Two days after the chaotic incident that shook the plaza, the city now appears to be back to normal on the surface. There are no longer any signs of the raging riots; everything seems to be running as usual. Shopping centers remain open for full hours, the streets are crowded with uninterrupted traffic, and the morning news on television has begun to shift its focus to other issues that capture the public's attention. However, behind this normality, in a small meeting room tucked away in the basement, the atmosphere is clearly far from normal.
The cramped room was enclosed by walls whose white paint was peeling at the corners, as if it had witnessed many important events. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, covered with scattered laptop cables, printouts of the latest online news, transcripts of talk shows from various stations, and seemingly complicated intelligence reports. At one end of the room, a large, silent TV screen replayed a news clip: footage of armed soldiers dramatically pulling a man in a suit off the stage of a social event, while text scrolled across the bottom of the screen reading: "FOUNDATION DISAPPOINTED, AID EVENT DISRUPTED BY AUTHORITIES."
On the left side of the table, Rizal sat silently in his uniform, but without the flashy insignia that usually adorned his shoulders. Rizal's hand clutched a printout of an opinion piece recently published on a popular portal with the provocative title: "The Military Must Learn to Respect Social Work." His jaw tightened every time his eyes fell on the name of the foundation they knew was linked to a dangerous syndicate.
"Look at this," Rizal muttered, placing the paper in the middle of the table to get everyone's attention. "They've managed to turn the tables on us. In the media, they appear to be the victims, while we are portrayed as the perpetrators."
Across from him, Sari stared intently at her laptop screen, opening the active comments section. "Even many of the commenters are defending the foundation," she said softly, almost pleadingly. "Some wrote: 'If not them, who will care about the marginalized residents?' We can't just say, 'it's a syndicate,' without evidence that the general public can really digest."
Fauzan, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, exhaled heavily, as if to emphasize the complexity of the situation. "And if we use the real evidence—photos of the altar, the bones, the village coordinates—they will say we are just making things up, or even worse: call it all the 'work of individuals'."
At the end of the table, Bima sat calmly, his attention focused on the cane leaning against his chair. In front of him were several tables and simple graphs depicting patterns that were not clearly visible to the layman. "I've checked the reporting patterns," he said with confidence. "Every time there is an operation that touches the foundation or security company, within 24 hours there are always at least two opinion articles defending them. The authors are different, the media outlets are diverse, but the style of the sentences is similar. That's not spontaneous. That's orchestration."
Amira nodded in agreement. "It's the same on social media. Suddenly there are lots of new accounts, with generic photos, posting the same thing: 'Don't bother people who have helped the village.'" She decided to show her phone screen to her team members, pointing out the row of comments that looked identical. "Half of these accounts were created just a week before the plaza incident."
In the corner of the room, Maya stood tall with her hands neatly tucked into her jacket pockets, observing the whiteboard covered with important notes. On the board was a simple diagram showing three circles—"Foundation," "Security Company," "Political Figure"—connected by thin red lines full of meaning. Below it, it was clearly written: "Skull Zero: where is it?"
Hasan entered the room carrying two thermoses of coffee and several plastic cups, offering his comments in a humorous style. "You all look like last month's newspaper editorial team," he said, joking a little. "Have you forgotten what it's like to sleep well?"
"We are learning a new type of war that is not easy, sir," replied Dito, who was busy in front of his laptop. He looked like he hadn't showered, but his sharp eyes clearly showed his unyielding determination. "Not bullets, but narratives."
The door, which had been closed for a long time, slowly opened again. Colonel Hendra entered with a firm step, followed by a man in a white shirt without a tie—a consultant they had met at a previous meeting—and a woman from the prosecutor's office. The colonel placed a thin folder on the table, then stood in front of the TV and turned it off with an elegant-looking remote control.
"We won't win if we continue to play on their field," said the Colonel bluntly, hinting at his military cunning. "At the plaza, we initially thought we could catch them red-handed committing cruel acts. But they turned the tables, making us a classic example of 'arrogant authorities'. That was my mistake too. I was too eager, impatient."
