The night of the third day brought no deep darkness; instead, a crimson glow curdled into a thick, blood-like stain behind the window glass. The atmosphere inside the house morphed into a sensory torture chamber: the cement floor beneath Wildan's feet now felt as solid and searing as an iron grill, while the air he dragged into his lungs felt bone-dry, laden with invisible black ash that squeezed his chest into a tight, suffocating vice.

“Help!!! The water pump is dead, bring a hose over here immediately fast!!”

“God, the structure is about to collapse! Fall back everyone, fall back!!!”

The roaring racket beyond the walls no longer echoed faintly. The noise now hammered directly against Wildan's eardrums, mingling with the brain-splitting wail of fire truck sirens. The reek of burning rubber and scorched flesh grew so thick, so visceral, that Wildan's stomach heaved violently, forcing him to fight off a sickening wave of nausea.

"Enough. I have to get out. This is insane," Wildan whispered to himself.

His remaining consciousness rebelled. His primal instincts screamed a single, absolute command: Get out of here or you will die. Something was fundamentally wrong—a massive tragedy was being papered over by the walls of this house.

With hands shaking violently yet hardened by absolute resolve, Wildan strode into his bedroom. He snatched his thick denim jacket hanging behind the door—the final solid, familiar object left to him. The moment the jacket settled over his shoulders, Wildan spun around, marching purposefully through the central corridor toward the living room. His gaze locked onto a single target: the front door carved from aging teak.

"Wildan... where are you going, Le? It's already night, it's pitch-black outside," a gentle voice called out from the kitchen.

It was his mother's voice. Her tone remained completely calm, endlessly caring, weaving rhythmically through the distant explosions and hysterical screams battering the inside of Wildan's skull.

Wildan halted for a fraction of a second, but refused to turn his head. He knew that if he caught sight of his mother's pale face or her pleading, drooping eyes, his resolve would shatter into a drift of ash.

"I have to go out, Mom. Our complex is on fire. Something is terribly wrong out there," Wildan answered, his voice raw and shaking, yet unyielding.

"There is nothing out there, Wildan. Stay here with Mom. I've already brewed some warm tea for you," his mother called again. This time, the voice sounded much closer. Her soundless footsteps slowly glided into the corridor.

"Don't go out, Big Brother... Rian is scared alone," interjected Rian's small voice from the corner of the family room, squeezing through the cracks of the collapsing concrete echoes rattling the outside world.

Wildan squeezed his eyes shut. His grip on the jacket zipper tightened until his knuckles turned bone-white. That protective, suffocating love wrapped around him once more, trying to anchor his boots to the scorching cement floor. Yet the crushing tightness in his chest—the sheer lack of oxygen—made Wildan realize that staying here meant surrendering to a hollow death.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Rian. This time, Wildan can't obey," Wildan spoke aloud, shouting down the roaring racket inside his head.

Wildan stepped forward again. Every inch of his advance toward the front door felt agonizingly heavy, as though he were wading against a raging, torrential current. The icy aura radiating from the corners of the house surged wildly, trying to freeze his resolve, while the floor beneath his bare feet grew hotter still, sparking a genuine burning sensation against his soles.

From the corner of his eye, Wildan caught the silhouette of his father standing rigidly near the TV console. His father didn't move, nor did he physically block his path, but those dark, hollow eyes continued to lock onto Wildan's movements with a bottomless, crushing grief.

"If you step through that door, Wildan... you will never be able to return to this house," his father's voice echoed—heavy and authoritative, yet trembling with profound sorrow. "You will be leaving us behind alone in here."

Tears streamed down Wildan's cheeks. "I love Dad, Mom, and Rian. But... but this place isn't our home anymore. Something is wrong with this place! I have to see it for myself!"

With one final jerk, Wildan burst across the living room, brushing past three pairs of eyes staring at his back with absolute despair. He reached the teak door. His cold-sweat-slicked hand shot out, wrapping around the brass doorknob that felt as cold as ice—strikingly contrary to the room's baking heat.

Beyond the wood, the sirens shrieked more hysterically than ever. The voice of the woman sounding like his mother shrieked again, tearing through the air: “Help!!! His heartbeat is fading fast!!! Please, please save my son!!!”

Wildan drew a deep breath, gathering every last shred of courage left in his body, and wrenched the doorknob open in a single, powerful heave.