Arif's steps felt heavy as he pushed through the glass automatic doors on the fourth floor of his office. The large wall clock in the lobby read 8:02 AM. Two minutes late. To Pak Malik, two minutes was an unforgivable sin equivalent to corporate sabotage. Arif hurried toward his cubicle, ignoring the pitying glances of a few coworkers who seemed to know something he didn't.

Just as Arif placed his backpack down, the intercom on his desk buzzed loudly.

"Arif, my office. Now." Pak Malik's heavy, sharp voice cut through the air.

Arif swallowed hard. The anxiety that had weighed on his chest since morning twisted into a knot of sheer dread. He straightened his faded, sweat-dampened shirt, grabbed the folder containing the logistics files he had worked on overnight, and walked toward the dark glass-paneled office at the end of the hallway.

Inside the freezing, air-conditioned room, Pak Malik sat behind a gleaming mahogany executive desk. The middle-aged man in an expensive suit didn't look up as Arif entered. He busily signed several documents before finally tossing a thick white envelope onto the center of the desk.

"Sit down, Arif," he ordered expressionlessly.

Arif sat stiffly, placing his work folder down. "This is the north branch logistics report you asked for last night. I've finished it—"

"No need," Pak Malik cut in coldly. He crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Arif with the condescending gaze he used to intimidate subordinates. "The company is restructuring. And after evaluating your sluggish performance, compounded by your messy attendance this morning... management has decided to terminate your employment. Effective as of today."

The words terminate your employment struck Arif like a sledgehammer. His vision suddenly blurred.

"Fired, sir? But... I've worked overtime almost every day this month. That northern project was even finished before the deadline!"

Pak Malik scoffed dismissively, leaning back into his leather chair. "Don't argue, Arif. The decision is final. You aren't competent enough for this company's standards. Sign that severance letter, pack your things, and get out."

Arif stared at the white envelope with trembling hands. He opened it and scanned the contents quickly. His eyes widened when he reached the compensation section. "Sir, this is wrong. It says here I'm only getting one month's salary as a tenure award? Where is my severance and compensation for accrued rights? By law, I'm supposed to get—"

"By law?" Pak Malik laughed cynically, a laugh that made Arif's blood boil. "You want to talk law with me? Get real, Arif. You're just a low-level staffer. If you don't want to accept that amount, go ahead and sue us. But remember, the company has a legal team that can drag this case out for years in court. As for you? You're probably stressing over how to buy food tomorrow. Sign it now, or walk out of here with nothing."

Naked extortion. Pak Malik's arrogance hung thick in the room. Arif clenched his fists beneath the desk until his knuckles turned white. He desperately wanted to lash out at that smug face, to scream curses at this unjust system. Yet the vision of piled-up bills in his room and his mother's face back in the village instantly paralyzed his courage. He was the prey, and Pak Malik was a predator who knew his quarry couldn't fight back.

With tears of humiliation fighting to stay suppressed, Arif grabbed a pen and signed the letter. His hand shook so violently that his pen strokes looked jagged and broken.

"Good. Now get out," Pak Malik dismissed him without another glance, returning his attention to his expensive phone.

An hour later, Arif walked out of the skyscraper carrying a used instant-noodle cardboard box filled with his personal belongings: a coffee mug, a few pens, and a desk calendar. Jakarta's sky seemed to celebrate his ruin. Pitch-black storm clouds rolled overhead, and soon enough, heavy rain lashed down viciously upon the earth.

Arif didn't care. He walked through the rain without an umbrella. The cold rainwater beat down on his head, mingling with the tears of frustration that finally spilled over. His work shirt was soaked through, clinging tightly to his shivering body. The cardboard box in his arms grew soggy from the water.

His world had collapsed. He had lost his job. The money in his bank account would be reduced to just a few hundred thousand rupiah after rent deduction. How was he supposed to survive? How could he face his mother? His ego and pride as a successful migrant worker in the city were now shattered into pieces on the wet Jakarta pavement.

He wandered aimlessly until his feet brought him to a quiet, dimly lit pedestrian overpass. Arif decided to stop under the leaking zinc roof of the overpass, simply to catch his breath and wring out his shirt.

In the corner of the bridge, leaning against a rusted iron pillar, sat an old man. He wore tattered, soaked rags. His emaciated body shook violently against the biting chill of the fierce night wind. In front of him sat an empty biscuit tin containing only a few worthless coins.

Arif stared at the old man. Amidst his own destruction, a pang of pity unexpectedly surfaced at the sight of the beggar's plight. At least I still have a boarding room roof tonight, Arif thought bitterly. This man has nothing.

Arif fumbled through his wet trouser pocket. He pulled out his wallet, took out a hundred-thousand-rupiah bill—the very last money left in his wallet after all today's misfortune—and dropped it into the beggar's biscuit tin.

"Here, Grandpa. To buy some warm food," Arif said softly, his voice hoarse from the cold and the remnants of his crying.

The old man slowly looked up. Beneath his tangled, dirty white hair, his eyes didn't look like those of a beggar. They were clear, sharp, and radiated an ancient wisdom. The old man stared at the hundred-thousand note in his tin, then shifted his gaze to Arif's haggard, ruined face.

"A young man who has lost his way," the old man's voice sounded heavy, strange, and echoed in Arif's ears louder than the roaring thunder of the rain. "You give everything you have when you yourself have nothing."

Arif smiled bitterly. "It's useless anyway, Grandpa. Today is the worst day of my life. I don't know what else to do tomorrow."

The old man smiled mysteriously. He stretched out his wrinkled hand from beneath his tattered rags. Resting on his rough palm was an object that instantly caught Arif's attention.

It was a thick, dull silver metal ring. The ring did not sparkle, yet it bore an intricate geometric motif resembling ancient ice crystals. As Arif stared at it, he could swear he saw a faint, chilly vapor swirling around the ring.

"Take it," the old man said.

"Huh? No, Grandpa. I gave that money freely, I don't need a reward," Arif refused hesitantly.

"This is not a reward. This is the answer to your circle of regret," the old man spoke cryptically. He grabbed Arif's cold hand and placed the ring directly onto his palm. "Time is a straight line for those who walk forward, but for the lost, it can become a circle. Use the cold to freeze your mistakes, until your heart finds true warmth."

Before Arif could process the bizarre words, an extreme wave of cold suddenly surged from his palm, racing rapidly through his blood vessels and making his heart pound frantically. Reflexively, Arif blinked in surprise.

Yet when he opened his eyes a second later, the pedestrian bridge was deserted. The tattered old man had vanished without a trace, leaving behind an empty biscuit tin stripped of the hundred-thousand bill.

Arif stared at his empty palm, then glanced down at his ring finger. The silver ring with its ice-like pattern was now snugly fitted on his finger, feeling as freezing cold as an ice cube pressed directly against his skin. Convinced he had perhaps lost his mind from the severe stress of being fired, Arif shook his head, grabbed his soggy cardboard box of belongings, and ran back toward his boarding house amid the lingering tail-end of Jakarta's storm, his mind consumed solely by how he would survive tomorrow?