Jakarta, 5:50 AM.
The morning sky was still gray, wrapped in the smog that never truly left the capital. Car horns echoed faintly in the distance, as if the city never really slept. In the middle of a quiet upscale neighborhood—too quiet for Jakarta—a two-story house stood tall but unassuming.
On the top floor of that house, a 13-year-old boy was still asleep, lying face down with his pillow on the floor and his blanket barely covering his face. His name was Raka. A second-year middle school student with messy hair like a bird's nest, pale skin, tall stature, and... a lazy attitude, especially in the morning.
"RAKAAA! It's almost SIX!"
The yell came from downstairs—from a voice only two things could oppose: God, or a mom ready to iron her child's forehead.
Raka groaned as he opened one eye and glanced at the clock. "Hah?... CRAP I'M LATE!"
Without thinking, he bolted to the bathroom. No towel, just his underwear. The water was freezing, but he showered like a ninja on a deadline.
Three minutes later, he came out panting, hair still dripping wet, his uniform worn carelessly, shirt untucked, and tie slung over his shoulder like Naruto's scarf.
"You're always like this!!" his mom scolded while preparing fried rice on the dining table.
"It's fate, Mom," Raka replied lazily.
"I'll eat at school! Pack the rice, okay?" Without waiting for an answer, Raka kissed her hand, grabbed his bag, and dashed out.
In front of the house, his sport bike was waiting. A little dirty, just like its lazy owner.
"A little speeding won't hurt... as long as I don't hit the neighbors."
Vroom. The bike sped through the neighborhood. Leaves flew. A cat barely escaped being run over. A neighbor sipping tea just shook their head.
His mom watched from afar and sighed.
"Son... that was your last breakfast."
Raka arrived at school around 6:45 AM. The parking lot was nearly full. Some kids were eating by the court, others rushing to finish homework.
He got off the bike, unbothered. No panic on his face, even though he was clearly late. He casually walked to class while chewing on a chocolate bun from his favorite shop.
"RAKA, DON'T PARK THERE?!"
That was Mr. Ilham, the security guard. Furious—understandably. Everyone else parked vertically. Raka? Horizontal. Took up space for three bikes.
Raka just raised a peace sign and kept walking. The guard had seen too much of him to bother arguing.
Class was chaos. Some played Mobile Legends, some napped, some openly flirted.
"RAKAA! HEY!" A buzz-cut boy called from the middle rows.
Raka glanced, then took his usual seat by the window.
"You never get bored of that seat?"
"If I sit in front, all I see is the teacher. I'd rather see the sky."
The boy laughed. His name was Samsul. Humble, and one of Raka's closest friends.
It was a typical day. Raka slept through the first two periods, woke up during Math, and suddenly became the class genius. Solving complex integrals that left his classmates dizzy.
"You take private lessons or something?" asked one girl.
Raka shrugged. "Nah. Just skimmed it last night."
Though in truth, he'd stayed up playing PlayStation with Samsul and two others until 2 AM.
When the break bell rang, Samsul, Adit, and Ucup came over. The four had been friends since day one.
"Kantin or court?" Ucup asked.
"Kantin. I only had bread this morning," Raka replied while rubbing his eyes.
"You never eat breakfast. You probably woke up at like 5:59. Didn't even pray," Adit teased, laughing.
"Enough. Let's grab food and eat by the court. Watch the basketball match," Samsul suggested.
"Ooh, we get to see some bouncing too," Ucup added eagerly. His friends shook their heads.
After grabbing fried snacks and boxed tea, they sat by the basketball court. A boys vs. girls match was underway—chaotic.
"LOOK! That's Aria—so damn pretty. School queen. Dances well, plays sports, rumor has it she beat our district boxing champ!" Ucup gushed.
Samsul replied, "Cup, if you're gonna confess, don't do it while chewing."
"Excuse me, we're short a player. Anyone wanna sub?" came a voice from the court—Atlan, the team captain.
Ucup pointed at Adit. "He's great at basketball!"
But Adit nudged Raka. "Let Raka go. I'm not that good anyway."
Raka grinned lazily. "I'm worse, bro."
"Just catch and throw. I'll cover you."
Raka finally stepped in. Aria, chatting with her friends, glanced at him and squinted. "Who's that?" she mumbled.
Everyone was shocked to see Raka on the team.
"Isn't that Raka? What's he doing there?" students whispered.
The match started. Raka looked clueless—running around, unsure of his position, even stepping over the lines.
But after five minutes, his movements sharpened. He understood the flow. Light on his feet, sharp eyes, quick hands.
Then Aria went for a dunk—Raka jumped, and... BLOCKED! The slap of the ball echoed loudly. Silence.
Raka landed with a grin. "Just guessed, honestly."
Cheers erupted.
Aria smirked awkwardly. Her friends grumbled, "Didn't you say you're the queen? How'd he block you?"
She snapped back, "Shut up." But her eyes stayed on Raka, puzzled by his lightning reflexes.
After the win, Raka returned to his group, sipping his half-finished iced tea.
"Take that, can't play basketball, huh?" Samsul joked.
"Man, I'm surprised too," Raka said, stretching out.
Adit laughed hard. "You're good at every sport. Just lazy to train."
That afternoon, they played PlayStation at Samsul's house. Raka nearly dozed off. Around 5:30 PM, they called it a day.
Raka walked home, buying some snacks—two risoles, one fried tempeh. He strolled, munching, under the orange sky.
But as he neared his neighborhood... smoke. A crowd. Whispering. Fire trucks.
His pace quickened. Snacks dropped. Breathing heavy.
And there it was—his home, reduced to ash and rubble.
He rushed past the police tape, into the charred remains. Ash flew. The smell of burnt wood choked him. In the dining corner, he found two small piles of ash... and a ring, untouched.
His hand trembled as he picked it up. Tears welled. It was his mother's ring—without a doubt.
He ran outside, knocking on neighbors' doors. "Please... help... my parents..."
No one answered. They pretended not to hear. Some peeked, then shut their curtains.
"You all... all of you..." Raka stood frozen in the street. His world collapsed.
That night, he slept in a mosque. By morning, he was a street kid. No home. Living off the little left in his account—barely enough for two weeks.
One night, he sat alone by the roadside. Dirty feet, smoke-stained clothes, empty stomach.
"Why... why is my life like this?" he whispered.
His eyes stared blankly at the starless sky. No answers. Just engine roars, dogs barking... and loneliness.
But this was only the beginning of Raka's story.