—scouring the school grounds in search of a so-called ‘lost basketball’ that Beja sincerely doubted had ever existed in the first place. 

It was nothing more than an excuse to humiliate them, a petty act of retribution from the basketball seniors after the mess with Beyyad and the basketball seniors. 

Fighting with Megat (thus breaking Kudrat’s sacred rules and hierarchy) had been bad enough, but openly disrespecting the seniors? That had sealed their fate.

The worst part? The punishment wasn’t even limited to this pointless wild goose chase. 

The seniors had made sure to squeeze every drop of misery from their suffering. Every few minutes, another upperclassman would ‘coincidentally’ pass by and bark orders at them.

“Oi, junior! Ambik air botol aku dalam stor, cepat sikit!.”

“Oii Form 1! Gi sapu stor tuu, buang selawang-selawang yang ada..”

“Oii budak! Gi amikkan kunci kat warden.”

Beja’s patience was wearing dangerously thin but to be fair he has enough adaptability not to do something reckless.

Both his father and brother were Kudrat alumnis. If there’s anyone who can withstand Kudrat’s extremities, it would be him.

“Oiiii, mengelamun ke tuu~” came Megat’s singsong voice and Beja resisted the urge to throw something at him.

Initially he planned to do this on his own, people or in this case, outsiders were dead weight to him and Beja operated much better as a lone wolf.

Unfortunately Beyyad had other ideas.

“Hah? Pasal gapo mu suruh aku gi cari bola tu ngan Megat?”

Beyyad didn’t even glance up from his phone, his expression unreadable as usual. “Apa salahnya? Seney sikit kalau dua orang cari daripada sore.”

Beja scoffed. “Kalau sore jah function, takdok guna laa sore lagi tu der.”

“Salah mu duo orang jugok gaduh depan senior-senior mu. Kalau korang gi cari bola tu sama-sama, tahu la diorang aku tok pass punishment korang.”

Beja bristled. He had half a mind to argue, but he knew better. Beyyad’s word was final. As Kapla, their brotherly relations hardly mattered and Beja couldn’t begrudged Beyyad for that,

 He ground his teeth and exhaled sharply before trying again. “Takleh ko aku ganti jah bola tu dengan bola baru?”

Beyyad finally looked up at that, an eyebrow raised. “Itu namanya rahsuah, Ja—awal sangat mu nak start tabiat lagu tu, tahu mu nak ikut jejak ayoh.”

Beja stiffened at the barely concealed jab. He wasn’t used to hearing that kind of mockery coming from Beyyad—anyone else, sure, but his own brother? Their age gap had never been a problem before.

Not until he had learnt about Beyyad’s soulmate mark.

Beja scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets, deciding to leave. “Suko hati mu laa.”

Beyyad sighed, his tone softer when he spoke next. “Sampai bila mu nok maroh aku, Ja?”

“Siapa cakap aku maroh? Aku ikut jah kan apa mu suruh ni?”

A weary chuckle left Beyyad’s lips, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he said, “Apo pong, mu bagi chance ke Megat Shah. Jangan pandang rendoh sangat ke dio.”

Beja sneered. “Mu cakap lagu tu sebab mak dio orang berpengaruh. Megat Shah bukan sapa-sapa pong.”

Beyyad gave him a look, unimpressed. “Dio pegang gelaran ‘Raja’, Jaa. Gapo pun, kalau doh warisi satu takhta, nok tak nok, keno blaja guano nok guna kuasa.”

“…pastu aku suruh dia jaga tempat aku kat line tu sekali, dia boleh blah dulu macam sial je, dah laa dia bantai ajak aku gi blok D yang berhantu—”

“Ape yang kau tak puas hati dengan aku?” Beja cut in, his patience snapping like a brittle twig.

Megat scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Ego nya kau ingat aku kisah pasal kau.”

Beja paused. He had spent enough time around people like Megat to recognize bullshit when he heard it. 

His eyes sharpened as he regarded the other boy, the gears in his mind clicking into place.

“So, kau tak marah laa yang aku kalahkan kau banyak kali before ni.”

That worked like a charm.

Megat sputtered, his whole body jolting like he’d been electrocuted. 

“Ehh, agak-agak sikit ehh! Aku kalahkan kau time merentas desa hari tuu. Pastu kisah lak kau jadi ketua kelas, aku dapat jadi KB—lagi tinggi, bhai, pangkat aku.”

Beja stared at him, unimpressed. He had always found Megat’s defensive scrambling hilarious, and today was no different. 

“Iye, pastu sebab tu kau beriya nak bertumbuk dengan aku sampai dua kali eh?”

Megat scowled. “Yang first time tuu, kau yang cari pasal dulu! Pastu yang second tu pon salah kau laa, babi.”

Beja wrinkled his nose at the weak insult, unimpressed. If Megat was going to swear, at least put some creativity into it.

Before he could respond, Megat suddenly leaned in, too close for Beja’s liking. 

His dark eyes glinted with accusation as he said hotly, “Apa kata kau gi je mengaku kat abang kau yang kau hilangkan bola tuu.”

Beja raised a single elegant eyebrow, completely unaffected. “Tapi kau yang practice senyap-senyap time senior takde, entah-entah kau yang hilangkan bola tu.”

Megat’s reaction was priceless. His eyes widened just a fraction—barely noticeable, but enough for Beja to catch it.

Then, as if realizing he had just given himself away, Megat scowled, puffing up like a ruffled cat. 

“Engkau yang paling lama kerja kemas stor, pastu kau yang selalu kene hambat ngan senior basket—entah-entah kau sengaja hilangkan bola tu sebab nak balas dendam.”

He huffed proudly, as if he had just solved a grand conspiracy.

Beja exhaled sharply through his nose, half-exasperated, half-amused. Of all people to get stuck with, it had to be Megat Shah.

 “Alahhh, apa la kau nak kisah sangat.” Megat exhaled, stretching his arms lazily behind his head. 

“Kapla tahun ni abang kau kot, setakat kau ngaku kau hilangkan bola tuu, nanti takde la senior lain nak beriya regging kau.”

Beja nearly laughed at how wrong Megat was. If anything, being Beyyad’s little brother only painted a bigger target on his back. Instead of a free pass, he got twice the scrutiny, twice the expectations, and twice the bullshit.

“Mu ingat aku ni dapat layanan istimewa sebab aku adik Beyyad?” Beja scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Sial la, Megat, kau memang bangang ke buat-buat bangang?” he added dryly when Megat nodded dumbly.

Megat narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward. “Apa kau kata?”

Beja met his gaze head-on, unbothered. “Aku kata kau bangang, bodoh. Kenapa, nak tumbuk aku lagi?”

That got Megat riled up immediately. “Apa masalah kau ehh sial? Kau ingat kau better daripada kitorang semua ke–.”

Beja snorted. “Aku tak rase aku better dari sume orang, tapi better dari kau, tu memang confirm.”

Megat clicked his tongue, frustrated. “Sial kau babi, depan sume orang kau acah baik enn, senanya kau sama je setan—”

Beja deadpanned, “Daripada kau? Memang perangai setan terang-terangan.”

“Babi kau!” Megat practically growled.

They were close now, chest to chest, shoulders squared off like they were seconds away from throwing punches again. 

Beja wasn’t entirely against the idea—at least then he’d have something to blame if Beyyad asked why he came home looking like he went through a blender.

But before either of them could make a move, a sound cut through the tense air.

A rhythmic thud thud thud .

Like a ball being dribbled.

Both of them froze.

Their heads snapped toward the direction of the sound, ears straining. The dribbling noise echoed steadily, the unmistakable rubbery bounce against cement.

“…Ade court lain kee dekat sini?” Megat asked, his voice quieter than before.

Beja frowned. “Tak.”

They were near the cricket court behind Block D, which was the closest cemented surface, but the sound wasn’t coming from there. It was coming from just beyond it—toward the woods.

Where their school usually held camping activities.

And as far as Beja knew, there sure as hell wasn’t a basketball court there.

The dribbling continued, an oddly steady rhythm, neither hurried nor slow. 

Beja and Megat exchanged glances before moving toward the source, feet crunching against dried leaves as they followed the sound deeper into the area behind Block D.

As they walked, Beja’s sharp sense caught on to something— it’s getting dark .

A quick glance at his watch confirmed his suspicion. 6:40 PM.

The sky above had shifted from golden hues to deeper shades of blue and purple, the last remnants of daylight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. 

Around them, the trees stood in irregular formations—not sparse enough to call it a clear space, but not dense enough to be considered a forest either. 

The air was cooling down, and faint sounds of crickets hummed in the background. The occasional rustle of leaves came from birds returning to their nests, cawing faintly in the distance.

They reached a small clearing near a cornerstone when—

Thud thud thud.

The sound of the ball echoed again.

But this time, it came from two different directions.

Beja halted, shoulders stiffening. He turned to Megat, whose brows were furrowed.

“Bunyi tuu datang arah kiri laa—kau tak korek telinga ke?” Megat scoffed, jabbing his thumb in that direction.

Beja scowled, resisting the urge to call him dumb. “Aku dengar bunyi kat arah kanan.”

Megat clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Haah? Kau pekak ke? Jelas-jelas bunyi tu dari kiri—”

While Megat chattered on, Beja tuned him out, making a quick note of their surroundings. 

The trees weren’t particularly tall, and the spaces between them weren’t too narrow or wide. It was just enough to make one feel like they weren’t quite in a forest, but not in an open field either.

And yet, something about this place felt off .

The distant calls of birds, the rustling branches, the occasional shift of wind—it was all normal. But the ball? The dribbling?

Beja’s frown deepened. It was just a ball , right? And yet, the longer they lingered, the more uneasy he felt.

Megat’s voice suddenly broke through his thoughts.

“…kau dengar bunyi orang main Cak Lempong ke?”

Beja exhaled sharply, deciding to ignore him. “Jom laah, kita sambung cari esok—nanti dewan makan tutup lak.”

To Beja’s relief, Megat didn’t argue. Instead, he turned around with a huff, leading the way back.

Or at least, they thought it was the way back.

The more they walked, the longer the path seemed to stretch.

Beja’s brows furrowed. They had barely walked ten minutes following the dribbling sound earlier. By right, their return journey shouldn’t take this long.

And yet, the trees around them felt unfamiliar.

The further they went, the less sure Beja was of their direction.

Something wasn’t right.

“Kita sesat.” Megat deadpanned.

“Kita tak sesat.” Beja denied immediately.

And why wasn’t Megat the least bit worried anyway? He didn’t gauge Megat as someone courageous–especially not after he threw him under the bus in front of their seniors.

‘Takpe, aku kena tenang,’ Beja thought to himself, making another frustrated glance over around them.

If they were actually lost, their roommates or even classmates must’ve noticed somehow.

So they walked.

Beja counted the minutes in his head, mentally tallying every step. Ten minutes passed, maybe eleven — definitely longer than their initial path.

The trees thinned, opening up into a clearing that definitely hadn’t been there before. The grass was overgrown, with patches of dirt and scattered leaves. 

It looked untouched, like no one had stepped foot there for years.

Beja’s frustration bubbled over.

This doesn’t make sense.

He racked his brain, trying to recall anything useful — something from his father’s late-night warnings, or maybe a lesson from his silat instructor. 

Weren’t there teachings about navigating the wilderness? Ways to sense an unnatural presence?

He tried to steady his breathing, but the sinking feeling in his chest only deepened.

“Eh, tengok ni doh.”

Megat’s voice snapped Beja out of his thoughts.

Beja turned to see Megat crouched down, brushing away dirt and dried leaves. His fingers curled around something half-buried in the ground.

A labu sayo ng.

It was old and dirty, its surface caked with mud and streaked with blackened grime. Hairline cracks spiderwebbed across the ceramic, but it was intact.

Beja’s stomach dropped.

