Arka's breath came in short, ragged gasps.
His lungs felt like they were on fire, yet the adrenaline pumping through his veins rendered the biting chill of the storm almost nonexistent. Clouds of warm vapor burst from his lips, instantly devoured by the wet, earth-scented wind.
His feet hammered against the wet asphalt as he sprinted through the pristine, sterile streets of the elite residential complex. He blurred past rows of minimalist modern houses with low fences and blazing LED garden lights.
This district was the perfect specimen of 21st-century urban planning: orderly, clean, uniform, and... utterly boring.
The paving stones reflected the golden glow of the streetlamps, creating a stable path of light that stood in stark contrast to Arka's wild, hurried strides.
Then, he reached the end of the road.
The place where the smooth asphalt surrendered to nature.
Looming before him was an old perimeter wall, two meters high and choked with wild ivy. A massive, rusted wrought-iron gate stood slightly ajar, letting out a soft squeal—creeeeak—as the wind brushed against it, as if welcoming him with a voice from the past.
Beyond that gate, the world changed completely.
Gone were the manicured Japanese grass lawns. In their place lay a sprawling yard that more closely resembled a small forest. Ancient rain trees towered overhead, their gigantic branches muffling the roar of the storm, transforming the harsh battering of the rain into a soft, mysterious hiss.
The thick scent of petrichor—a blend of wet soil, moss, and old bark—enveloped the entire area. Calming. Primal. Magical.
And in the center of that lush darkness stood the house.
The structure was an anomaly. A monument that refused to bow to the passage of time.
It was a massive stilt house crafted entirely from ancient teak. Its color had darkened with age, now glistening wet under the rain's embrace. The architecture was archaic, featuring intricate carvings on the support pillars and large windows that looked like eyes staring out into the gloom. Amidst the siege of modern concrete and glass, Arka's home was a heart of history that still beat.
Boom!
Under the flash of lightning that occasionally tore through the sky, the lines of the old carvings looked like veins of life stretching across the walls of the house.
Splash! Splash!
Arka sprinted across the slick stone path, leaping over puddles of brown water. Muddy splashes hit his calves, but his pace didn't slow in the slightest.
The only warm light in the dark structure glowed from the kitchen window on the side. An inviting, incandescent yellow.
As he drew closer, his nose caught something that overpowered the smell of the rain. Something heavenly.
The spicy kick of ginger, savory garlic, and rich chicken broth.
The aroma was like a warm hand yanking him by the collar to get home immediately.
"Steamed chicken!" he muttered, his mouth watering instantly. He picked up the pace.
Thud!
He landed on the wooden porch, which groaned under his weight. Without bothering to take off his soaked sneakers, he grabbed the handle of the heavy wooden door and shoved it open.
"GRAMPS! I'M HOME!" he shouted, his voice echoing into the very bones of the wooden house. "WHERE'S THE CHICKEN?!"
"YOU IDIOT!"
A voice—raspy, heavy, and dripping with authority—struck like lightning from the kitchen.
An old man, thin but upright—with wiry muscles still clearly visible despite his twilight years—turned from the old stove. He wore only a white singlet and loose black trousers. His right hand gripped a large soup ladle as if it were a broadsword.
The wrinkles on his arm grew taut as he brandished the utensil.
"You want to flood the house, huh?! Your shoes! Get into dry clothes and sit down properly!" he scolded fiercely.
Arka just grinned broadly. The scolding sounded like music to his ears.
"Yeah, yeah, you nag."
He kicked off his wet sneakers onto the shoe rack, then walked into the dim living room.
Thump.
He tossed the heavy backpack filled with 'academic disasters' onto the wooden floor. Without hesitation, he pulled his soaked t-shirt over his head, wrung it out slightly until water dripped, and threw it carelessly onto the back of a rattan chair.
The cold air immediately bit at his bare skin, but the warmth of the house quickly embraced him.
