Chapter 1

That day, dark clouds hung over Jakarta, looming above the Menteng district. Gray clouds floated low in the sky, as though holding back the rain that had yet to fall since morning. A gentle breeze swept through the trees in the spacious courtyard of the Alfarisi family residence. Yet inside the house, the atmosphere was warm and cheerful.

The spacious family room was decorated with simple red-and-black ornaments. In the middle of the room stood a birthday cake on a table. Seventeen candles flickered with tiny, dancing flames.

A teenage boy stood before the cake. His name was Salman Alfarisi, and he had just turned seventeen. He had a sturdy build, a calm face, and eyes that reflected a composure rarely found in boys his age. He wore a simple T-shirt and long pants, far from the image of a wealthy young man who would typically be associated with designer clothes and an extravagant lifestyle.

Standing around him were the people who had always been part of his life. His father, Nauval Alfarisi, was a successful businessman whose name was well known in the business world. His mother, Sinta, was a gentle woman who had always been Salman’s confidante. There was also Bi Miya, the household helper who had worked for the family since Salman was little, and Pak Eko, the security guard who had long been considered a member of the family.

“Blow out the candles, Young Master Salman!” Bi Miya exclaimed, clapping her hands.

Salman chuckled. “I’m seventeen now, Bi. Stop treating me like a little kid.”

Bi Miya raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Does turning seventeen automatically make you an old man?”

A burst of laughter filled the room. Pak Eko, standing not far from the door, joined in.

“That’s right, Young Master. No matter how old you get, you’ll always be a little boy in Bi Miya’s eyes.”

Salman shook his head in amusement. “Come on, Pak Eko! You’re taking her side, too.”

Nauval smiled at his son. “All right, all right. Enough joking around. Make a wish before the candles burn out on their own.”

Salman fell silent for a moment. He gazed at the seventeen candles before him. He did not wish for a new car, a luxurious house, or an overseas vacation.

He simply closed his eyes. In his heart, he prayed that his family would always be blessed with good health and happiness. Then—

Fwoooosh!

He blew out the candles.

Applause immediately filled the room. Sinta embraced her son.

“Happy birthday, Sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Mom.” Salman returned his mother’s embrace.

Nauval then stepped forward. He was holding a small black box.

“Now, here’s your gift from Dad.”

Salman accepted the box. “A gift?” he repeated, caught by surprise.

Nauval nodded. “Yes, Son. Open it.”

Salman opened the box. Inside lay a key with a black-and-red keychain.

He frowned in confusion. “Th-this is…”

Nauval merely smiled. “Come to the garage, Son.”

Salman followed his father. The moment the garage door opened, he froze.

A sport motorcycle stood before him.

Its black body looked magnificent, accented by striking red details. The surface gleamed beneath the garage lights. Its design was sporty and aggressive, yet elegant.

Salman approached it slowly.

“A motorcycle?”

Nauval nodded. “Yes. Black-Red.”

Salman gently ran his hand over the fuel tank.

“This must have cost a fortune, Dad.”

“Am I not allowed to give my own son a present? Huh?”

“N-no, that’s not what I meant, Dad.” Salman smiled. “I’m just afraid you’re spoiling me too much.”

Nauval chuckled. “I’m giving it to you precisely because I know you won’t misuse what you have.”

Salman looked at his father.

Nauval patted him on the shoulder.

“This motorcycle isn’t meant to show people that you’re rich. Use it when necessary. Take good care of it. And most importantly…” He paused briefly. “Never think you’re better than someone else just because you have something they don’t.”

Salman nodded. “All right, Dad. I understand.”

From behind them, Bi Miya appeared carrying a tray of traditional cakes.

“Wow! That motorcycle is handsome, Young Master!”

Pak Eko, standing near the garage door, immediately chimed in.

“Of course it is! Just as handsome as its owner!”

Salman laughed. “You’re something else, Pak Eko.”

Bi Miya pointed at the motorcycle. “Young Master, don’t forget to take me along whenever you go out, okay?”

Salman looked at her in confusion. “Where do you want to go, Bi?”