“Jangan usik–” he snapped, stepping forward.

But before he could stop him, Megat yelped.

“PANAS SIAL!”

The labu sayong clattered to the ground, shattering on impact. Pieces of pottery scattered like shards of glass.

Beja's heart hammered.

For a split second, everything stilled.

Then, something black slithered out from the broken remains.

It twisted and coiled, too fast to track, too unnatural to be a snake.

Beja lunged.

He tackled Megat, shoving him out of the way just as the shadowy figure darted past them.

His skin prickled with cold before a sharp pain invaded his senses. He gritted his teeth wincing at the scorching burn that gnawed his leg .

Beja faintly heard Megat’s curses before something else rang through his ears.

Distorted voices. Echoing. Crawling under his skin.

"̵̼͓̯͋͂͝͠P̸̥̳̰̣̓͑̐͝ù̵̞͔͘ĺ̵̨͕͛̏̏a̴̱̭̥̒̄̕n̷̨͙͈͌̃g̵̡̰̮̝̾ǩ̶̠̙̞̼a̸͉̪̋̍̒̔̓n̷̦̳̟͇̮͑̀͝ ̷̨̨͚̭̗̽̇̈́b̵̛͚͙̦̥̻͗ȁ̷̢͎͙̘̝̂̽̿̆l̷̗͆í̸̬̻͠ͅk̷̖͂̔̐͋.̴̛̼̭̖̀̔"̵̡̞̜̖̄

̶̲̈́

̷͇͕̻̤̆͗"̵̺͆̌́͑́K̴̠̖̈́͂͠e̸̼̟͕͛̕m̸̲̬̘̖͚͐̈b̷̠͗͠a̵̺͙͂͝͠l̴̡̤͕̗͐́̕ī̷̘̓́̐k̷̰̭̅a̷̟̭̩̥͖̍̐̓́͠n̶͕̙͆͝ ̸̝̅̋̃͊͘h̶̤̗̘̀͋̚a̷̛̲̺͍̼͉̓̋̍ḱ̵̞ ̶̨̱͇̎ä̴̛̛̭̬̮͜ḵ̶̛̅̔̅̑ṳ̵̫̞͊͋͘͜.̵̡̹͆̌̇͂͜"̷̼̪̦̟̏͆͌͜

The whispers curled around his ears, growing louder until they were all he could hear.

Beja’s vision blurred, the world tilting.

The last thing he saw was the remnants of the shattered labu sayong and the faint outline of something — someone — watching them from the edge of the clearing.

Then everything went dark.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin

“Jadi….” The voice halted, “dalam tahun ‘68. Tahun 1968 tuu sebelum 1969. Jadi belum sampai 1970.”

“Lepas tuu ?”

“Tapii, tahun ‘68 tuu, selepas tahun 1967!” The voice crowed, amused with himself. “Jadi 70 tu pulsk, belum jadi 71.”

Beja groaned at the absurdity of the conversation.

After blinking a couple of times, he registers the dim glow of an oil lamp, the flickering light casting long, jagged shadows on the cracked wooden walls. 

The faint smell of earth and dampness clung to the air, sharp and persistent. His head throbbed, the remnants of distorted voices still echoing faintly in his skull.

He groaned, blinking away the remaining bleariness from his eyes, only to see Megat lounging on a creaky plastic chair as if he were at a Raya open house instead of caught in the aftermath of a supernatural horror.

“Hah, bangun jugak Sleeping Beauty ni,” Megat drawled, voice laced with mockery. His head lolled against the chair's back, one leg slung over the armrest. “Ingat nak kene tunggu kene cium baru kau sedar.”

Beja tried to sit up, the room tilting around him like a capsized boat. His throat felt dry, voice scraping out in a weak rasp. “Kat mana…”

“Tempat Pak Meor.” Megat shrugged, as if that explained anything. “Aku angkat kau lepas kau pengsan. Kita jalan, tiba-tiba jumpa Pak Meor — dia bawak kita sini.”

Beja squinted at the room. It looked like a storage shed, with gardening tools piled haphazardly in the corners. 

He was lying on a single metal bed with a thin, scratchy mattress, eerily similar to the ones in their hostel.

It didn’t make sense.

Beja’s fingers dug into the coarse fabric of the bedsheet, panic bubbling back up. “Apa jadi kat labu sayong tuu — kaki aku!”

He yanked up his pant leg, expecting to see the bite mark, the burned skin, the evidence of whatever thing had attacked him.

But there was nothing.

His leg was completely unscathed.

Beja's pulse hammered. He knew what he felt — the sharp sting, the searing heat. It wasn't his imagination.

“Banyak sangat makan semut budak ni.” A gruff voice cut in. “Satu bende pon tak ingat!”

Beja’s gaze snapped to the figure crouched by the lamp, puffing a cigarette. The old man squinted at him through the smoke, his weathered face lined with deep creases.

Pak Meor — the school’s gardener.

Beja’s temper flared. He gritted his teeth, “Macam mana kitorang boleh sampai sini? Tadi ada—”

Megat’s expression flickered, something wary and guarded beneath the usual teasing. He didn’t say anything, just glanced at Beja with an unreadable look.

Before Beja could press further, the door to the shed slammed open.

“Beja! Megat!”

Beyyad barged in, shoulders tense and jaw set in that dangerous way that made their entire dorm straighten up. He didn’t even give them time to scramble for excuses — just nodded sharply at Pak Meor.

“Terima kasih, Tok. Saya bawak budak-budak ni balik.”

Pak Meor grunted, waving them off like swatting flies.

Beja barely got to swing his legs over the bed before Beyyad grabbed both him and Megat by the collar, hauling them out into the night like stray cats.

They trudged back to the hostel in silence, the forest pressing in around them. The night was still, suffocatingly quiet, as if even the cicadas were holding their breath.

It wasn't until they neared the dorm lights that Beyyad finally exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Gapo mu duo orang ni tok habis-habis buat masalah?” he muttered, voice dripping with exhaustion.

Beja stayed silent, finally composing himself, quietly analyzing his options.

“ –Ja! Gapo mu ni?!” 

Beja’s attention snapped to his brother’s query. His hands trembled by his side but he kept his spine straight mimicking the poster of a soldier in a march.

He met his brother’s gaze.

Beyyad’s stare burned into Beja, sharp and expectant.

“Macam mana korang boleh sampai dekat Pak Meor?” he repeated, voice clipped with barely restrained frustration.

Before Beja could even open his mouth, Megat cut in smoothly, shrugging like this was any regular night.

“Kitorang cari bola basket yang hilang tuu. Pastu cam dengar orang tengah dribble—” Megat’s voice lilted, casual like he wasn’t spinning a blatant lie out of thin air.

Beja kept quiet, fingers twitching by his side.

Megat didn’t miss it. He shifted closer, tugging Beja into a half-hug like they were the best of friends. His hand awkwardly patted Beja’s neck, a little too hard to be comforting.

“Pastu agaknya Beja ni diet-tak makan-makan, pengsan dia,” Megat finished, grinning like he’d done the most heroic deed in the world.

Beja wanted to elbow him. Hard.

But he stayed quiet, chest heavy with the weight of things he couldn’t explain. So when Beyyad glanced at him, eyes imploring, Beja sighed through his nose and muttered, “Aah, betul laa apa yang Megat cerita.”

There was a beat of silence.

Beyyad just... accepted it. He sighed, long and suffering, rubbing his face like he’d aged a decade in the span of a night.

"Bertimpo-timpo pulok masalah kali ni. Macam sia betul laa.” he muttered, before turning on his heel, motioning for them to follow.

They trudged after him, the dorm lights glowing faintly ahead. The weight of whatever had happened still clung to Beja like a second skin.

“Asal mu serabut sangat? Lamo ko cari kito orang?” Beja finally rasped, throat dry.

Beyyad didn’t even turn around.

“Aku tak tahu pon korang hilang,” he deadpanned. “Sebab ni tengah kecoh banyak kes barang lain yang hilang.”

Beja’s chest tightened. His steps faltered.

He ignores the slight burning glare  he felt akin to being caught in a firestorm from the direction of where Megat stands, a couple feets from his left.

Angin menderu dale hutan larang,

Bayang-bayang menari tok nyato;

Kalau roh suda berkenan,

Jiwa terikat, tok buleh lepas selamo-lamo

Chapter Text

You walk along the edge of danger

And it will change you

Why would you let this voice set in your head?

It is meant to destroy you

The total counts of missing sports equipment had been tallied up;

Three tubes of shuttlecock, five baseball bats, four hockey sticks and one basketball.

"Ni bukan benda baru," someone muttered from the back. "Dulu pun ada kes hilang-hilang macam ni."

"Ya, tapi dulu tak sebanyak ni."

"Memang la. Dulu hilang macam ni sekali je—lepas tu ada budak mati."

That caught more attention than it should have. Someone scoffed, but others leaned in slightly, curiosity outweighing skepticism.

"Ada orang cerita," the boy continued, lowering his voice, "tahun 1968 tu, tiga orang budak sekolah ni mati. Sekolah tak jalankan apa-apa penyiasatan. So katanya, roh budak-budak tu jadi tak tenteram sampai dendam diorang terbalas!"

"Bohong."

The sharp interjection cut through the tension.

The boy who spoke—tall, broad-shouldered, a smirk playing at his lips—tilted his head lazily. "Aku dengar lain," he said, voice rich with amusement. 

"Katanya, budak tiga orang tu ada buat benda tak elok. Diorang pakat untuk panggil something dari alam luar. Tapi last-last makan diri."

That earned an uncomfortable shift in the group.

"Tapi yang pelik," someone else chimed in hesitantly, "recently, sejak barang-barang yang hilang ni... ade orang kata diorang banyak kali nampak lembaga hitam mata merah?"

A thick pause.

Then, the door creaked open.

Heads turned.

Beja stood at the entrance, tall and unmoving, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

 The conversations died instantly, the oppressive silence making his presence even heavier.

A few exchanged glances. Others averted their eyes.

And then there was Megat Shah.

He remained where he was, body relaxed in his seat, one arm lazily draped over the back of his chair. Unlike the others, Megat didn’t tense up at Beja’s arrival. 

He only smirked.

Beja’s frown deepened. 

His gaze flickered across the room, quickly recognizing the faces present—rebellious students, the ones known for slipping past curfews, the ones who rarely followed school regulations unless it suited them.

Megat’s crowd.

A place Beja had no reason to be in.

Still, he stepped inside.

All eyes followed.

Megat exhaled through his nose, amused. "Aku ingat kau tak suka tempat macam ni," he mused, his tone light, teasing. "Sejak bila Abdul Reza ni berminat nak dengar cerita tahyul?"

Beja ignored him.

His focus was elsewhere.

There was something off about the way everyone reacted to the missing equipment. Something too tense. Too unsettled. It wasn’t just nonsense ghost stories.

Someone in this room knew something.

And Beja intended to find out what.

The whole Form batch of 2001 had 104 Malay students, three Murut students from Sabah, one Melanau from Sarawak, one Indian, and one Chinese.

One might think that the existence of non-Malay students was enough to consider Kudrat an inclusive institution.

It’s really not.

Nanda thought woefully as he chewed on a piece of murukku, the taste stale from being sealed for too long in his locker. His mother had enough insight to tell him to bring his own snacks, and for that, he was grateful.

Three months and a half. That’s how long he’d been at Kudrat.

It was supposed to be an opportunity. A prestigious school with a reputation for producing the best and brightest.

His parents had been so proud when he got in, reassuring him over and over that he was going to thrive, to make connections, to open doors for himself that others could only dream of.

What they didn’t tell him—because they didn’t know—was the other side of Kudrat.

The High Council.

The Kapla system.

The unwritten rules.

Some seniors were alright. Some were even friendly. But there were others who saw his presence as an inconvenience, something to be tolerated but never welcomed.