Rainwater dripped from the tips of his black hair onto his shoulders. Under the dim light of the chandelier, Arka's physique was exposed.
It wasn't the bulky body of a bodybuilder. It was a fighter's build. Lean, dense muscle, dry and sharply defined—the result of the torture known as dawn wooden-sword training with his grandfather since he could walk. The lines of his back moved fluidly as he shook the water from his hair like a wet dog.
"Put a shirt on, brat..." his grandfather grumbled again, this time walking to the dining table to set down a small bowl of ginger and chili sauce.
His sharp eyes—eagle eyes that had yet to succumb to age—glanced at Arka with irritation. It was a familiar look: fierce on the outside, warm on the inside.
"Later," Arka replied casually.
"I'm not a frail old man who catches a cold easily."
"Bah! Drop dead then," his grandfather snorted, turning his back to return to the kitchen.
Seconds later, he returned.
This time, he carried a large ceramic platter billowing with steam.
atop it, a whole poached chicken (Pek Cam Kee) lay majestically. Its skin glistened with sesame oil, garnished with crispy fried garlic and slices of green scallion. The aroma exploded in the room, instantly killing the musty smell of the rain.
His grandfather placed the plate down with a slight clatter in the center of the table. Tak.
"Eat. Finish it. Don't leave a single bone."
Arka didn't need to be told twice.
"Happy birthday to me!"
He snatched up his chopsticks, uncaring of his hair still dripping water onto the floor, and immediately launched an assault on a chicken drumstick.
He ate ravenously. Brutally. The hunger from pulling an all-nighter, the stress of college assignments, and the chill of the rain—all of it was obliterated by the warmth of his grandfather's cooking. The chicken was tender, savory, and warm.
The sound of his chewing clashed with the hiss of the rain outside, creating the harmony of a living home.
Arka's mouth was still full of a massive spoonful of rice and meat. His cheeks bulged. As he chewed, he looked at his grandfather who sat silently across from him, only drinking tea, not eating.
"Gramps," he said, his voice muffled. He swallowed with difficulty.
"Weird."
His grandfather simply raised one eyebrow. That thick white brow went up half a centimeter—a sign he was listening.
"You never say happy birthday," Arka continued honestly, pointing at the chicken leg with the tip of his chopstick.
"Usually, I'm just told to run laps around the village or practice my stance. But why... is this year different? There's a whole chicken... special ginger sauce..."
His grandfather didn't answer.
The old man just watched Arka eat. His expression was unreadable in the shadows of the lamp. The hard lines of his face seemed to soften slightly, but his eyes hid a cunning glint.
Silence for a moment. There was only the sound of Arka slurping broth.
Then, his grandfather moved.
Zip.
He pulled something from the drawer of the small table beside him. A large envelope—thick, and dull brown.
He placed it on the table, next to Arka's rice bowl. The envelope was unnaturally thick. Bulging.
"A gift for you," his grandfather said briefly. Flat.
Arka stopped chewing. His eyes shifted from the chicken to the envelope.
"Huh? That's new. Are you senile?"
Still with greasy hands, he put down his chopsticks. He reached for the thick envelope.
Heavy.
His heart pounded. With piqued curiosity, he tore open the seal. He stuck two fingers inside and pulled the contents out.
Arka's eyes widened until they nearly popped out of his skull.
It wasn't a will. It wasn't a greeting card.
It was cash.
Stacks of the highest denomination banknotes, tied neatly with market rubber bands. The distinct smell of musty old money hit his nose.
He froze. His brain performed a rapid calculation. The amount was insane. This wasn't just "pocket money." This was enough to buy a used sportbike or treat his entire campus batch. It exceeded the total transfers from his father and mother combined, multiplied by two.
Arka's jaw dropped.
He slowly lifted his head, staring at his grandfather with a look of horror mixed with awe.
"Gramps..."
He swallowed, his voice a whisper.
"...Did you... rob a bank? Or did you sell a kidney?"