“Wherever you’re going! I want to ride on the motorcycle with you, Handsome Young Master.”

“You want to ride a sport bike, Bi Miya?”

“Of course I do!”

“Aren’t you afraid of falling?”

Bi Miya snorted. “As long as I don’t fall in love, I’ll be fine!”

Pak Eko burst into loud laughter. Salman shook his head with a smile.

That was the kind of warmth that made the Alfarisi family’s grand house feel like an ordinary home. Despite their immense wealth, Salman had never considered himself superior to others. He often helped Bi Miya carry groceries, assisted Pak Eko in moving things around, and occasionally slipped money to the cleaners working near their home without telling anyone.

Nauval and Sinta had never taught him that wealth was the measure of a person’s worth. They had taught him the opposite: the more a person possessed, the greater their responsibility toward others.

---

That afternoon, the rain finally began to fall. At first, it was only a drizzle, but soon it grew heavier.

Salman stood on the terrace, gazing at Black-Red parked in the garage.

“Finally, I have my own motorcycle,” he murmured.

Sinta came to stand beside him.

“Are you happy, son?”

“Very happy, Mom!” Salman replied enthusiastically.

“School starts again tomorrow. Don’t be late just because you have a new motorcycle.”

Salman smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Sinta studied her son for a moment.

“Sal.”

“Yes, Mayang?”

Mayang was Salman’s affectionate nickname for his mother, derived from Mama Sayang, meaning “Dear Mom.” It was his own special way of expressing how much he loved her.

“Take good care of yourself, okay, sweetheart?”

Salman turned toward her. Something in his mother’s expression made him a little curious.

“Why are you suddenly saying that, Mayang?”

Sinta smiled. “I don’t know. I just wanted to remind you.”

Salman nodded. “Insha Allah, Mom.”

Night fell, and after dinner, Salman went to his bedroom. He opened the window and watched the rain falling relentlessly.

His phone buzzed. A message had arrived in the group chat with his best friends.

Ari: Happy birthday, Young Sultan! Don’t forget to treat us tomorrow!

Salman laughed and replied.

Salman: Keep dreaming!

Not long afterward, another message appeared.

Rukhin: At least buy us some fried snacks. How can a sultan’s son be so stingy?

Salman quickly typed his reply.

Salman: Come early tomorrow. I’ll treat you.

Rukhin’s response appeared immediately.

Rukhin: ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

Salman smiled.

Salman: Seriously. But it’s only fried snacks.

Rukhin: Never mind. I’m taking back my enthusiasm.

Salman chuckled.

That was how his best friends were.

Ari was the friend who understood him best, while Rukhin was a walking source of chaos who somehow always managed to make everything funny.

Salman put his phone down. Yet before going to sleep, he found himself thinking about his mother’s words again.

Take care of yourself.

For some reason, that simple sentence kept echoing in his mind.

---

Elsewhere, not too far from Menteng, a girl was hurrying through the rain. Her name was Meivya Farda, and she was fifteen years old.

She wore a school uniform and a simple white hijab. In her hands was a large bag filled with snacks she usually sold after school.

Meivya lived a modest life with her uncle and aunt, Rian and Sarah. Ever since her parents had passed away, she had been determined not to become a burden to anyone, including the relatives who had taken her in.

That was why Meivya often sold snacks after school. Cassava chips, chocolate-covered bananas, roasted peanuts, and various other treats prepared by Aunt Sarah.

The profits were not much, but to Meivya, earning a little at a time was far better than simply waiting for someone else’s charity.

That afternoon, the rain had made the market streets slippery. Meivya tried to quicken her pace, but someone suddenly bumped into her shoulder.

Thud!

Her bag of snacks nearly fell to the ground.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” the person snapped.

Meivya lowered her head.

“I-I’m sorry.”

A large man stood in front of her. Two others lingered behind him. They were clearly not vendors. Their faces looked rough and intimidating.

One of them glanced at Meivya’s bag.

“What are you selling?”

“Snacks, sir,” Meivya answered, her voice trembling.