It wasn’t all bad—he had friends. 

There were people who made space for him, who listened when he talked about his family, his Thaipusam experiences, his favorite cricket players. But some things he had to endure alone.

Like dining hall meals.

No proper vegetarian food meant he had to scrape by with plain rice, overboiled vegetables, and whatever he could snack on in his dorm.

Or mistakes like tonight.

Nanda cursed under his breath as he strode towards the storage room near the sports hall. He shouldn’t have forgotten to write his name down when his senior asked his help to return the cricket equipments. 

It wasn’t like they’d taken much—just a bat and some balls—but Kudrat’s seniors were obsessed with rules when it came to club activities. 

So Nanda had returned them dutifully to the correct places, completely dismissing the recent fuss over other missing equipments that he also forgot to write down his name on the logbook.

If the wrong senior caught wind of it, he’d be in for a long lecture. Or worse, he’d have to do push-ups in the rain as punishment.

The rain was light now, more of a drizzle, and the sky was dark except for the dim yellow glow of the corridor lights. 

The school was mostly quiet—most students were indoors, either in their dorms or sneaking into the Form 5 study room to chat.

It was only 8:00 PM. This was fine.

Nanda slipped into the storage room, the scent of dust and rubber immediately greeting him. Rows of metal racks stretched before him, stacked with cricket gear, badminton nets, and old footballs that had seen better days.

He exhaled in relief. Alright. Just find the logbook, write your name, and get out.

The storage room was silent except for the occasional creak of the old building settling. Nanda moved quickly, brushing a hand over the spiritual bracelet on his wrist out of habit. 

His grandmother had given it to him last year, murmuring a prayer as she tied it on, warning him to always be careful of places with old history.

Kudrat was full of old history.

His fingers found the logbook. He flipped to the last page, grabbed a pen from his pocket, and scrawled down his name.

There. Done.

Then—

Thunk.

Nanda stiffened.

The sound came from outside.

His first thought: A senior?

His stomach twisted. Shit. If he got caught sneaking in here, it wouldn’t matter that he was just fixing a mistake. He’d still be hazed.

Quickly, Nanda ducked behind one of the metal racks, heart pounding. His breath came out slow, controlled. He’d hide until they left. It was fine. It was—

Growling.

His skin prickled.

That wasn’t a person.

At least, it didn’t sound like a normal person. The sound was low, guttural. Something not quite right.

Nanda swallowed. His mind raced. Haiwan apa yang boleh lepas kat sini?

There were no stray dogs on school grounds. And that… that didn’t sound like a dog.

Another thunk.

Nanda pressed himself against the rack, pulse hammering in his ears. The sound outside the storage room had changed. It wasn’t footsteps anymore. It was something dragging.

And then—

The door slammed open.

A rush of cold wind and rain burst inside, making the dust in the air swirl. The temperature dropped instantly, an unnatural chill that made Nanda’s hair stand on end.

The growling was louder now.

Nanda clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe slow, even as a deep, terrible feeling settled in his gut.

He wasn’t alone.

And whatever was out there… wasn’t human. 

Dark gleaming blood-red eyes peered at him and before the Indian boy could register it, his body was slammed against the wall by an unknown force.

Nanda felt the wind being knocked right of him and instantly he glanced at the bracelet on his wrist.

“T-toll…” he tried croaking out, throat constricted, “tolong ak–arh”

As Nanda tried to crawl away—his body felt heavy.

Like something was pressing down on him, pinning him to the cold concrete floor.

His chest heaved, lungs burning as he tried to suck in air. His fingers scraped against the rough surface, desperate for some kind of leverage, but his limbs refused to move properly—like his strength was being drained away.

The eyes didn’t blink.

They watched.

Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The thing in the doorway was tall, unnaturally so, its head nearly brushing the top of the frame. 

Its body was shrouded in something dark—not cloth, not mist, but something else entirely.

Something was wrong.

His fingers tightened around his bracelet. He could feel the faint warmth of the blessed thread against his skin, but it wasn’t enough.

He had to move.

With a strangled gasp, Nanda forced himself to turn over, pressing a hand to his chest as he tried to recite a prayer. 

His grandmother had told him what to do in situations like this, had made him practice the words since he was a child. He just had to say it. He just had to—

Szzzzzzt.

A sharp ringing noise pierced his ears.

Nanda choked.

The prayer—gone.

The words—ripped from his mind like paper burning in a fire.

His body lurched as the unseen force dragged him backward.

“No—no, no, no—” His voice broke as his nails dug into the floor, trying to hold on to something, anything.

The thing moved.

The moment its shadow stretched over him, the cold in the air turned to bone-deep ice.

A voice, low and distorted, rasped—

“̴͖̣̥͇͚̝̩̻̼͖̯̣̈̈́̆͗̋̏̈́̊̽̍͌͑̿̀̽͠ͅ—̸̨̡̼̺̹̤̠̘̭̪̬͈͉͔̠̣̜̋̒͋̏̈́̋͑͂͠ẖ̶̢̥̰̦̝̫͖̞͉̠̙̯̦͔́̏̀̓̀̆͐̃̄͂́͋̓̚͝-̵͚̬͍͍̯̻̣̗̤̹̺̎̏̑̍̉̓̈̄̐͛̽̓̀̚̚͝͝ȟ̷̢̬̙̯̗̞͇̣̪͇͔̓͜͝͝ͅa̵̻̣̬̱̍̈́̌͆̃̒̀́̍̿̔́͑́͝͝ͅk̷̡͔̼̩̤̬̝̝̩̓͘͜͜.̷̢̩͈̣̜͇̖͉͚̯͓͍̍̊́͂̀̈́͊̎̌͆͜͝ͅͅ.̸̨̣̤͈͓͍̺͎̼̻̮̈́͊̔̌̎͂̌ ̶͕͇͉̟͗͛͗͐ẫ̴̬̳̥̤̅̃̈̏͗̊͆̔͌k̵̛͍̞̼̝̝̋̿̑̋̏͑͐̿͒̏̽̓͒͘͝͝ͅṳ̷͈̿̒̋̓͒͂?̴͉̥̟̪̩̻̟̮̟̮̰͛”̸̝̼̻̘͔̹͂̄̎̓̉̂̑̈́̈́͠͠

And then—

The lights flickered violently.

The storage room door slammed shut.

And Nanda screamed.

“Kau rase, muka aku lagi hensem kalau potong gaya K-pop ke gaya Mullet?” Megat asked conversationally.

“Aku rase better kau botakkan aje.” Beja quipped easily, not missing a beat, “muka kau macam pecah longkang je macam mana sekali pon,” he added for good measure.

Megat offered him a deeply pitying look and said, “Kesian kau Jaa. Muda-muda dah buta–sayang kau tak dapat tatap muka hensem aku ni.”

“Itu lahhh,” Beja agreed readily, “rase macam hilang satu nikmat dunia tak dapat tatap muka kau.”

Beja smiled, wonderfully fake and hands itching to punch or maim someone–preferably Megat who had dragged him to ‘fly’ only to head to a god-forsaken barbershop that is somehow still open at night.

Really. How wonderfully fan-fucking-tastic.

It was an honest mistake really.

Ever since the number of missing items piled up, rumors have been circulating, not just around the freshly mint F1 juniors but all over the school.

Even the Form 2s and 3s were fumbling over those ridiculous hearsays– some think of conspiracies while others perceived them as ghost tales.

Somehow, the rumors kept circling back to a significant year. 1968.

People thought it was because of the old stone marker sitting snugly in the hostel compound.

1968 .

Abdul Ghafar bin Aziz

Rafizi bin Rashid

Mazli bin Maznan

He’d thought that people might at least get a little creative instead of pulling over some old wives tales out of their asses.

Part of why he approached Megat in the first place was because of Beyyad’s insistence.

Apparently any misgivings he had, he needed to chalk it up to his batch’s KB before heading straight to him.

“Kan seney kalu mu denga jah cakap aku?”

Beja stood in front of Beyyad’s dorm room, arms crossed, expression grim. He had laid out his case, explained why it was important, and now all he needed was for Beyyad to agree.

Beyyad, however, simply raised his brows, unimpressed. “Ap ap ap ap… Mu ni, tokkan mu nok tunjuk betul-betul aku salah guna kuasa Kapla untuk adik aku?”

Beja exhaled sharply, fingers twitching with irritation. “Bende ni tokde kene mengene dengan bias. Aku sampaik bende penting, efek semua ore.”

Beyyad leaned back against the wooden frame of his bed, utterly unbothered. “Tapi mu bukey Ketua Batch, Ja.”

Beja bristled.

“Kudrat ado hierarki.”

Beyyad’s tone was final.

“Dale hierarki batch mu, Megat Shah pegang kuasa.”

Beja clenched his jaw. He already knew this. He already understood how things worked. But—

“Habis tu, napo bila ado bende tok keno, semua sibuk cari aku?”

Beyyad smirked. “Mu nok kato pemilihan KB hari tu tok fair ke? Bukey korang sendiri yang undi sesama sendiri?”

Beja said nothing.

Beyyad shrugged. “Jangan pahit hati sebab ore tok pilih mu dulu, Ja.”

Beja gritted his teeth. “Bende ni tokde kene mengene dengan—”

“Bende ni ado banyok kene mengene.”** Beyyad cut him off smoothly, voice firm. “Kalu ado bende yang mu concern, mu tok buleh gi cari ore atas sebab mu family dio.”

“Habis tu? Nok buat lagu mano?”

Beyyad sighed. “Habis tu, kalu ore tu kene rompak, dio terus cari PM ke?”

Beja scowled. “Tok.”

“Dio akan cari polis, atau tok pon inform ketua—ketua kampung, ketua jabatan—dio akan cari perantara.”

Beja’s hands curled into fists.

Beyyad met his gaze evenly. “Perantara Kapla dengan semua student Kudrat adolah KB batch yang dilantik. Jenuh la aku kalu setiap masalah kecik ore terus report kat aku.”

Silence.

Finally, Beyyad shrugged, his tone casual. “Kalau mu betul-betul rasa bende ni serius—pergi cari KB mu, Megat Shah.”

So here he was.

Standing in the middle of a barbershop, watching Megat Shah dramatically debate between a K-pop haircut or a mullet.

Beja closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled very slowly.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

“Alang-alang aku pon nak potong rambut, apa kata kau pon potong sekali, Reza? Aku belanja?” Megat chirped, completely ignoring the murderous look on Beja’s face.

He was going to stab Beyyad in his sleep.

Mr. Sin exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The rain drummed steadily against the roof, a rhythmic, unrelenting noise that blurred into the background. It was late—far too late to be dealing with nonsense.

He should’ve just locked up and gone back to his room, but warden duty was warden duty.

"You know you're not allowed to loiter around the academic block during weekends!" he called out, voice carrying through the empty hallway.

Silence.

He frowned, stepping further in, his footsteps muffled by the cold tiled floor. His gaze swept over the dimly lit corridor, past the closed doors of the labs and classrooms.

No movement. No signs of anyone.

Just the faint scent of formaldehyde and old textbooks clinging to the air.

Mr. Sin clicked his tongue. Too much work, too little sleep. That’s all it is.

Still, as he turned to leave, something tugged at the corner of his vision.

His eyes flickered to the anatomy model at the end of the hall.

The life-sized human figure stood there in the Biology Lab, its plasticky flesh peeled back to reveal the cross-section of muscles, organs, and bone. 

It had always been a grotesque sight, its exposed ribcage frozen in perpetual openness.

But just for a second—only a second—he could’ve sworn its head was tilted differently than before.

Mr. Sin scoffed at himself. I’m getting old. He gave one last glance at the model and turned on his heel.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Childlike.

Singing.

"Malam yang sepi-pi-pi…"

A child’s voice.

Thin. Playful.

Mr. Sin paused.

