The scent of pan-seared scallops, fresh truffles, and a hint of something decadently sweet—a durian crème brûlée, knowing Jovan’s obnoxious tastes—pulled Bayu Pratama across the ballroom of the Tirtawijaya Grand Apex. He still wore his crumpled green jacket, the logo of 'Jalur Cepat' courier services a stark contrast to the designer silks and polished brogues that shimmered under the chandeliers. He wasn’t invited. He was here for the free shrimp. His ex looked stunning, of course, a vision in an ivory gown that cost more than his entire year’s rent. She stood by Jovan Adicandra, the man currently enjoying his misfortune, her hand clasped in his. Bayu tried not to look at her, focusing instead on the towering seafood bar, specifically the colossal tiger prawns glistening under a spotlight. These weren’t just shrimp; these were the architects of his immediate future happiness. He was halfway to a plate, navigating a forest of socialites air-kissing, when a voice, smooth as polished obsidian, sliced through the gentle murmur of classical strings. “Well, well, if it isn’t the courier boy.” Bayu froze, one hand already reaching for a rogue prawn that threatened to escape the ice bed. He turned slowly, plastering on a grin that felt like a facial spasm. Jovan Adicandra, immaculate in a bespoke suit with silver cuff links, stood barely five paces away, the bride beside him, her face tight with discomfort and faint disgust. Jovan’s eyes, usually calculating and cold, now held a glint of genuine amusement, the kind reserved for watching a particularly pathetic insect flounder. “Jovan,” Bayu said, his voice a little too loud, “didn’t expect to see you here. Big day, huh?” He gestured vaguely at the opulent surroundings. “Looks like you really… went for it.” Jovan’s smirk widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be natural. “Bayu. Still hauling soup on a moped, I see. Some things never change. You know, I thought I recognized the scent of cheap motor oil and desperation. You’re not trying to drop off our wedding cake, are you? Because I assure you, we've already paid for one from a rather exclusive patisserie, not a roadside warung.” Whispers rippled through the small knot of guests who had paused their conversations to observe the spectacle. The bride flinched, pulling her hand from Jovan’s, her gaze flicking between Bayu’s stained jacket and the pristine white of her gown. Bayu felt a familiar heat bloom in his cheeks. It wasn’t just the humiliation; it was the sheer, suffocating unfairness of it all. He worked his ass off, and still, he was just a punchline. “Actually, I was just… admiring the décor,” Bayu mumbled, gesturing towards a particularly gaudy ice sculpture of two swans. “Very… swan-like.” Jovan let out a short, humorless laugh. “Admiring? Or contemplating how many of those crystal flutes you could pawn for a month’s rent? Seriously, Bayu, what are you doing here? Did Melati invite you out of some misguided pity? We’re celebrating a union, not offering a soup kitchen.” The laughter around them grew, sharper now, less polite. Bayu set his teeth. He should just leave. Turn around, walk out, and dream of those tiger prawns another day. But the thought of Jovan's triumphant sneer, the memory of his ex's wince—he couldn't just slink away. He had to say something, anything. “You know what, Jovan?” Bayu began, straightening his shoulders, a reckless defiance sparking in his eyes. “I was just thinking, your suit probably cost more than my motorcycle, but at least my ride gets me places worth going, unlike your personality, which mostly just drives people away.” The ballroom fell silent. Even Jovan’s smug smile faltered, replaced by a momentary flicker of genuine anger. The bride gasped, her knuckles pressing against her lip. Two burly security guards, indistinguishable from the polished marble pillars they stood near, stepped forward, batons unclipped. This was it. He was going to get thrown out. And he wouldn’t even get a single prawn. Just as the first guard reached for Bayu’s arm, a slender, age-weathered hand shot out from the side, intercepting the man’s wrist with surprising speed. The guard, a mountain of muscle, stopped dead, his eyes clouding over as if his brain had suddenly decided to take a nap. He swayed, then gently, almost gracefully, slumped to the floor, snoring softly. The second guard stared, bewildered, before a similar fate befell him, a quick, almost invisible flick of the old woman’s fingers sending him to dreamland beside his partner. The crowd parted, revealing the woman. She was ancient, her face a roadmap of fine wrinkles, but her posture was ramrod straight, and her traditional 'kebaya' dress, woven with shimmering threads, seemed to command the very air around her. Her eyes, dark and piercing, swept over the stunned guests, lingering for a fraction of a second on Jovan’s now gaping face, before settling on Bayu. “Bayu Pratama,” she said, her voice a low, melodious hum that somehow cut through the sudden silence. “Or, as you should now be known, Young Master Angkasa.” Bayu blinked. Young Master what now? He looked behind him, then to the side, searching for someone, anyone, who might fit that description. There was no one. “Me?” he squeaked, pointing a thumb at his chest, the green jacket suddenly feeling even more ridiculous. The old woman offered a serene, almost imperceptible smile. “Indeed, child. It seems your extended holiday from responsibility is quite finished.” She took a step closer, and Bayu felt an inexplicable pull, as if an invisible thread had just yanked him forward. “My name is Nenek Ratih. I am your grand-aunt. And this ridiculous charade of yours, this life of willful mediocrity… it ends now.” Before Bayu could process any of this, before Jovan could even stammer out a protest, Nenek Ratih gripped his arm. The touch wasn’t painful, but it was unyielding, imbued with a strange, resonant power. The world seemed to warp around them, the dazzling ballroom blurring into streaks of light. The hushed gasps of the guests, Jovan’s furious scowl, the bride’s wide, pale stare—all became a distant echo. “What—what’s happening?!” Bayu exclaimed, stumbling as Nenek Ratih moved with impossible speed, pulling him through the bewildered crowd like he weighed nothing. He heard a shrill, piercing wail, the unmistakable sound of a high-priority security alarm blaring through the Grand Apex. People started to panic, surging backwards, creating a path for their bizarre, swift exit. One moment they were amidst the chaos of the wedding, the next, they were standing on a quiet, dimly lit service ramp behind the hotel, the city lights of Tirtawijaya shimmering in the distance. Nenek Ratih released his arm, her features cold as carved granite. Her eyes were like chips of obsidian, sharp and utterly ruthless. “Your childish games are over, Bayu,” she stated, her voice chillingly calm despite the distant wail of sirens growing louder. “The Sampar clan knows who you are. The Aegis protocols are active. And an extinction-level event is now your responsibility.”

The Price of Free Shrimp