“Let me see!”

Meivya handed him several packets.

The man laughed mockingly.

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go home.” Meivya tried to take her merchandise back, but the man grabbed her arm.

Meivya flinched.

“Let go!”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, pretty girl!”

His two companions laughed.

Meivya began to panic. She tried to pull her arm free.

“Let me go!”

“Why are you so scared, huh?”

One of the men stepped closer. Meivya backed away until her back hit the wall of a nearby stall.

The rain poured harder. Nobody seemed to notice what was happening. Or perhaps they had noticed but chose not to get involved.

Meivya swallowed nervously.

“Don’t mess with me, or I’ll scream that you’re thieves!”

One of the thugs laughed.

“Look at that. The kid’s got some guts.”

His hand reached toward her again. But before he could touch her—

A voice rang out from behind them.

“Hey! Stop right there!”

All three men turned around.

A teenage boy stood a few meters away. His black jacket was soaked from the rain. Behind him was a black-and-red sport motorcycle.

Salman.

He had just stepped out after buying something at a convenience store near the market. His gaze was calm, but there was a firmness in his expression that immediately changed the atmosphere.

“If you want trouble,” Salman said, “pick on someone who can actually fight back! Don’t go around bullying girls!”

One of the thugs sneered.

“You little brat! Still wet behind the ears!”

Salman placed his shopping bag on the motorcycle seat.

“You think you can take us on?” the thug challenged.

Salman took a deep breath.

“I don’t want any trouble with you.” He stepped forward. “But you’re the ones who started it.”

One of the thugs attacked first.

Whoosh!

A fist flew toward Salman’s face. Salman dodged, pivoted, and—

Crack!

His elbow struck the attacker’s arm, making the man grimace in pain.

The second thug charged. Salman blocked his punch, then shoved him backward, sending him stumbling.

The third tried to attack from behind.

Meivya instinctively shouted, “Behind you!”

Salman ducked.

Whoosh!

A punch sailed over his head. He immediately spun around and kicked his opponent’s legs out from under him.

Crash!

In less than a minute, all three men were sprawled on the ground.

Salman did not chase them. He simply stood in the rain, making sure they would not attack again.

“Get out of here!” he ordered.

One of the thugs glared at him with hatred.

“You!”

“You what?” Salman snapped, pointing toward the market exit. “Get lost before I change my mind!”

The three men finally got to their feet and fled.

Meivya remained frozen in place.

Salman approached her.

“Are you okay?”

Meivya shook her head slightly, still shaken.

“I-I’m okay, sir. I’m fine.”

Salman noticed her bag of snacks lying on the ground. He immediately helped her gather them.

“Here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Meivya said sincerely.

Salman handed her the bag. Then his eyes fell on a packet of snacks that had been soaked by the rain.

“What a waste,” he murmured. “That’s a shame.”

Meivya gave him a small smile.

“It’s only one packet, sir.”

Salman took some money from his wallet.

“How much for everything?”

Meivya stared at him in surprise.

“W-what for, sir?”

“I’m buying them,” Salman replied.

“B-but there are only a few packets left.”

“Exactly. I might as well buy the rest and help you finish your sales for the day.” Salman handed her the money with a smile.

Meivya hurriedly shook her head.

“That’s too much, sir!”

“Consider the extra money compensation for making me get involved earlier.” Salman smiled.

Meivya looked at him in confusion.

“So you helped me just so you could buy my snacks?”

Salman smiled back.

“If I say yes, will you believe me?”

For the first time since the incident, Meivya let out a small laugh.

The rain continued to fall. Yet somehow, the atmosphere between them felt much warmer.

“You look kind of familiar,” Salman remarked. “Like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Well, we go to the same school, don’t we? I’m in tenth grade, and you’re in twelfth, right?”

“Ohhh, that explains it!” Salman exclaimed, patting his forehead. Then he held out his hand. “By the way, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves. My name is Salman. What’s yours?”

“Meivya Farda, sir. You can call me Vya.” She accepted his handshake.

