With a voice that was barely audible, he whispered, “Alya, go hide in the wardrobe right now, don’t make a single sound no matter what you hear.”
Before I could even process what was happening, my brain completely jammed up. My heart was thumping violently against my ribcage, practically echoing in my ears. The three knocks came again, slightly louder this time, followed by the heavy, deliberate jiggle of the front door knob. How could anyone be trying to break in here at this hour? We were miles away from the main road in a secluded corner of Yogyakarta, surrounded by dense bamboo trees and quiet alleys. Fajar shoved me gently toward our bedroom wardrobe, his hands ice cold and shaking so badly he could barely push me inside.
“Fajar, what is going on? Who are they?” I whispered back, my voice cracking with absolute panic.
“Just trust me, please! Hide!” he urged, his eyes welling up with tears of sheer dread.
I scrambled inside the dark wardrobe, pulling my knees up to my chest and peering through the narrow slatted wooden doors. I could hear Fajar taking a deep, shaky breath outside. He stepped out of the bathroom, pulling his trousers back on in a frantic rush, and walked slowly toward the front door. The deadbolt clicked open. The door creaked wide open, revealing two tall men standing silently in the dim porch light. They wore dark hoodies pulled low over their foreheads, casting deep shadows across their faces. Neither of them said a word at first, but I could see the metallic glint of something heavy tucked inside one of their jackets.
“Took you long enough to open up, Fajar,” the taller man spoke up, his voice dangerously calm, carrying a distinct accent that sounded suspiciously like someone trying hard to mask where they were really from. “We thought you forgot our little housewarming tradition.”
“I told you I’m out. I left that life behind years ago. Why are you tracking me down here? It’s my wedding night, for goodness’ sake!” Fajar’s voice trembled, a mixture of fury and despair leaking through.
“You can never check out of the St. Jude Foundation, mate,” the second man chuckled coldly, stepping past Fajar and walking right into our living room as if he owned the place. “Especially now that your lovely wife has seen your little souvenir collection. Rule number four, remember? Anyone who discovers the truth must either join the cycle or be silenced before dawn breaks. Where is she?”
My breath hitched in my throat. My hands flew up to cover my mouth to stop any sound from escaping. St. Jude Foundation. That was the name. The flash of memory suddenly hit me hard. Years ago, back when I was still living in Singapore during my polytechnic days, there was a massive news broadcast about an underground rehabilitation and experimental facility called St. Jude that was abruptly shut down amidst rumors of missing teenagers, illegal human trials, and horrific abuse. The authorities raided the place, but the director vanished, and most of the files were wiped clean. Fajar had always told me he grew up in a quiet village in Bandung, but looking back now, his timeline never quite added up. He only ever spoke in vague generalities about his childhood, dodging questions whenever I dug too deep.
“She’s asleep in the bedroom, she didn’t see anything, I swear!” Fajar lied quickly, stepping defensively in front of the hallway leading to our room.
“Don’t bullshit us, Fajar,” the first man sneered, pulling out a sleek electronic tablet from his coat. “Our tracker picked up the broadcast signal from your burner phone seconds after you opened that text from R. You read it. She read it. You know the rules.”
Before Fajar could react, the man pulled out a compact taser device and jammed it straight into Fajar’s chest. Fajar let out a muffled, agonizing gasp, his eyes rolling back as his knees buckled. He crashed heavily onto the ceramic floor tiles, completely unconscious.
“Fajar!” I screamed internally, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, my fingers digging desperately into my own palms to keep myself from bursting out of the wardrobe.
The two intruders didn’t waste any time. They split up to search the villa. One of them checked the kitchen while the other walked straight toward our bedroom. My heart pounded so hard I was certain they could hear it thumping through the wooden panels of the wardrobe. The bedroom door creaked open. Heavy footsteps crunched across the floorboards. The footsteps stopped right in front of the wardrobe. A cold sweat broke out across my entire body. I closed my eyes tightly, muttering silent prayers, bracing myself for the worst.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing alarm blared from outside the villa, accompanied by flashing red and blue lights casting frantic streaks across the bedroom walls.
“Bloody hell! Police!” the intruder cursed loudly, abandoning his search of the wardrobe in a blind panic. “Let’s go, someone tipped them off!”
Heavy footsteps bolted toward the front entrance, slamming the door shut behind them as they fled into the night. I waited for a few agonizing minutes, listening to the fading crunch of footsteps over gravel before slowly pushing the wardrobe doors open. My legs felt like jelly as I stumbled out, crawling across the floor to Fajar’s side.
“Fajar! Fajar, wake up, please!” I sobbed, shaking his shoulders.
Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. He coughed, wincing in pain as he looked up at me. “Alya… you shouldn’t have stayed.”
Just then, the front door was kicked wide open again, but this time it wasn’t the intruders. A group of local police officers rushed in, guns drawn, led by a stern-looking detective who looked around the messy living room before locking eyes straight on us.
“Fajar Pratama, and you must be his wife,” the detective said, flashing a badge. “I’m Inspector Tan from the Singapore Transnational Organized Crime Unit. We’ve been tracking the St. Jude syndicate across Southeast Asia for over six years. Your husband isn’t just a victim, Mdm Alya. He’s our key undercover operative who infiltrated their inner circle, and tonight, you’ve just been pulled right into the middle of an international sting operation.”
I froze in utter disbelief, staring down at Fajar, who offered me a weak, exhausted smile amidst all the chaos. All this time, the man I married wasn’t just a simple guy from Bandung hiding his scars; he was a deep-cover operative fighting a shadow war, and our entire wedding night was never meant to be a quiet beginning, but the final trap to bring a monster down.