"You insolent brat!"
WHACK!
The soup ladle flew fast, landing smoothly on the crown of Arka's head.
"Ouch!" Arka instinctively rubbed his head.
"That hurts, Gramps!"
"Eat and don't ask so many questions!" His grandfather retracted his weapon, his face remaining impassive as if he hadn't just clubbed his grandson.
"But Gramps... this... this is a lot," Arka stared at the pile of money with trembling hands. A silly grin slowly bloomed on his face.
"Grandpa... are you actually an undercover Sugar Daddy?"
His grandfather gave a soft snort. He reached for his teacup, blowing the steam casually.
"I scammed your mother," he said calmly. Flat. Sinless.
Arka froze. "Huh?"
"I said the roof was leaking badly and needed emergency structural repairs. She transferred the money immediately."
His grandfather slurped his tea. Srrrp.
"And I also scammed your father," he continued casually.
"I said the house foundation was being eaten by termites and needed concrete injection. He transferred double."
His grandfather set down the cup. His thin lips twitched, then formed a cunning smirk of victory.
"HAHAHAHAHA... those two fools. They are so busy fighting for attention. Sending money on the same day because they refuse to lose to one another."
Arka's mouth hung open. The chopsticks in his hand clattered to the table.
Click.
He stared at the old man before him.
His Father's message: "Don't tell your mother."
His Mother's message: "Don't play around with girls."
They were busy suspecting each other and competing, while the real enemy—the criminal Mastermind—sat comfortably here, eating steamed chicken, enjoying the loot from the cold war between his son and daughter-in-law.
The horror on Arka's face slowly shifted.
His face turned red. His shoulders shook.
PFFTTT—
Laughter exploded.
"GRAMPS! THAT'S INSANE!" Arka yelled, hysterical.
"MOM AND DAD... THEY... HAHAHAHA!"
Arka laughed so hard he clutched his cramping stomach. He pointed at his grandfather rudely.
"Grandpa... you are a legend! A master con artist!" he exclaimed between laughs.
"Oh God... no wonder there's chicken! This isn't my birthday party! It's a celebration of your successful fraud!"
His grandfather just chuckled softly, the sound raspy like sandpaper, but his eyes twinkled with mischief.
The old house, usually quiet and eerie, was now filled with the laughter of two generations of Sagara laughing at the world.
✧ ✧ ✧
Half an hour later.
Arka's chopsticks landed in his slick, clean bowl. The steamed chicken was nothing but bones. He let out a soft burp—urp—and patted his happily distended stomach.
"Whoa... crazy full. Thanks, Big Boss."
He started gathering the dirty plates.
"I'll wash the..."
"Move."
Even before Arka could stand, his grandfather was already behind him. A strong old hand shoved Arka's back away.
"Go to your room. Sleep. Don't wake up late tomorrow, we have training," he ordered. His tone brooked no argument. He picked up the stack of dirty plates deftly.
"Yeah, yeaaah... Aye aye, General," Arka surrendered.
Clutching the thick envelope of "dirty money" tightly to his chest, Arka trudged out of the dining room. His steps were heavy and lazy, dragging across the creaking wooden floor.
He entered his dark room.
THUD!
Arka collapsed onto his hard but comfortable kapok mattress. He was still shirtless, having forgotten to put one on. The cold air, a full belly, and mental exhaustion were the most potent sleeping pills.
He stared at the ceiling, illuminated by flashes of lightning from outside the window.
A wide grin was still plastered on his face.
"Huge success..." he mumbled, his eyes starting to close.
"Crazy Grandpa... Crazy Dad... Crazy Mom..."
"Crazy family..."
In less than a minute, his breathing evened out. Soft snoring followed. Arka fell into a deep sleep, hugging his money, amidst the storm raging outside, guarded by his "con artist" grandfather washing dishes in the kitchen.
The best birthday ever.
_______ ✧ _______ ☾⚜☽ _______ ✧ _______