They shook hands for a few seconds before letting go. Silence settled between them for a moment.

Meivya glanced at the black-and-red motorcycle behind Salman.

“That… is your motorcycle?”

“Yes. Why?” Salman asked.

“It’s beautiful. Really cool!”

Salman chuckled.

“I call it Black-Red.”

Meivya nodded.

“Ohhh…”

Salman glanced at the sky, which was still pouring rain.

Then he turned toward Meivya.

“Vya.”

“Yes, Salman?”

“How are you getting home?”

“On foot.”

Salman frowned.

“On foot?”

Meivya nodded.

“My house isn’t too far from here.”

Salman looked at the road ahead. It was still wet, and water had begun to collect in several places.

“Then let me take you home.”

Meivya immediately shook her head.

“No, thank you, Salman.”

“Why not?”

“My house is nearby. I can get home by myself,” she replied.

Salman pointed at the rain still pouring around them.

“In weather like this?”

Meivya offered a small smile.

“I’m used to it.”

“Just because you’re used to something doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”

Meivya fell silent.

Salman then took a spare helmet hanging from the back of his motorcycle.

“Put this on.”

Meivya stared at the helmet.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“You really don’t have to. I don’t want to trouble you.”

Salman chuckled.

“If taking a friend home is such a burden, then who am I supposed to take home?”

Meivya fell silent at the word friend. For some reason, that one simple word made her heart feel warm.

“But…”

“No buts.” Salman held out the helmet. “Besides, you were just harassed by those men. I don’t want to take any chances.”

Meivya looked at him for a few seconds.

“I really don’t want to be a bother.”

“Then just consider it an excuse for me to take my new motorcycle out for a ride.”

Meivya laughed softly.

“What kind of excuse is that?”

“A perfectly reasonable one.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“As long as it works,” Salman replied.

Meivya laughed again. Finally, she accepted the helmet.

“All right.”

Salman smiled.

“That’s more like it.”

He helped make sure the helmet strap was fastened properly.

“There. All set.”

“Thank you, Salman.”

“Hold on tight, okay?”

Meivya nodded. Salman climbed onto Black-Red and started the engine.

Vroooom!

The roar of the sport motorcycle echoed between the market stalls.

Meivya carefully climbed onto the back seat. At first, she looked hesitant.

Salman glanced back at her.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on, Vya.”

Meivya gripped the rear of the seat.

Salman immediately spoke up.

“Not like that. Hold on properly.”

Meivya froze.

“What do you mean?”

“Hold on to my jacket. That way, you won’t fall.”

Meivya’s face instantly turned red. But with the rain getting heavier, she eventually obeyed. Her hands slowly gripped the back of Salman’s jacket.

“Done,” she said.

“All right. Let’s go.”

Black-Red slowly pulled away from the market.

Salman did not ride fast. The road was slippery, and the rain had reduced visibility. Every now and then, he checked through his rearview mirror to make sure Meivya was all right.

Meanwhile, Meivya remained quiet throughout the journey. It was the first time she had ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle with a boy she had only just met.

Strangely, she did not feel afraid.

Instead, she felt a sense of security she could hardly explain.

After Salman rode away with Meivya, one of the thugs from earlier emerged at the end of an alley. He took out his phone.

“Boss…” His voice was low. “I’ve found the girl.”

He paused.

“And there’s a boy who interfered.”

A muffled voice came from the other end of the call. The thug stared at the road where Salman had disappeared.

“I don’t know his name yet.” He narrowed his eyes. “But his motorcycle is black and red.”

Beep!

The call ended.

---

Meanwhile, Salman continued riding Black-Red through the rain with Meivya sitting behind him.

He had no idea that his encounter with an ordinary girl at the market had just opened the door to a great secret.

A secret that would gradually draw his family into its depths.

A secret his father had kept hidden for years.

And without Salman realizing it, that rainy afternoon was no ordinary rainy afternoon.

It was the beginning of a story.

A fateful encounter that would eventually change the lives of two people from completely different worlds.

Salman Alfarisi and Meivya Farda.

To be continued…