Ring! Ring! Ring!

6:00 AM. The pages of time spun backward to their cruel starting point. Yet this morning, Arif no longer sat brooding over his fate atop his thin mattress. The deep remorse searing his soul last night had transformed into a reckless, burning resolve. He didn't care about counterfeit money; he didn't care about corporate validation. He wanted only one thing: to go home and genuinely hold his mother in his arms.

Arif bolted from the bed. His movements were agile and meticulously planned. In this 142nd loop, he executed the "Perfect Scenario" from Chapter 9 with absolute speed.

By precisely 7:00 AM, he stood inside Pak Malik's office. Without wasting a second on pleasantries or drawn-out intimidation tactics, Arif shoved the digital photo evidence from his pocket camera and the fatal voice recording right in front of his boss.

"Three hundred million rupiah, Pak Malik. Transfer it to my account within one minute, or your reputation is completely destroyed by noon today," Arif spoke coldly, ignoring the overwhelming wave of terror radiating from his boss's face.

Click.

At 7:05 AM, the bank notification chimed. The tactical funds were secure in his account. But this time, Arif didn't head to a sports car dealership or a five-star hotel. He sprinted full-speed down the office corridor, ignoring the bewildered stares of his divisional peers, and burst out of the building to flag down the first taxi heading toward Soekarno-Hatta International Airport.

As the cab sped through Jakarta's morning gridlock, Arif's fingers flew across his phone screen. He booked the earliest morning flight to the nearest transit airport connecting to his home province. Arif's hometown lay in a remote village deep within an outlying island—a destination requiring a brutally long travel time from the capital.

"I have to make it before midnight," Arif muttered, his hands clenching so tightly that the Frost Circle ring on his finger radiated a piercing chill.

At 10:30 AM, Arif's flight took off. Throughout the journey, anxiety gnawed at his chest. He kept staring at his cheap wristwatch. Time felt like it was sprinting, racing against his ambition to shatter the boundaries of this time cage.

The plane touched down at the transit airport at 2:15 PM. Without waiting for baggage since he carried nothing save the clothes on his back, Arif bolted straight outside the terminal to secure ground transport. To reach his village, there were no direct flights; he had to endure a grueling ten-hour road trip through winding hill country and severely battered, unpaved gravel roads.

"Driver, take me straight to Sukamaju Village right now. Here's five million rupiah in cash, take it all!" Arif cried out, tossing a thick stack of hundred-thousand notes onto the passenger seat of a chartered travel car.

The driver's eyes bulged at the wad of cash. Without a second question, he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, launching the vehicle hard down the provincial highway.

Time rolled forward without mercy.

6:00 PM.

The phone in Arif's trouser pocket vibrated violently. The screen flared to life amid the dark cabin shadows as the car bounced over rugged forest roads.

Mom is calling...

Arif's tears spilled at the sight of that name. He pressed the phone to his ear with trembling fingers.

"Mom... Arif is on the road. I'm coming home, Mom. Wait for me..."

"Arif? Why does your voice keep cutting out, son? You're coming home? Praise be to God..." his mother's voice answered from the other end, brimming with identical warmth and longing—the exact same fragmented sentence she uttered every single evening at six.

"Yes, Mom. Wait for me tonight," Arif whispered before the failing forest signal dropped the call entirely.

9:00 PM. The travel car crossed into county limits. The roads grew narrower and rockier. Arif's body jarred against the seats, yet his eyes remained fixed on the darkness outside the window, tallying every remaining kilometer. Three hours left.

11:30 PM. Arif's heart hammered like a war drum. The borders of his village came into view behind dense groves of oil palms. The dim oil-lamp glows from neighboring stilt houses flickered into view. Only two kilometers left until his mother's house. Just a few minutes more.

"Faster, driver! Faster!" Arif yelled in panic, staring at the digital dashboard clock displaying 11:55 PM.

"This is top speed already, buddy! The road's shot!" the driver shouted back anxiously.

11:58 PM. The car took a sharp turn down a dirt path. At the end of the road stood a modest, thatched-roof wooden house with a faintly glowing porch light. His mother's house. Arif could spot the silhouette of his mother sitting in a porch chair, looking as if she were indeed awaiting his return.

"Mom!" Arif screamed, his hand already gripping the car door handle, ready to leap out and run to embrace the elderly woman.

11:59 PM. The travel car screeched to a halt in the front yard. Arif threw the door open, his boots hitting the damp, night-dewed soil of his village. He sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, tears of longing streaming down his cheeks. The distance between them shrank to a mere five meters.

His mother slowly rose from the porch chair, turning toward the sound of Arif's approaching footsteps with an expression of profound astonishment.

"Arif...?" his mother whispered softly.

Arif stretched his arms wide, ready to enfold his mother's fragile frame, to wash away every sin and instance of selfishness from his migrant years. Yet right as the tips of Arif's fingers hovered a single centimeter from the hem of his mother's traditional kebaya—

TICK.

The real-world wall clock struck 00:00. Absolute midnight had arrived.

WHOOSH!

The world around Arif suddenly inverted in a painful spatial distortion. The wooden house, the crisp rural air, and his mother's silhouette shattered into a million pieces like a mirror struck by a sledgehammer. Pitch-black darkness swallowed his consciousness for a single second that felt like eternity.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Arif bolted upright, gasping for breath, cold sweat soaking his entire body.

His eyes blinked frantically, staring up at the moldy ceiling of the boarding room. The whirring sound of the wall fan spun once more above his head. He reached down to touch his palms; the damp village earth had vanished, replaced by the musty, frayed bedsheet. His phone screen glowed in the corner of the desk. 6:00 AM.

The exact same Thursday.

Arif wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his face there. An agonizing roar of sheer frustration tore from his throat. This Time Prison locked away not merely bank balances and human memories, but physical distance itself. A fifteen-hour journey from Jakarta to his village constituted an absolute barrier he could never breach within the span of a single looping day. He was cursed to remain forever five meters away from his mother's embrace, eternally trapped inside the cruel, concrete labyrinth of the capital.