The alarm on the cheap triple-plywood desk didn't just ring; it pierced through the air, hammering Arif's eardrums like a sledgehammer striking concrete. Arif bolted upright. He gasped for breath, cold sweat soaking his skin even though the wall fan whirred loudly above him, merely circulating the stagnant air inside the nine-square-meter boarding room.

He glanced at the glowing digital numbers on his phone screen. 6:00 AM.

"Damn it," he muttered softly. His voice was hoarse, his throat feeling as dry as sand.

Arif massaged the throbbing bridge of his nose. His head felt heavy, a hangover from restless sleep and haunting nightmares about piles of unfinished work. His routine was starting all over again. A suffocating cycle he had to endure just to survive in Jakarta—a city that, to him, was nothing more than a giant jaw ready to chew up anyone who let their guard down.

He lowered his feet onto the cold cement floor, sending a slight shiver through his body. Before he could step toward the outdoor shared bathroom, his eyes locked onto the small table in the corner. Scattered across it were papers with thick red lines stamped across the top. Arif let out a long sigh, an invisible weight crashing down upon his shoulders.

He stepped closer and flipped through the papers one by one with trembling hands. The boarding house rent was two weeks overdue. Credit card bills with increasingly suffocating interest rates. The electricity bill stamped with a final disconnection warning. The numbers on those papers morphed into monsters mocking his powerlessness. His salary as an administrative staff member at a logistics distribution company was barely ever enough. This city demanded everything from him yet offered rewards that felt almost insulting to his sweat.

"How am I supposed to pay all of this by the end of the month?" he whispered to the peeling bedroom wall. It was a rhetorical question, as the wall certainly had no answers.

Before he could finish lamenting the stack of papers, his phone vibrated again on his thin mattress. The screen lit up, displaying a name that instantly sent a strange flutter through Arif's chest.

Mom is calling...

Arif stared at the screen for a long time. The phone's vibration felt synchronized with his accelerating heartbeat. Deep down inside, an overwhelming longing pulled at him—a yearning for the peace of the village, the aroma of his mother's cooking, and the gentle voice that had always comforted him during his childhood. Yet that longing was quickly buried under layers of thick pride and guilt.

He knew exactly what his mother would say if he answered. She would ask how he was doing, whether he had eaten, and perhaps gently slip in a question about when he might visit or if he could send a little money to fix the leaking kitchen roof. And Arif? He was too proud—or perhaps too cowardly—to admit that his life in the big city was completely falling apart. He didn't want to hear her hopeful voice while he was crawling down a dead-end street.

Arif reached out, his fingers hovering over the screen. Green button or red button?

Click. Click. Click. The wall clock's warning hand pointed to 6:15 AM.

"Ah, there's no time," Arif grumbled, lying to himself. He swiped the red button harshly, rejecting the call, and threw his phone back onto the bed. He convinced himself that he was busy, that he had to rush if he didn't want to be late and face the wrath of Pak Malik, his notoriously cruel and heartless boss.

Arif grabbed a dull towel hanging behind the door and sprinted toward the communal bathroom at the end of the hallway. Luckily, there was no long line this morning. He showered in a rush, dousing his body in cold water that failed to wash away the anxiety gripping his mind. Every movement was hunted by time. In this city, being five minutes late meant highway disaster.

Twenty minutes later, Arif was dressed neatly in a faded blue work shirt with thinning elbows, paired with black fabric trousers. He didn't have time to make breakfast, not even a chance to brew coffee. His stomach growled in protest, but he ignored it. He grabbed his heavy backpack filled with office files he had deliberately brought home last night—unpaid overtime work that needed to be finished this morning if he wanted to keep his job.

When he opened the boarding house door, Jakarta's morning air, thick with pollution, immediately ambushed his face. The roar of motorcycle engines and the chorus of horns from the main road at the end of the alley were already audible, sounding like the background music of a daily war he had to face.

Arif walked briskly down the narrow alley, occasionally nodding politely at other boarding neighbors who also wore sullen, rushed expressions. Everyone in this place shared the same look: exhausted before the day had even truly begun.

He arrived at the busway shelter with a slightly ragged breath. The shelter was already packed with a sea of people elbowing each other to secure a spot at the front. When his TransJakarta corridor bus arrived, the doors slid open to reveal a horrifying inner sight—the bus interior was already packed like sardines in a can.

With no other choice, Arif forced his way in, wedging his body between an elderly man smelling of medicated oil and a young woman frantically typing on her phone. The bus doors shut with a heavy hiss, trapping them all inside a slowly moving iron box amid the heavy traffic.

Inside the swaying bus, Arif held onto the overhead hand strap. His gaze drifted through the dust-blurred window, looking at the row of skyscrapers rising arrogantly along Sudirman Street. Those buildings looked so grand, glittering under the morning sun, but to Arif, they were symbols of an unbridgeable chasm between the rich and the poor. Down here, he was squished and sweating, while the people up there were likely sipping expensive coffee, viewing traffic as an aesthetic view.

The phone in his pocket vibrated again. Arif struggled to pull the device out with one free hand.

A WhatsApp message arrived. From his mother.

"Rif, Mom just wanted to check on you. If you're busy, it's okay not to call back. Don't forget to eat, son. Mom always prays for you here."

Those simple words felt like a razor slicing through Arif's heart. Tears threatened to well up in the corners of his eyes, but he blinked rapidly, holding his emotions back so they wouldn't spill in front of dozens of strangers on the bus. He felt like the worst son in the world. He was ignoring the woman who had given birth to him simply because his ego was bruised by poverty.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered internally, his fingers remaining still, refusing to reply. He slid his phone back into his pocket with a growing sense of guilt, stacking up alongside anxiety over bills and the fear of his boss's wrath.

The bus slammed on the brakes, sending Arif's body lurching forward to bump into another passenger. Soft curses echoed around him. Arif could only sigh, close his eyes, and pray that today would pass quickly.

He never knew that this very day he hated so much—a day filled with pressure, suppressed tears, and a wrong choice regarding his mother—would be the last day time moved normally for him. At the edge of this day, a cold circle of destiny awaited him, ready to lock Arif inside a time loop that would never let him go until his soul was utterly broken—or perhaps, finally saved.