"Pak Mat jual topi-pi-pi…"

The voice echoed faintly, carried by the rain, the sound lighthearted yet strange.

His brow furrowed. He turned, scanning the corridor.

Nothing.

"Topinya koyak-yak-yak…"

The voice seemed closer.

He stepped toward the dimly lit hallway, jaw tightening. “Siapa tu?”

"Pak Mat jual tempoyak-yak-yak…"

His breath felt too loud in the empty space.

"Tempoyaknya basi-si-si…"

A shiver traced his spine. His fingers twitched at his side.

It was just a prank. It had to be.

"Pak Mat panjat kerusi-si-si…"

He turned his head—

And caught sight of the anatomy model in the lab.

Its head had moved.

No. No, it hadn’t. He was just imagining things. He was tired.

The rain slashed against the windows, and the air in the corridor felt heavier, charged.

"Kerisinya kena tolak-lak-lak…"

The childlike voice took on a singsong lilt.

His skin crawled.

"Mata dia terbeliak-lak-lak…"

A breath of wind, cold against his nape.

He swallowed. He didn’t want to turn around.

"Pak Mat terus mati-ti-ti…"

The lights flickered.

His pulse stuttered.

Then—

"Cikgu pulak nanti-ti-ti."

His breath hitched.

A shadow slithered at the edge of his vision.

No. Not a shadow.

A figure.

A thing.

A mangled corpse, bones twisted at unnatural angles, its face locked in a grotesque expression of agony. A gaping mouth. Wide, unseeing eyes. Skin torn and rotting.

And it was watching him.

Mr. Sin squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering against his ribs.

The floor was ice beneath his feet. The rain outside felt deafening.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Seconds stretched, thick and suffocating.

His fingers trembled as he forced his eyes open.

The corridor was empty.

The anatomy model stood in its usual spot.

The air was still.

The only sound was his own ragged breathing.

For a long moment, Mr. Sin didn't move. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned, locked the lab door with a click, and walked away.

He didn’t look back.

"BABI, KAU MAIN TIPU SIAL!!"

Megat practically roared, slamming his hand against the sticky arcade machine controls.

Beja, Player 2, barely spared him a glance, his expression unreadable as his character torched through enemy lines with unsettling ease.

In truth?

He was fucking satisfied.

God knows how much nonsense he’d put up with tonight. Megat’s bullshit antics. Megat dragging him here. 

Megat somehow haggling his way into a cyber café despite both of them being very much underage and it being the fucking night–they were lucky they were in regular clothes and could pass as one of the neighbouring kids instead of boarding school students.

And then Megat had the audacity—the gall—to try and flex on him with Metal Slug.

At first, Megat had cackled triumphantly when he snatched up the ‘H’ power-up, grinning like a smug bastard as the game announcer declared—

“DOUBLE MACHINE GUN!”

“Heh, kau mampus lepas ni, Jaa!” Megat had jeered, thumbs ready to destroy.

But then—

Beja had picked up ‘F’.

And the announcer boomed—

“FLAME SHOT!!”

A stronger, deadlier weapon.

And then Beja proceeded to wipe the floor with him.

Megat, completely and utterly FUMING, kept looking between Beja and the screen, his character getting annihilated with every passing second.

“Kau babi betul,” he spat. “Aku tolong cover kau sial, tadi. Pastu kau curi F aku”

Beja finally turned to him, expression blank. “…Lembap macam tu, kau ade hati nak cover aku .”

Megat recoiled like he’d been personally insulted. “EHH SETAN–.”

The game announcer interrupted them—

“PLAYER ONE: GAME OVER.”

“LAGI BABI—”

Megat practically screeched, watching his last life disappear. He stabbed aggressively at the buttons like sheer willpower could resurrect him.

Beja didn’t even blink. Calmly, mercilessly, he finished the level.

Megat was seething. “Oi. Oi. Rematch.”

Beja finally, finally, let the corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly. “Nope.”

Megat gaped. “Weh, aku kena belasah sebab aku underestimate kau, so KIRA TAK ADIL LA WEH—”

“Nasib kau la,” Beja said flatly. “Aku menang, aku gerak.”

Megat grabbed his sleeve. “TAK BOLEH. BEST OF THREE.”

“Best of kau kalah, terima jela.”

Beja leaned back in his seat, eyes idly watching Megat fuss over the controllers, flipping through the CD collection on the counter. 

A full set of Metal Slug games—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, X—all stacked neatly in a plastic case, their covers worn from years of use.

Megat hummed under his breath, fingers skimming over the discs like a seasoned collector, though Beja had a sneaking suspicion he was just doing it to waste time.

He let it happen. For now.

Finally, after a beat of silence, Beja spoke, voice even—

"Aku dah ikut kau jauh dah ni." His eyes didn’t leave Megat, impassive but sharp. "Bila kau nak start borak?"

Megat paused just slightly before looking up, feigning surprise. “Ooooh, Abdul Reza yang hebat betul-betul perlukan aku ke?”

Beja smiled—placid, fake, unreadable.

"Aku tahu yang kau tahu siapa dia yang curi semua barang-barang yang hilang tu."

For the first time, Megat paused. A flicker of something crossed his face—not shock, not guilt, but calculation.

Still, he remained unperturbed. He scoffed, shaking his head, like the accusation was nothing more than a light drizzle on an already ruined day.

“Bukan aku sorang yang tahu,” Megat admitted lazily, running a thumb over the rim of an old Metal Slug X case. He glanced at Beja, smirking. “Tapi bukan benda tu yang kau nak daripada aku, kan?”

Beja didn’t answer.

Not immediately.

Instead, he studied Megat’s face—the way he held himself, the way his fingers fidgeted but his grin stayed steady, the way his words were measured despite the laziness in his tone.

He thought about Beyyad. About playing his cards right.

About not acting too irrationally.

Finally, Beja leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Apa kata kita buat macam ni."

Megat arched a brow.

Beja’s voice was smooth, quiet, controlled. “Kau bagi apa aku nak, aku bagi apa kau nak.”

A quid pro quo.

Megat hummed, contemplating, before making a vague wave of his hand—mocking, amused.

“Aiii, macam trade deal pulak.” His smirk widened. “Tapi aku suka.”

Megat stood, walking over to where Beja sat, watching Beja watch him.

It’s interesting, Megat thinks idly.

For as much as Megat hated working hard–hated the lessons his mother poured into him, hated the endless ceremonies his father dragged him to–Megat knew what he wanted.

And what Megat wanted was not mediocrity.

Megat loves the thrill, the challenge but there’s something else he sought after too.

So yes, Megat liked being smart, he liked being surrounded by people who worshiped him and catered to him. But he also liked the excitement of beating someone on par with him.

“Apa buat kau rase kau ade apa yang aku nak?” Megat asked, hand reaching over to Beja’s head, tugging at it to make Abdul fucking Reza meet his eyes.

Dark obsidian eyes with just a hint of golden malice in it met him–Beja barely reacted at his harsh treatment.

Shame. Beja should have just taken his offer and gotten that haircut.

Welp, fuck Reza.

Instead, the other boy tilted his head–unfazed by the pain that probably coursed through from Megat’s unwarranted clutching a clump of his hair–Beja’s lips curled into a cruel grin.

“Bukan ke sebab tu kau sebarkan rumors bodoh tu?” Beja prompted, voice low, threatening, “sebijik macam anjing menyalak tak kene tempat.”

“Aaaahhhh, lupa lakkk,” Megat grinned, “Bapak korang laa kan antara yang terlibat dalam kes 1968 tuu?”

He barely had time to process it.

One moment, he was grinning, all teeth and mockery. The next—

His wrist was twisted, his body yanked forward, his balance stolen.

It wasn’t a hard move. Beja hadn’t even done it with full force. But the message was clear. Blindingly clear.

Megat stumbled—just slightly—before catching himself.

A laugh bubbled in his throat.

“Ah, Beja. Kerasnya tangan. Takut aku.” He rubbed at his wrist, rolling it out, even as his smirk never faltered.

Beja still sat, still watching, still looking so disgustingly unbothered.

Megat hated that.

Hated the way Beja had the gall to act above this, above him.

“Cukup-cukup la, Megat,” Beja said finally, voice even, controlled. “Kau pun tahu benda tu semua bukan rahsia.”

Megat raised a brow. “Oh? Bukan rahsia?”

His grin widened, sharp at the edges. He leaned down, close enough that he could see the flicker in Beja’s dark, unreadable gaze.

“Habis tu, kenapa bapak kau sendiri tak nak cakap pasal benda tu?”

For a split second, just a fraction of a second, Beja’s expression tightened.

Megat saw it.

And Megat—oh, he fucking loved it.

Megat barely looked up from his phone when his mother called for him.

"Shah dah tengok semua buku tu?"

His gaze flicked toward the stack of textbooks she had laid out on the dining table. The glossy covers reflected the warm light of the chandelier, their spines unbroken, pages still stiff from lack of use.

"Tengok dah, baca tak laa, Bonda. Banyak kot," Megat replied with a lazy shrug, scrolling through his messages.

His mother exhaled sharply, unimpressed.

She reached for one of the books–History–flipping through it with a growing frown. Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Kementerian ni patut kaji balik R&D diorang. Bonda tak paham kenapa sampai sekarang kita masih ikut syllabus yang tak relevan."

Megat smirked, finally locking his phone and resting his chin on his palm. “Kerajaan Malaysia tak macam orang puteh–Malaysia takde duit, bonda. Sume dah kene telan orang dalam,” he said snidely.

“Corruption exists in every government, Shah,” she reminded him casually, “kamu dah tengok berita baru?”

Megat groaned–who knows how much news has surfaced in his time away from home–being in Kudrat didn’t exactly give him the luxury of the Internet. 

Honestly, his mother is really trying to make him miserable.

He really wished he took back his comment. Bonda never could ignore any political discussions.

“Kamu yang mula dulu, Shah,” she intoned, amused, “kita pilih topik yang dekat dengan sekolahmu sekarang–Malay supremacy. Apa beza dengan dengan white supremacy?”

 "Malaysia dengan Amerika lain, Bonda. Orang putih tu sah-sah amik tanah orang asli dia. Semua orang putih tu memang pendatang asing. Malaysia ni, tanah asal memang Melayu punya. Sebab tu nama Tanah Melayu."

His mother snapped the book shut.

"Kalau kau jawab macam tu depan orang ramai, kena baham hidup-hidup mu, Shah."

There was no warmth in her tone, no amusement—just that sharp, knowing edge that Megat had grown up with.

Megat only grinned, unfazed. "Bukan ke itu fakta, Bonda?"

She watched him for a long moment before sighing, rubbing her temple.

" Ilmu tu penting , Shah. Takde ilmu, Shah boleh hilang segala-galanya."

Her voice had dropped, quieter, but firmer.

Megat watched as she set the book down, her fingers lingering against its cover.

" Bonda boleh taruhkan seluruh dunia dengan isinya untuk Shah ."

She turned to him then, and Megat sat up straighter—because there was something in her gaze, something sharp, something undeniable.

"Tapi soalnya sama. Sejauh mana Shah boleh lawan untuk dapatkan hak Shah ?"

Megat didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he let her words sink in, coiling somewhere deep inside him—like a lesson he hadn't fully grasped yet, but one that would stay with him, whether he liked it or not.

He opened his mouth again, ready to push further—ready to drag Beja into the fire, to make the golden boy burn for once—

But then—

“Aku ada deal lain untuk kau.”

Megat blinked.

Beja was watching him again, the tension in his jaw smoothed over like it had never been there. Like he had never given Megat even an inch of satisfaction.

“Pak Meor.”

Megat let the silence sit between them. Let it breathe.

Then—he snickered.

“Okay tu random nak mampos.” He flopped back onto his seat, propping his feet up on the edge of the table. “Apa kene mengena pakcik nyanyok tu dengan apa yang aku nak?”

