UNNATURAL SILENCE
Everbloom usually had a rhythmic morning pulse. At seven a.m., that pulse consisted of: Crossing trams; student motor exhaust; street vendors.
But that morning, on a normal workday, the city's sounds were gone.
It was as if the entire world had been muted. The morning air felt held back, and a heavy, static feeling enveloped everything. The air carried a faint metallic scent—like the smell of ozone after an electrical wire burns, a sign of system instability.
Small signs of panic began to show. A child stared at a totally black digital billboard. Lecturers stopped walking. A barista dropped a latte.
Traffic lights flickered out of sync.
The silence was not an absence of sound; it was the presence of a threat. A silence that weighed down.
And in the midst of that piercing silence—
digital screens across Everbloom suddenly lit up in unison.
Total blackness.
Then a white balance scale symbol appeared in the center of the screen, as if painted by a trembling hand.
The city's collective breath hitched.
And then… the figure appeared.
The Judge.
He stood in a dark space.
A single pale yellow light fell obliquely upon him.
His judge's robe was too heavy, like a garment of pure shadow.
His mask…
was plain white. Only a faint reflection of the yellow light shimmered on its surface.
His robe sleeves were too long, his fingers barely visible.
Only a single large image of a balance scale was drawn with thick black paint.
His voice emerged.
Slow distortion, deep reverberation. Behind the distortion, a long, trembling metallic echo could be heard, as if his voice were bouncing within a steel chamber.
"Good morning… Everbloom."
A long pause.
The Judge tilted his head slightly.
During that pause, the Judge's hand moved subtly beneath the robe sleeve, as if stroking a control button.
"My court begins today."
THE TEAM ROOM — THE RESIDENCE OF TENSION
The entire East District police precinct watched the broadcast.
Putri stopped stirring her coffee. Her hand froze in the air, and her left index finger reflexively gripped the butt of her pistol.
Tommy, the analyst, pushed up his glasses. After failing to trace the signal, he began tapping the frame of his spectacles. "Damn! This is deeply encrypted. Ghost frequency. No traceable IP!"
Dinda, the criminal psychologist, hugged herself. She nervously twisted her silver ring. "This isn't a psychopath," she whispered, "this is an ideologue. That's worse." Dinda glanced at Revan, noting that the detective's pupils had narrowed—a predatory focus.
Boby, the team leader, stared at the screen. His jaw hardened, and the veins in his neck stood out, a sign of the anger he was suppressing.
And Revan…
Revan stood closest to the front. A small, rapid pulse throbbed in his left temple.
There was an anomaly behind his calm—he wasn't shocked by the threat, but by the voice delivering it.
The Judge opened both hands.
"One body has been placed."
His tone was not a threat; it was more like a liturgical announcement.
"The police have one hour. If late…"
The Judge raised his index finger, a highly deliberate movement.
"…decomposition won't be the biggest problem."
The screen wavered slightly.
Then went dark.
The suffocating air suddenly returned. Those silent seconds felt even more piercing.
Outside the office window, silent sirens began to sound.
"One hour," Boby hissed, his voice rough. "Tommy, trace the location now!"
Tommy shook his head. "Got it, Boss! The last location to transmit the signal—behind Everbloom University. An old house."
Revan had already grabbed his jacket. A faint metallic taste suddenly filled his mouth. He clenched his jaw once. "I'm taking the team."
THE LOCATION — THE GATE TO HELL
The house stood like a rotten tooth between the bustling campus buildings.
Windows were boarded up.
The door was dingy with old scratches.
The ground was damp and smelled of mold. The stench was covered by chemical, metallic, and something sickly sweet aromas.
"Something is wrong with this place…" Dinda whispered.
Revan scrutinized the house. His gaze fixed on a deep scratch on the wooden door frame. He touched the wood. Suddenly, a faint click sounded in his ears. Then, a black shadow—a familiar, heavy, muffled sound of footsteps, like boots on a concrete floor—flashed through his mind. A rapid visual déjà vu made his eyes blink once. A cold unease crept beneath his skin.