Beja’s lips twitched—just slightly.

“Pak Meor dah mati sepuluh tahun lepas.”

Megat paused.

So, he was right.

“Yang kau nampak haritu, after kita sesat cari bola tuu,” Beja uttered his words slowly, “‘bende’ tu bukan manusia. Tapi kau boleh nampak dia.”

Megat shrugged.

“So itu ke rahsia sekolah ni? Ade ‘penjaga’ hantu? Itu yang korang sibuk sorokkan?”

There was something else in the shift of Beja’s expression. Just a twitch of amusement.

How Megat would kill for the opportunity to smack Beja senseless.

Instead he probed further, “Habis tuu aku nampak dia sebab apa? Benda tu suka aku?”

“Mana-mana tempat pon ada ‘penunggu’ dia. Orang yang jiwa lemah senang laa terpedaya dengan ‘mainan’ dia.” Beja answered half-heartedly.

Megat scowled.

“Tapi orang-orang yang hijab terbukak je boleh nampak rupa sebenar dia.” Something dark flickered in Beja’s eyes. 

Megat’s fingers twitched.

A slow, crawling sensation crept up his spine. Like someone was watching.

Beja tilted his head. His voice was quiet, but heavy.

"Kau dah perasan, kan?"

Megat didn't respond.

But yeah. He had.

For weeks now.

A shadow that didn’t quite belong. A whisper just beyond hearing. That feeling of being followed, even when he was sure he was alone.

Beja leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes gleamed under the dim glow of the screens.

"Kau nak deal dengan aku, kan?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Kau bagi aku apa aku nak. Aku ajar kau cara elak dari benda tu terus ikut kau."

Megat swallowed.

For the first time in a long time—

He had nothing to say.

Abdul Murad had always known that the price to pay to hold the position of Head Prefect and Kapla was always a heavy burden to bear. 

Heavy is the crown.

He’s read the names of his fellow predecessors–his father being one of them. 

Though the difference would probably be that his father had challenged the Kapla of his time while Beyyad had gotten both positions simultaneously through sheer dedication.

He guessed if he had to pick, perhaps he was following more of the footsteps of one Harun Jasni rather than Abu Yamin. 

He wondered if Harun Jasni had to deal with this amount of shitstain and managed to pull over academic glory in his time.

The rain was relentless. 

It poured heavily, drowning out the usual sounds of Kudrat’s nighttime routine—the muffled chatter of students in their dorms, the occasional whistle of a warden making rounds. 

Puddles formed along the stone pathways, and water dripped from the edges of the covered walkways, making the dimly lit school grounds seem even more desolate.

Beyyad pulled his collar higher, suppressing a shiver as he walked back from the classes. 

The day had been exhausting—long hours of school, followed by the extra work that came with being Kapla and Head Prefect. 

His mind had been occupied with upcoming student evaluations and an ongoing issue with a few Form 3s who had been caught sneaking out.

Which was why he nearly ignored the voice that called out to him.

"Abe-Mo, stor sukan dekat Blok D tu memang terbukak ke?"

Beyyad slowed his steps. 

The Form 4 student—wet from the rain, face half-hidden under his hoodie—stood under one of the yellowing streetlights, looking hesitant.

Beyyad frowned. "Hah?"

"Stor sukan. Aku lalu tadi, pintu dia terbukak luas."

For a second, Beyyad’s tired brain almost dismissed it. 

The storeroom at Blok D was usually locked tight—only certain students were allowed access, and they had to sign in the logbook. 

Maybe someone had forgotten to lock it properly. Maybe a warden had gone in for an inspection.

Still—something about the way the kid had asked made Beyyad hesitate.

A storeroom door left open in this rain?

Tak boleh jadi ni.

With a sigh, Beyyad waved the junior off and pulled out his phone. As he walked, he thumbed a quick message to Izzat.

[Pergi stok sukan Blok D. Skrg.]

By the time he reached Blok D, the rain had soaked the outer edges of the corridor, and the path leading to the storeroom was slick with water. 

He rounded the corner—

And stopped short.

The doors to the storeroom were wide open.

Rain had been pouring inside for God knows how long, drenching the wooden shelves, the stacked-up exercise mats, and the piles of sports jerseys left on a bench near the door. 

A few shuttlecocks floated in a puddle forming on the cracked tile floor.

Beyyad’s grip on his phone tightened.

"Sial."

He exhaled through his nose, stepping forward. 

His sharp eyes scanned the mess—toppled shelves, scattered equipment, boxes overturned.

At first, he thought it was just negligence—someone had been careless, left it open, and let the storm do the rest.

Then—

Something stopped him cold.

Near the center of the room, amidst the wreckage, was a dark, wet smear.

A pool of liquid, spreading slowly across the tiled floor. Deep red.

Almost fresh.

For a moment, Beyyad just stared. 

His body reacted before his mind could catch up—his breath slowing, his stance shifting slightly as his instincts kicked in.

This wasn’t just rainwater. This wasn’t mud.

This was blood.

His jaw tensed.

Just then, behind him—hurried footsteps. Someone running.

Izzat.

The other boy burst into the corridor, panting, his wet uniform clinging to his frame. 

His gaze darted between Beyyad and the storeroom, alarm flashing in his eyes.

"Beyyad—apa benda ni? Siapa—"

Beyyad ignored him. His eyes were locked onto the logbook near the entrance.

Stepping forward, he reached down and flipped it open, scanning the last recorded name.

Nanda, Form 1. 8:23 PM.

Then—crossed out. Adjusted to 6:30 PM.

Sloppy. A rushed mistake. A kid trying to cover his tracks.

The time now? 10:30 PM.

Beyyad’s gaze shifted back to the mess in front of him. 

The rain-slicked floor, the toppled shelves, the equipment scattered haphazardly like someone had gone through them in a hurry—

And then, the red.

Not just a few drops. Not just an accidental scrape.

A pool of it.

Dark, fresh, almost blending with the rainwater but unmistakable under the flickering fluorescent light.

His jaw clenched.

Not good.

He exhaled slowly, schooling his features into something impassive before turning to Izzat, who was still looking at him, eyes darting between Beyyad and the mess inside the storeroom.

"Panggil semua budak Kudrat turun dewan sekarang. Kita buat roll call."

Izzat flinched at the sharpness in Beyyad’s tone, but he didn’t hesitate. 

He pulled out his phone and immediately started dialing, already barking instructions before he even fully stepped away.

Beyyad, meanwhile, pocketed the logbook and finally stepped inside the storeroom.

His shoes squelched against the wet floor, the smell of damp air thick in his nose. 

His hand ran along the broken shelves, assessing the damage. 

Equipment could be replaced. Water damage could be fixed.

But blood?

That was a different matter entirely.

His fingers hovered over a set of footprints smudged in the water—leading out of the room.

 A single trail, barely visible in the dim light.

Beyyad followed it with his gaze, tracking where it ended. Right by the door.

His breath was even, measured. But his mind was racing.

Two hours.

Where could Nanda possibly be by now?

ACT S·

Perhatikan peranan bayang

Perhatikan kerahan wayang

Perhatikan serahan layang

Perhatian gerakan datang

In life, nothing can be considered a a coincidence. 

Everything was precalculated, each occurrence was a display of perfect syaged orchestration.

Each pawn are placed with purpose.

The first domino that toppled are a measure of grand design.

Beyyad sat prefectly at home in the Prefect’s Room was silent except for the faint dripping of rainwater from wet uniforms. 

The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly, casting harsh shadows on the walls. 

The air smelled of damp earth and sweat.

A Form 4 student sat across from him, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His hair was still damp from the rain, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. 

Beyyad watched him, impassive, arms crossed as he leaned against the table.

"Bagitahu aku sekali lagi." His tone was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

The boy hesitated. "Pasal apa, Abe-Mo?"

Beyyad’s fingers drummed lightly against his arm. His patience was thinning. "Pasal apa yang kau buat kat blok akedemik malam-malam hujung minggu. Macam mana kau boleh terserempak dengan aku."

The student swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the logbook Beyyad had placed on the table—the ink still wet where a name had been crossed out and rewritten.

"Aku–ade orang pesan kat aku, kata ade cikgu panggil dekat area Blok D," the boy admitted, voice uneven. "Tapi bila aku pergi, takde orang—"

He hesitated.

Beyyad didn’t blink. "Lepas tu?"

Silence.

Beyyad exhaled through his nose and leaned forward slightly. He didn’t need to repeat himself. The boy knew better than to test him.

"Lepas tu bila takde orang, aku pergi la balik, tiba dengar macam bunyi orang menangis," the student finally said. "Aku ikut bunyi tu, nampak stor terbukak tapi aku tak berani cek sendiri—"

Beyyad pursed his lip.

“Siapa yang cakap kat kau pergi Blok D.”

“Tuu, aku tak sure, sebab member aku pon kata memang budak pass-pass info je.

“Kau roommate Nanda?”

“Aaah, abang.”

“Semalam last kau nampak dia bila?”

“Petang, abang. Saya pergi DM untuk dinner. Tapi Nanda vegetarian, so dia tak turun DM. Biasa dia pergi Ko-op untuk beli makanan.”

“Before kau pergi DM apa yang dia buat?”

“Nanda baru balik training. Dia quit basket haritu, so tak silap dia try join kriket.”

The pages flipped under his fingers, revealing a structured hierarchy that had governed Kudrat for decades. 

Kapla at the top, followed by members of the High Council/ the House Leaders, House Exco and Junior Representatives.

It had been this way for years. 

Every contender from the previous year automatically took a leadership role in their respective houses. 

It was a system designed to ensure control—power never truly left those who had earned it.

As it stands, Beyyad is also the House leader of House Kasturi. Go figure..

Izzat and Ammar stared blankly.

Out of the four house leaders, two were prefects while the other two were normal students.

Tapi dekat Kudrat, pengawas pon sama je setan dia.

“So kau suruh junior pulangkan barang sukan team kau?” Beyyad drawled lazily, feigning nonchalance.

“Bukannya tak biasa, abe. Lagipon, aku suruh dia hantar dari petang lagi, yang dia pergi malam-malam buta, siapa suruh.”

Beyyad stared back unimpressed.

“Kau tahu kan pegangan aku macam mana. Apa-apa yang jadi, aku pegang kepala dulu,” Beyyad says flatly, tapping his shoes impatiently against the floor.

He sees the change in his fellow leader’s face, how Ammar’s eyes widen at the declaration and avoids from meeting Abdul Murad’s eyes.

For as much as they are batchmates, he is leagues above them both in prestige and conquest.

There is no honor among thieves, just like there is no use for useless trash in his life.

If a fellow peer fails in doing his own responsibility then Beyyad has no need for him nor does he finds no reason not to dispose of it. Because at the end of the day, he is his father’s son.

“Kau kapten team tu. Apa-apa jadi kat budak tu, dua kali ganda aku balas kat kau.” Beyyad smirks cruelly at how pale his friend had gotten.

Izzat bristled, “Kau takleh buat camni semata-mata sebab adik kau ade dalam batch Form 1!”

Beyyad tilts his head to the right, observing the situation in front of him, calm and calculating.

From where he stood, Izzat looked dismayed as he continued, “daripada awal kau manjakan sangat F1 tuu, semua sebab adik kau ade kat situ–”

“Habis tu kau nak kaitkan aku bias dengan ade budak hilang?” Beyyad intoned darkly, “kau ni bodoh tahap apa?”

“Entah-entah budak ke–Nanda tu yang curi barang sukan yang hilang tu,” Izzat cowed beneath Beyyad’s glare but still persisted, “pastu dia nak cover track dia semalam–”

“ Menarik betul imaginasi kau kan, Jat~” Beyyad applauded, completely intrigued (not).

“Aku–”

“Diam.”

Neither boy said a word.

Beyyad exhaled through his nose, feeling a headache forming. A missing kid would proclude authorities involvement.

But they can’t have that. Especially not after last year’s fiasco. 

And to make it worst, the rumors and speculations over the missing sports equipment would no doubt add gasoline to an already burning fire.

So to make this all go away fast, he needed to find the kid first.

His gaze fell on the roll call sheet. The list of names was neat—each student accounted for. Except two.

Two names, scrawled in hurried ink. 15 minutes late to the rolecall.

Megat Shah.

Abdul Reza.

Beyyad’s jaw tightened.

Of fucking course.

“Korang dua orang ni memang betul-betul mintak kene bakar eh?” Beyyad says dryly, completely drained but pushing on because he was the damn Kapla that year.

Both Beja and Megat were matching faces of innocence.

Yeah, right.

“Asal korang lambat rolecall semalam?”

“Megat sakit perut,” Beja retorted just as Megat said, “Beja tido mati.”

Beyyad raised an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.

“Saya sakit perut,” Megat said hesitantly just as Beja queried incredulously, “aku terlajak tido?”

Beyyad likes to think himself as the most patient fucking person within his family sans his late mother, of course.

His father was out of the question yes, and Kahar–bless his Bechik’s kitten soul– could be a whiny bitch at times.

But Beyyad is sure as hell confident that between him and Beja, he’s the more pstient one.

The two Form 1s sitting across from him trade silent insults and jabs– “babi, menipu pon tak pandai kau ni” (that was Megat) then a “modal menipu kau pon takleh pakai gak–aku perfect, mana pernah aku terlajak tidur–” (and that was Beja).

“Babi, jangan tolak aku dengan siku buruk kau–”

"Oii anjiing, mulut mu tu jago sikit."

So instead he comments in dry amusement, "Amboi, tup-tup jadi saing rapat pulok mu duo ni."

As expected, both boys turned red and spluttered incoherently, Megat swearing profanities as Beja sent his most menacing glare that conveys his most expressive ‘fuck you’ that he should be reserving for their father.

Beyyad wonders if Izzat was partially right and maybe he does coddle the Form 1s too much with the way neither Beja nor Megat show any fear in front of him.

Not unlike the previous people he grilled.

To be fair, Beja used to be nicer and cuter. Damn puberty.

Well, at least Bechik is still fairly manja so hopefully he can count on that.

Beyyad sighs, this was such a drag.

Damage control was something Beyyad was adept in doing.

“Murad, do you understand what you’re asking of me? I cannot just ignore this issue when a student has gone missing.” Mr Sin huffed gruffly when Beyyad approached him that night right after the rolecall.

“It hasn’t been 24 hours yet, sir.” Beyyad countered firmly. “And there’s still some investigations going on–”

“Investigations by who, Murad?!” Mr Sin demanded, whether due to impatience or anxiousness Beyyad couldn’t really decide. “The police need to be notified of this–if what I’ve heard is true–”

“What exactly have you been hearing, sir.” Beyyad cuts his teacher off.

Mr Sin seemed surprised as he hesitated which was comical considering that he was the adult.

Though, in the face of someone like Abdul Murad–one who hold the both of the strongest position in the school–even a teacher could falter.

Especially after learning the role the prodigal boy played.

“Kudrat is an old school, sir.” Beyyad started, enunciating his words carefully, “I’m sure you can understand the archaic traditions and taboos that exist here.”

Mr Sin paused. Just a couple of hours earlier, he, himself was faced with a supernatural encounter that he chose to ignore.

And now one of the Form 1 students have gone missing.

Abdul Murad might be a prodigy, but he is still a child.

(Wasn’t he?)

“Murad, this is serious,” Mr Sin snapped, “Nanda’s parents need to be alerted, the police involvement–”

“Will completely ruin any chance at finding Nanda.” Beyyad finished coldly.

Mr Sin looked up in surprise.

“Sir, do you know why I am both the Head Prefect and the person in charge in the hostel (Kapla)?” Beyyad prompted easily.

Mr Sin stayed silent.

“Pelajar Kudrat ade kat sekolah sesi pagi, sesi malam duduk dekat asrama. Tahun lepas, ade perselisihan faham antara KP dengan person in charge dekat asrama.”

Mr Sin heard about that. Thankfully last year he was not a warden–but the teachers in charged in the previous year had faced hell from all the chaos.

“Salah paham tu akhirnya lead kepada budak Kudrat bergaduh dengan orang luar.” Beyyad continued, voice measured, “an innocent young man died as a result. A young Indian boy who was barely nineteen–who had his future ahead of him.”

Mr Sin closed his eyes grimly. He remembered the couple who lost their eldest son, mourning him with their youngest– now only child.

Kudrat had been accused by many as a tightly knit community–an exclusive institute rather than inclusive..

People often denied it by saying that politicql agenda shouldn’t get in the way of a proper education.

What could they have done to curb the entitlement their students felt, the sentiment of Ketuanan Melayu that has been ingrained within the school walls.

This year was the first year they accepted non Malay students into their school.

And now the only Indian student was currently believed to be missing.

“Saya faham,” Beyyad said placidly, “yang cikgu-cikgu semua risau. Tapi tradisi Kudrat wujud bersebab, jadi untuk kes ni, saya sendiri akan uruskan.”

Mr Sin stared helplessly at the lone Form 5 student that was the genius of his batch. Even the principal put his trust more on him rather than the teacher body.

What must it feel like–to carry such burden at such a young age.

Heavy is the crown.

Abdul Murad has all but woven the crown upon his head as he flashed a small smile to his teacher, respectful despite his cold detachment, “Rest assure, Mr Sin.  Regardless of what happens, I’ll make sure everything is dealt with appropriately.”

Dealing with the principal was easy — the lily-livered man was basically a doormat his father had handpicked.

Mr. Sin had been more difficult, but even he was already appeased. The old man seemed shaken, though, which lingered in Beyyad’s mind.

‘Selalu ore tuo tu buat tak tahu jo. Ni tibo-tibo lak semangat.’

The easy parts were done.

Now, came the finishing task.

To end this nonsense once and for all.

"Jaa, mu doh offer ke Megat ke?"

At this, Beja and Megat finally stopped bickering.

“Korang adik-beradik nii, daripada tadi cakap offer-offer, tapi aku tak tahu pon apa yang sebenarnya kau offer,” Megat snorted.

Beyyad ignored the wary look Beja sent him and said, “Kitorang dua beradik memang ‘hijab’ terbukak. Sebab tu kan kau main spirit of the coin dekat sekolah lama kau?”

For once, Megat’s face paled.

Aside from his mother’s reputation, Beyyad knew exactly why Megat Shah’s name rang a bell.

He was the kid who had single-handedly caused mass hysteria at that posh primary school.

A huge scandal — almost on Kudrat’s level. Megat’s name had been scrubbed from the news, but Beyyad had his sources.

“Kau memang nak cari kan orang yang hijab dia terbukak? So kau boleh amik Ja dengan syarat kau tolong kitorang selesaikan masalah ni.”

Beja glared at him.

Megat slipped his hands into his pockets, processing the situation. The brothers weren’t normal kids.

Diorang bukan orang sembarangan, Megat realized.

Both Abdul Reza and Abdul Murad carried an aura that screamed danger.

“Apa yang kau nak exactly senanye?” Megat finally prompted.

He wasn’t an idiot. These brothers knew the culprit. They could probably solve this themselves — so why drag Megat into it?

Beyyad leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp as a blade.

"Aku nak korang balik tempat last bola tu bunyi," Beyyad said, voice low. "Tempat Megat pecahkan labu sayong tu."

Beja stayed quiet.

Beyyad continued, eyes glinting. "Barang-barang yang hilang tu — bilangan each object yang hilang spesifik."

Three tubes of shuttlecock.

Five baseball bats.

Four hockey sticks.

One basketball.

And with the recent break-in — six takraw balls.

“Kau nampak pattern dia?” Beyyad asked, looking directly at Megat.

Megat tilted his head. “Kalau benda ni pasal game, maybe dia ikut kiraan?”

He rubbed his chin. "Orang puteh ngan orang Melayu banyak je persamaan dalam permainan. Kertas sakopong macam daun terup — ada kiraan pip, ada hierarchy."

“Three cards are dealt out to each player. The highest hand counting by pips is that which contains the greatest number of pips after the tens are deducted. Thus a knave, ten, and nine is a good hand.

“The best hand is three aces, Sat tiga.

“The next best is three court-cards, Kuda; naik kuda.

“The next is nine.

“The next is eight.

“All these four hands are known as tĕrus. A hand of three threes is really a good hand, being nine, but it is considered a propitiation of good luck to throw it down (without exposing it), and announce that one is buta, in the hopes of getting good luck afterwards.

“Each player makes two stakes—kapala and ekor. They may be of equal value, or the ekor may be of greater value than the kapala. 

It seemed juvenile.

Using traditional folk games as a way to invoke a spirit. 

To turn something that was considered as a cultural heritage into a bloody ritual, but then again weren’t all traditions related superstitions in the first place.

Megat’s voice dropped.

“Tiga ace paling kuat. Tapi tiga tiga... orang buang terus. Simpan harapan baru.”

Beyyad’s lips curled into a mirthless smile.

"Ritual pakai permainan lama. Bukan korban darah," he muttered. "Dia guna permainan sebagai medium. Jadi kalau stage last dia tak jadi, ‘benda’ tu tak complete."

Beja exhaled sharply. "So Nanda masih hidup?"

Beyyad nodded. "Kalau stage sacrifice belum complete, budak tu mungkin kena hold as a token."

Megat’s pulse pounded. "Apa maksud kau?"

"Aku tahu kau suka takut-takutkan orang dengan cerita hantu, Megat." Beyyad said breezily. "Tapi memang ada dulu 'benda' yang orang buang kat kawasan sekolah ni."

Beja narrowed his eyes. "Labu sayong yang pecah tu..."

“Betul,” Beyyad quipped. “Aku rasa asalnya dia nak cari labu sayong tu. Tapi ‘benda’ tu tak kasi jumpa. So dia set up ritual as backup.”

The room chilled.

Megat swallowed, throat dry.

"Korang pergi sana, check kat mana sebenarnya stage ritual dia and pecahkan siap-siap. Aku boleh setelkan masalah labu sayong tu and cari budak tu," Beyyad said, already turning away.

Suara lenyap maka jiwa mati

Yang palsu yang benar bersemadi

Da vin ci hidup di amati?

Namun tidak kan ia abadi

The forest was quieter than they remembered. The usual hum of cicadas faded into the background, leaving only the crunch of twigs and dried leaves underfoot. 

The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly metallic, like the remnants of a storm that never happened.

They walked side by side, shoulders brushing every so often, neither speaking for a while — until Megat finally broke the silence.

“So... benda hijab terbukak tu, memang semua orang ke dalam family kau?” he asked, voice low.

For a second, Megat almost wondered  if Beja would answer.

They don’t even know each other outside their rivalry.

Beja didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the barely visible trail ahead. "Tak. Adik aku, hijab dia still tertutup.”

Megat tilted his head, surprised. "Oh... kira lucky lah dia, kan?"

Beja snorted. "Dia rasa unlucky sebab tak nampak apa yang kitorang nampak."

They walked a few more steps before Beja turned the question back on him. “Mu pulok. Kenapa sibuk nak sebarkan cerita hantu kat sekolah? Saja tengok orang panik ke?”

Megat scratched the back of his neck. “Taklah. Aku nak cari orang yang boleh tolong aku.”

Beja shot him a sideways glance, waiting for him to elaborate.

Megat stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingers twitching. "Pasal bende alah soulmates tuu–aku dengar area Asia  banyak negara yang cerita pasal Red String."

Red String of fate.

In a world where everyone has a soulmate identifying mark, some might have it easy, some took years before they actually found their real soulmates.

In the West, people seem lukewarm over the idea–opting for logical reasoning rather than chalking it up to fate.