"We move fast," Revan said. "This is his stage. Don't touch anything except to search for the victim."
Putri kicked the door open. The sound of splintering wood echoed. "The wood is too brittle," Putri muttered, her eyes scanning for traps inside.
They stepped into the dark hallway.
In the hallway, the air felt dead. The chemical, sweet, and metallic smells grew stronger. The wooden floor in the hall felt sticky. A very faint electrical buzzing sound came from the end of the hall.
The hallway ended at a closed door with a slit of red light underneath.
"In here," Revan whispered.
THE RED ROOM — THE CENTER OF TORTURE
Putri opened the door, and they were all pushed back a step by the visual and sensory impact.
Dim red light illuminated the room. The red color made everything look like an open wound.
The smell of iron, strong chemicals, and the sweet aroma—now intoxicating.
The walls were lined with thick soundproofing. This was an altar made from pain. Shelves held ropes, handcuffs, and devices used as instruments of torture, all neatly arranged.
A white chalk line was drawn long on the floor, connecting a large X in the center of the room to the entrance—a ritual boundary. Dinda whispered bitterly, "There is no justice in torture. Only release."
On a table were dozens of syringes: powerful stimulants, anesthetics, and some needles were still wet.
Photographs of students lined the wall. Directly beneath them was a stack of thick books, symbols of misused academic power by the victim.
The victim was Professor Hanggara, known for his arrogance and habit of flaunting his titles and power on campus.
Then, in the center of the room: a large X made of black iron.
There hung the victim.
Putri immediately turned away, holding her breath. Tommy backed up until his shoulder hit the door frame. Dinda covered her mouth.
Professor Hanggara's body, nude, was tied to the four ends of the X. His skin was pale like wax. Two blunt instruments were embedded in his body. Traces of bodily fluids, drugs, and trauma stained the floor.
His eyes were half-open—frozen in an expression of: terror, exhaustion, and forced torment.
Revan stared at the victim.
Then…
All the CCTV screens in the room lit up.
Not a recording.
A live broadcast.
The Judge stared at them.
"Congratulations," he said softly.
Revan felt a chill down his spine. The acknowledgment was like poison; he recognized this anger. In his mind, he saw a dark flash associated with a muffled voice and unheard screams.
"The police worked faster than I anticipated."
Revan looked at the screen.
Not with fear.
But with the observation of another predator.
In Revan's mind, a cold whisper surfaced: This is not justice. This is anger he knows.
Suddenly, another voice whispered, sharper and more urgent: He is doing what you should have done. Revan immediately suppressed the thought, his breath slightly catching.
"I want to say something about this victim."
The screen displayed a photo of the professor. A contrast to his body now displayed like an object. A small screen beneath the photo shifted to show a screenshot of a student's 'F' grade with a short message: 'You know the consequences.'
"He forced students to surrender their bodies. If they refused, their grades were destroyed."
The Judge's tone did not fluctuate.
Flat.
"He took their honor. I merely…
restored justice."
Then his voice lowered.
"Detective Revan."
Revan remained silent. Though his gaze was calm, Revan felt a key had just been turned in his memory.
The Judge moved closer to the camera.
The white mask filled the screen.
"You may not know it yet," he said softly, "but you are the only one… worth playing with."
Then he bowed slightly, as if offering an inverted salute.
"From now on…"
the voice became cold, sharp, and absolute.
"…you are not chasing me, Detective. You are following a trail I designed specifically for you."
The screen went dark.
Silence.
So silent that heartbeats became the loudest sound in the room. The silence drowned everyone.
Revan closed his eyes briefly—
his breath was slow, steady, too steady.
He opened his eyes again, staring at the large X in the center of the room.
"Fine," he said softly.
"If that's what he wants… let's begin."
And elsewhere, standing in the darkness of his room,
The Judge smiled behind his mask.