It wasn’t uncommon for people there to treat soulmate marks as nothing more than disfigurement and–or as belated birthmarks–if that made any more sense.

Eastern customs are more respectful to the past teachings. Love and marriage were sacred and treated as holy unions.

As such, most Asian people preferred to find their soulmates in any way possible–even if it means getting help from the dead.

To find people who can find the red string connecting people to their respectives soulmate.

Beja stopped walking.

And then — he laughed. A short, rough sound, but unmistakably real.

Megat gawked at him like he’d just witnessed a cosmic anomaly. "Babi–apa yang lawak, sial?!"

Beja wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression returning to its usual stony state. “Tak sangka kau percaya benda jiwang macam tu.”

Megat gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Apa yang jiwang? Kau tak pernah dengar cerita pasal red string tu ke?”

“Pernah. Tapi aku tak sangka banyak-banyak bende yang kau nak, benda alah soulmates tu jugak yang kau beriya cari.”

“Kau tak caya pasal soulmates ke?”

“Tak.” came Beja’s curt, cold answer.

Megat’s scowl deepened, but before he could argue, a distant sound cut through the quiet.

Thud.

They both froze.

Thud. Thud.

A basketball. Bouncing. Slow, deliberate, echoing through the trees.

Megat swallowed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Macam mana kalau jadi cam last time? Sekejap rasa jauh, sekejap rasa dekat?”

Beja adjusted his grip on the flashlight. “Aku kira langkah kita hari tu.”

Megat turned to him, stunned. “Kau kira? Sepanjang jalan?”

Beja shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Aku perasan ade benda tak kena. Benda halus ada alam dia sendiri–, itu yang selalu ade kes orang hilang berhari-hari tapi dia rase berapa jam je.”

Megat stared at him in disbelief — and maybe a little awe. “Kau ni memang gila laa, Ja.”

Beja didn’t answer. He just nodded toward the sound of the ball.

“Jom.”

And they walked toward the echoing thuds, step by counted step, as the shadows of the forest stretched long around them.

“Berapa kiraan kau?” Megat prompted, glancing around him. 

The trees were just as they were before, they were barely an difference.

“Kau dengar bola tu arah mana?” Beja asked, ignoring Megat’s query.

“Kiri.”

“143,” Beja hummed. “last time kita start dengar bunyi tu arah beza, 143 langkah.”

Megat scanned his surroundings before he move to stand right across from Beja.

The same positions they took last time.

And last time he heard–

“Dah ade dah bunyi Cak Lempong tu?”

Megat nodded faintly looking at the direction of the sounds that only he heard.

“Sekolah ni ada dua studio muzik,” Beja explained, “satu Kelab Orkestra guna–ada alat muzik barat. Satu lagu Kelab Kebudayaan–alat muzik tradisional, semua yang lama, berpuluh tahun punya.”

Megat exhaled, taking in the implication soundly.

Kudrat is an old school. Being inhabited by more than human occupants was expected.

“Lepas tu kita gerak arah balik kan?” Megat started walking.

“Betul, tapi itu yang problem sikit.”

Megat paused, turning to look at Beja.

“Kita gerak arah balik, tapií kita ade tukar arah 2 kali.” Beja started, “setiap kali kita gerak tu, kau yang mintak tukar. And kau mintak, tepat-tepat lepas kita capai 333 langkah.”

Megat frowned.

He remembered that on their way back, Beja was quiet. Too quiet. Which was why he decided to take the lead then.

Now though, he sees why Beja remained quiet. 

Beja’s voice dropped to a rasp.

“Kalau dua kali 333 tu jadi 666... aku rasa ritual dia incomplete sebab kita lari keluar,” he said, words sharp against the forest’s quiet. “Tapi kalau kita langgar angka tu kali tiga?”

Megat’s pulse thudded in his ears.

Tiga tiga.

Like the cursed hand in Daun Tiga ‘Lei — three threes. A losing hand in some states, but a powerful omen in others. 

Second strongest in Selangor, right below tiga sat — three aces.

A number that teetered between fortune and ruin.

“So kiranya... kita tengah main pakau dengan benda tu?” Megat whispered, his fingers twitching. “Kita tengah letak kapala ... tapi belum kena sapu lagi?”

Beja’s jaw clenched. “Kalau kita letak kapala dua kali, tapi tak ‘menang’... ada kemungkinan ekor kita belum kena tarik.”

A cold sweat dripped down Megat’s back.

Kapala dan ekor.

Head and tail.

If they’d walked the same direction as last time, they might’ve just been looping the kapala — the start of the stake.

But if they turned the opposite direction...

“Itu ekor,” Megat muttered, throat tight. “The tail.”

Beja took a shaky breath. “Kalau kita ikut ekor... kita habiskan pusingan.”

Finish the cycle.

Or lose everything.

Megat wrinkles his nose. Over the last couple of years, he’s dabbled into some dumb shit.

Playing spirit of the coin, buying an old Ouija board. Heck, he even stole an old keris belonging to his late great uncle.

“Kalau kau tahu cara nak menang game tuu... maybe kita boleh patahkan ritual dia,” Beja said, stepping forward. “Pastu dia dah takleh sorokkan Nanda lagi.”

Megat exhaled sharply and followed.

This time, they walked the opposite direction from their previous path. Step by step, they counted.

The ball’s thud echoed ahead, drawing them deeper.

The Cak Lempong chimes crept back, distant and hollow, like a heartbeat beneath the soil.

144 steps.

The trees began to thin.

199 steps.

The ground sloped downward, roots jutting out like fingers.

333 steps.

Megat almost stopped — but Beja grabbed his arm, shaking his head.

They pressed on.

444 steps.

The forest parted.

A clearing lay ahead, bathed in pale moonlight.

Megat’s stomach dropped.

The missing sports equipment — the ball, the rackets, even the volleyball net — were all piled together in the center.

Arranged.

The half-deflated ball lay in the middle, with four badminton rackets propped upright like spindly legs, forming a crude tiang jamban.

A volleyball net twisted around the structure, coiling like a snake.

The floor was littered with broken whistles and torn pinnies — crumpled like offerings.

The worst part?

The numbers.

Scrawled in dirt, scratched into tree bark, burnt into the volleyball itself.

3 — 3 — 3

Beja's chest heaved. “So betul laa mainan dia...”

Megat’s eyes caught something glinting in the moonlight.

A deck of old playing cards, partially buried in the soil.

He bent down, fingers trembling, and pulled the top card.

An ace.

The next?

A ten.

And the last?

A three.

Megat’s breath caught.

Sembilang bĕrtĕlor — the egg-laying catfish hand. A card combination that signaled the start of dawn.

Or the promise of something breaking through.

“Dia guna mainan lama untuk buat ritual...” Megat whispered, voice shaking. “apa yang dia seru?”

A new sound split the night.

A high-pitch shrieking sound cut through.

From the forest.

From everywhere.

Megat smelled it before he saw it.

The acrid, nauseating rot of decaying flesh. The metallic stink of blood, sharp and relentless, clung to the air like a curse.

His heart pounded. His limbs locked up.

Without thinking, he stepped closer to Beja until their shoulders almost touched, both of them rooted in place. Wide-eyed. Silent.

A figure loomed in the clearing — tall, gangly, and wrong. Its limbs stretched like twisted roots, blackened skin dripping with a tar-like sludge. 

The creature’s face was sunken, jaw unhinged, mouth split wide in a jagged mockery of a grin.

It breathed, a wet, labored sound, chest rattling like broken glass.

The sports equipment was scattered and defiled — volleyball nets tangled like webs, badminton rackets jammed into the soil like spears. 

A pile of footballs, deflated and charred, encircled the thing like offerings.

The makeshift altar, dripping with old blood, pulsed like a beating heart.

And the creature — whatever it was — seemed to grow from it.

Megat swallowed, throat tight.

“Ja...” His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Ni... jembalang tanah ke?”

Beja’s chest heaved, his grip on the flashlight shaking.

His fingers twitched, like he was mentally cycling through everything he knew — flipping through pages of forbidden knowledge in his mind.

Then he registered Megat’s question.

He blinked.

Glanced over the creature in a sharp, precise scan.

"...Macam ye," Beja muttered, voice low and strained. "Tapi ade benda yang tak kena.” His brows furrowed, gaze cutting to the desecrated altar.

Megat stared at him, pulse thudding in his ears. "Maksud?"

Beja swallowed thickly, eyes never leaving the creature. "Orang yang seru jembalang tanah... Dia kena bagi makanan utama."

The creature shifted, its long, spindly fingers twitching.

Beja's voice dropped to a hushed, brutal whisper.

“Uri bayi.”

Megat's stomach flipped.

“What the f—”

“Kalau tak bagi,” Beja continued, voice sharp and clinical despite the panic flickering in his eyes, “Ritual dia separuh jalan. Benda tu tak boleh ambil bentuk penuh.”

Megat almost scoffed.

Half done?

The thing in front of them looked like it crawled out of hell, all sinew and shadow, a black mass of rage and hunger stitched together by malice.

If this was half done, what did the full thing look like?

The creature jerked, limbs snapping unnaturally. The volleyball net latched onto its body like sinew, embedding itself into the flesh with a squelch.

Megat flinched, jaw tight. "Kalau benda ni still separuh..."

Beja’s fingers curled into fists.

Then he forced himself to breathe.

In. Out.

His eyes snapped to Megat, adrenaline firing through his veins.

“Kau betul tahu kan macam mana nak menang tiga-tiga game Kĕrtas sakopong .” Beja asked calmly earning a bewildred look from Megat.

Megat’s head whipped toward him, voice an immediate snarl. “Siot, Reza–babi, kau serius ke?!”

This was crazy–sure maybe they both more or less had the same theories, but Megat never took Beja as someone brave–or crazy enough to jump in action at a mere speculation.

(and megat’s mother thinks he’s the impulsive one)

Beja grinned — sharp and reckless, eyes gleaming.

“Aku distract benda tuu,” he rasped, stepping forward. "Kau musnahkan satu-satu pentas tu ikut urutan game tu.”

Megat clenched his jaw, grip white-knuckled around the flashlight. “Babi–kau memang gila doh Reza.”

The creature lurched, dragging itself closer —

A predator sensing prey.

Megat didn’t move.

Beja didn’t blink.

And they both, in that split second, came to the same conclusion.

Megat knew Kudrat was weird.

The moment he stepped through the school gates, he felt it. 

The way the air hung heavier, how the forest seemed to watch, how the students whispered things in half-finished sentences — like speaking too much would wake something up.

But he didn’t think it would be this weird.

He thought Kudrat would be another elitist hellhole, full of overachievers, dead-eyed rich kids, and pretentious traditions. 

He thought Reza–Beja or whatever the hell he wanted to be called would be a boring, stuck-up nerd who read books for fun and corrected people's grammar for sport.

He did not think he’d be standing in a bloodied clearing, facing a half-formed jembalang tanah, with Beja throwing sticks at it like that would help.

The creature shrieked — a wet, grating noise, like metal scraping over bone.

Megat flinched, heart slamming against his ribs. He pressed closer to the makeshift altar, fingers clawed into the wood as he tried to pry off the embedded offerings.

“Shah! Jangan mengelamun laa, gila!” Beja roared, ducking as the creature’s clawed hand swiped past his head. 

His hair was wild, flashlight dangling from his fingers, face glistening with sweat as he alternated between throwing rocks and muttering incoherent chants under his breath.

Megat’s brain short-circuited.

Beja was murmuring something.

“Oi, kau part time bomoh ke sial?” Megat hollered back, shoving a charred football off the altar with his foot.

“Cepat laa bodoh!” Beja snapped, hurling a broken branch like a spear. 

It hit the creature’s arm, barely making a dent. “Ni bukan main-main laa, gila.”

Megat wanted to laugh.

He didn't, because he was pretty sure if he started, he wouldn't stop.

He ripped another item from the altar — a blackened shuttlecock with something sticky. He didn’t want to know what.

The creature’s movements slowed.

Megat’s pulse thrummed in his ears.

It clicked into place like cards laid out on a table —

Main Chabut . The game wasn’t about reckless pulls. 

It was about calculating risk, knowing when to draw and when to hold.

The first two cards were the lunas — the foundation of the hand. The way the creature grew from the altar, its limbs extending like roots, reminded him of that: the keels that anchored the game.

The ritual was incomplete. 

The altar was the deck, and every object on it added pips to the jembalang’s power.

If Megat could strip it down enough —

He could kill it.

“Oi, Shah!” Beja’s voice cracked. “Lambat lagi ke, sial!”

“Sabar!” Megat shouted back, voice high with adrenaline.

He yanked a glass jar from the altar, the rotting teeth inside clinking together. He hurled it over his shoulder —

It shattered against a tree, the shards gleaming like daggers in the moonlight.

The creature’s entire body jerked.

Like it could feel itself losing strength.

“Dia guna tiga-tiga style Kertas tu!” Megat’s voice spilled out in a breathless rush. “Kalau aku cabut daun satu-satu, dia boleh masuk piring!”

“Masuk piring?!” Beja gawked at him. “Kau sure kau betul ni?!”

Megat grinned, wild and manic. “Kalau aku berjaya chabut semua daun, dia mati la, kan?”

The creature screeched, body glitching — its limbs shrinking, its skin splitting apart like it was unraveling at the seams.

It was working.

Megat’s fingers bled as he ripped objects off the altar:

A rusted dagger.

A broken

A cracked mirror.

The jembalang convulsed, collapsing onto its knees, its mouth foaming black.

He just needed one more —

His fingers curled around the last item:

A bone.

Small. Fragile. Human.

His stomach lurched.

Megat almost hesitated.

(sejauh mana shah boleh lawan untuk dapatkan hak shah?)

Megat had went through all his available options at the time.

Fake dukuns, faulty spirit games, dozens of dud scams.

Abdul fucking Reza was the real deal. An actual person who can see the unseen.

Megat needed to find his soulmate—that way, he’ll be happy, that way he won’t end up as miserable as his mother.

It’s a poor sight ambition on his part, but who the fuck cared. 

He’s not dying tonight and neither is Beja.

So he smashed the bone against the altar —

And the jembalang screamed.

Its body imploded, collapsing inward until it disintegrated into a pile of ash and teeth.

The jembalang was gone.

All that remained was the stench of decay, the gritty ash sticking to Megat’s skin like a brand, and the rhythmic pound of blood behind his eyes. 

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His knees wobbled, threatening to give out, but he held himself together — barely.

Beja, half-dead and soaked in sweat, grinned like a maniac, slapping Megat on the shoulder.

"Gila babi kau."

Megat snorted, doubling over, lungs scraping for air. "Siot, kau patut terima kasih kat aku, bodoh."

The words tasted like rust. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a year. Maybe two.

He didn’t even care about the sharp twigs biting into his palms as he pushed himself upright. 

All he could think about was dragging himself out of the forest, collapsing on his dorm bed, and maybe, just maybe, waking up to discover this was all a fever dream brought on by too much ayam masak merah at the canteen.

But then —

A scream.

A human one.

Harsh and ragged, echoing through the trees like a blade scraping against stone.

Megat froze.

Beja’s head snapped toward the source of the sound. His grin vanished.

Something shifted in the ash pile where the jembalang had died. Something moved.

The figure that rose from the remnants of the destroyed altar wasn’t a monster — but it wasn’t much better.

Izzat.

The Form 5 Tuah house leader.

His face was twisted with rage, eyes wild and bloodshot. 

His prefect uniform was streaked with dirt and splashes of dried blood, and in his hand, clutched in a white-knuckled grip —

A dagger.

The blade gleamed, slick and jagged.

"Korang dah rosakkan semua benda," Izzat seethed, voice dripping with venom. "Tahu tak betapa susah aku nak buat semua ni?"

He started toward them, footsteps crunching through the leaves like gunfire.

Megat couldn’t move. His limbs were locked, bones aching, muscles shredded.

Izzat raised the dagger. 

His eyes gleamed with something sharp and broken, like he wasn’t even seeing them anymore.

Beja stepped back, breathing shallow, hands twitching like he wanted to grab a rock, a stick — anything.

Izzat’s gaze zeroed in on Beja. He lunged —

CLANG.

The dagger went flying.

Izzat barely had time to react before he was slammed against a tree, his wrist pinned back in a bruising grip.

Beyyad.

His white shirt was untucked and streaked with dirt, chest heaving, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

"Kau bodoh ke, ha?" Beyyad growled, his voice low and vicious as he twisted Izzat’s arm, forcing him to his knees. "Kau memang betul-betul melampau Jat?"

Izzat spat on the ground, teeth bared. "Aku buat ni semua untuk Kudrat —"

"Kudrat kepala bapak kau."

“Sekolah ni orang kita punya! Orang Melayu–”

Megat wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

He remembered the protest from the year before.

How after the death of the Indian boy–people started to rally under the flag of implementing ICERD.

The International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (ICERD) has not been ratified.

But the appease the public, several higher education institution along with SBPs had opted to allow the admittance of Non Malay students.

Seemed like not everyone agreed with it.

Gila lak aii–pasal politik dia sanggup buat kerja gila tu.

His ears rang. His vision blurred at the edges. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a gaping void of exhaustion.

Beja turned to him, mouth moving, but Megat couldn’t catch the words.

His knees buckled.

The world tilted sideways.

And Megat hit the ground, the last thing he saw being Beja’s panicked expression and Beyyad, standing over Izzat like an executioner.

Then — black.

The first thing Megat noticed was the smell of burning paper and the faint, earthy scent of candle wax. 

His eyelids felt heavy, skin clammy, and his body ached like he’d been hit by a lorry.

The second thing he noticed was the low, steady voice murmuring in the dim light.

Megat squinted against the faint glow of the candles, blinking the haze out of his vision. 

He was in the sick bay — thin curtains swaying from the ceiling fan’s breeze, beds lined up against the wall. 

His fingers brushed the coarse fabric of the blanket draped over him.

And next to the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was Beyyad.

A candle burned low beside him, melting wax dripping onto an empty Milo tin. 

In his hand, Beyyad held a strip of parchment paper, edges curling as he passed it through the flame. 

His mouth moved, voice soft as he muttered something in a tongue Megat couldn’t place, words bleeding into the quiet room like smoke.

Megat cleared his throat, voice raspy. "Korang memang satu family dukun ke apa ni?"

Beyyad snorted, dousing the flame with his fingers like it was nothing. 

He turned to Megat, brows raised in amusement. "So, Tuanku Megat Shah takdelah kebal mana."

Megat grimaced, rubbing his eyes. "Siot."

Beyyad shifted, sitting more comfortably. "Tapi alang-alang tu, aku kene terima kasih kat kau, Megat. Kau banyak tolong. Kalau kau takde, kitorang tak tahu macam mana cara nak musnahkan pentas ritual Ijat."

Megat’s chest tightened. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Nanda okay?" he rasped after a beat.

"Selamat," Beyyad confirmed. "Cuma dehydrated sikit. Dia tak ingat apa-apa. Tapi japgi aku ade meeting dengan pengetua untuk bincang camne nak handle Ijat."

Megat stayed quiet, fingers curling into the blanket. 

The relief was palpable, but it sat heavy on his ribs. 

Nanda’s safety meant their suffering wasn’t for nothing — but the fact that he wouldn’t remember any of it made it feel eerily distant, like the price they paid didn’t fully register.

Beyyad stood, stretching his arms, and as the candlelight flickered against his skin, 

Megat caught a glimpse of something on the side of his neck —

A soulmate mark.

The pattern was subtle, almost delicate, curling along the curve of his collarbone like a shadow.

Megat swallowed. His throat tightened with the urge to ask, but the words tangled up in his chest.

So instead, he settled for: "Beja tak percaya pasal soulmate-soulmate ni."

Beyyad hummed, noncommittal, blowing out the candle. "Beja tengah dalam fasa dia susah nak terima benda tu. Half of it salah aku. Tapi aku rasa dia respect lagi nilai soulmates ni sebenarnya."

Megat chewed on the inside of his cheek. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, until Beyyad turned to him, voice sharp with knowing.

"Tanyalah apa yang kau nak tanya aku sebenarnya."

Megat’s mind raced.

Why didn’t they just go to the police?

Why let him and Beja handle something so dangerous?

How did Beyyad balance being Head Prefect and Kapla at the same time?

But what came out instead was: "Asal kau pilih aku jadi KB sedangkan Beja adik kau?"

Beyyad tilted his head, regarding him carefully. Then he asked:

"Apa nilai seorang ketua?"

Megat opened his mouth — then closed it.

He thought about all he’d done since becoming KB: the gossip, the fooling around, the way he skated around his supposed duties just enough to avoid trouble but still knew every single thing happening in school like the back of his hand.

It didn’t feel like leadership.

But it kept them alive.

Beyyad’s voice softened. "Untuk jadi ketua, bukan kau bagi arahan je. Kau kena tahu setiap inci group yang kau lead. Tahu kuat lemah setiap sorang tu."

Megat’s throat tightened.

"Aku suruh kau ngan Beja handle benda ni sebab satu — nak buat Ijat terlepas pandang. Kedua — aku nak tengok jauh mana korang boleh handle masalah yang melibatkan batch korang."

Beyyad’s gaze was steady, unwavering. "Dekat Kudrat, ada hierarki, ada adat, ada peraturan. Tapi kalau kau rasa cukup besar untuk lawan, kena deliver ah."

Megat looked down at his hands. They were still scraped raw from clawing at the altar.

"Untuk aku," Beyyad continued, voice quieter now. "Jadi Kapla maksud aku kena jaga semua. Jaga budak-budak bawah aku, jaga nama sekolah. Jaga title aku."

The words sank into Megat’s bones like lead.

And for the first time, he wondered — if he could do the same.

If he could carry that weight.

If he wanted to.

(“bonda boleh taruhkan seluruh dunia dengan isinya untuk shah”

but how much of the world could he actually carry?

then again he wouldn’t have to.do it alone, would he?)

The door banged open.

"Ahh, ni dia si lembik yang pengsan tadi."

Beja.

Megat bristled immediately, whipping his head around. "Apa kau cakap setan — eh agak-agak sikit, aku tau punca kita selamat —"

"Kau tau punca kau terlentang atas lantai, ada lah."

"OI KEPALA BAPAK KAU."

They started bickering instantly, their voices echoing through the sick bay like a storm, insults flying faster than either of them could catch.

Beyyad just laughed, shrugging on his bag as he made his way to the door.

"Jago Megat, Jaa." he called over his shoulder, voice dripping with amusement. "Kan doh deal, dio tolong kito, aku bagi mu ke dio."

Beja threw a pillow at him, but Beyyad dodged without looking back, his chuckle trailing down the corridor like smoke.

Megat slumped against the pillows, chest still heaving from the shouting match, and stared at the ceiling.

His heart was still racing.

And all he could think was —

What the hell happens next?

“Oii jaa!” Megat called out.

Aku

Engkau

Beja turned to look at him in curiosity.

Dia

Kita

“aku dah deliver deal aku. So sekarang kau kene deliver ahh part kau.”

Tahu

Hanya

Beja rolls his eyes but takes one of the lone chairs and shifted closer.

Dasar

Mahu

“Amende kau nak?”

“Kau kene dengar cakap aku and jadi partner aku.” Megat smirked, “aku plan nak jadi Kapla nanti.”

Pucuk pauh delima batu,
Terbit bunga dalam taman,
Raja bersekutu, janji bersatu,
Menjaga negeri, rakyat dan zaman.