Rizal looked at him, full of curiosity. "So, what's the next step, sir? Stay quiet and let them recruit more people through social events without any obstacles?"
The man in the white shirt began to speak, taking the team's attention. "No," he replied firmly. "But we also can't be frontal and open anymore. We need two things: first, a legal path that is completely neat and indisputable; second, a way to break the trust within their own established network."
Fauzan raised his eyebrows, reflecting his uncertainty. "Breaking trust, how so?"
The woman from the prosecutor's office elegantly opened her folder and took out several photos from inside. "We have identified several levels or tiers within their network," she explained as she showed one by one the photos depicting the complex relationships. "The bottom level: volunteers and aid recipients. They believe that all of this is purely social work without any ulterior motives. Middle level: field coordinators, people like the man in a suit on stage. They know there is violence and brutal disappearances, but they believe it is considered 'necessary'. Top level... yes, we call them 'shadows'. No clear names, only mysterious codes, undisclosed accounts, and instructions that are difficult to trace."
He placed a photo in the middle of the table: the man in a suit who was arrested in the warehouse, now seen in a CCTV frame in the interrogation room, wearing prison clothes. "This is the 'middle level'. Officially, he claims to be just an ordinary administrative staff member. But on his cell phone, we found a chat that really caught our attention."
Dito leaned forward with unstoppable curiosity. "Chats with whom?" he asked eagerly.
The man in the white shirt replied, "With an unknown contact, saved only as 'Sir'. No name, just a number that changed frequently. The pattern was clear: every time there was a 'social event', 'Sir' would send detailed instructions. Sometimes accompanied by photos of the location, sometimes just one mysterious sentence: 'Maintain balance'."
Fahri, who had been silent while writing small notes in his notebook, finally raised his head. "'Keep the balance,'" he repeated softly, his tone showing his confusion. "The same sentence in the forest, in the swamp, on the mountain ridge. They use that phrase everywhere."
Hasan nodded wholeheartedly. "The same language, different terrain."
The colonel tapped his finger on the table, giving a warning. "The problem is," he continued, "the 'Father's' contacts are very disciplined and wise. The chats on his cell phone are often automatically deleted, so there are never any detailed discussions that can be used as evidence in court. They have learned from their past mistakes. They will not repeat the mistakes they made in the village."
"So we need a loophole at the middle level," Sari concluded astutely. "People like him. Who know enough about dangerous conditions, but are also close enough to the bottom to feel the pressure."
The female prosecutor nodded confidently. "Exactly. And this is where you all come in." She quickly slid several files toward the team. "You are now spread across several 'civilian roles': some are in foundations with strategic roles, in security companies with broad access, in government offices with important positions. We will use those positions to identify patterns in the field that are not visible to the naked eye. Who often comes to the event, who disappears afterwards without a trace, who starts talking too confidently."
"And?" Maya asked curiously. "What's the next step?"
"Then," replied the man in the white shirt, "we find someone who is easily swayed. A middle manager who is fearful and guilty enough to open his mouth, to make an important confession. Not with threats of bullets or violence, but by showing them that 'the top' won't protect them when things go wrong."
"A reverse operation, a thrilling game," Rizal muttered confidently. "Making them see their own organization as a major threat."
"Realistic?" asked Bima, looking wise.
"Difficult, full of challenges," the Colonel answered honestly, his gaze realistic. "But more realistic than trying to dissolve the foundation through one viral video that could be reversed."
Dito raised his hand confidently. "So I should continue monitoring their communication patterns and find out more?" He pointed to the screen displaying a network graph of mysterious phone numbers. "I've seen several numbers that always appear before big events, then disappear over time. Maybe they're part of their 'monitoring team'."
"Continue that important work," said the Colonel motivatingly. "But make sure not to be too aggressive or hasty. If they get even slightly suspicious, they will definitely change channels, and we will be blind again, losing track."
Rizal tidied up the files in front of him with focus. "What is our specific task, sir, in this operation?"
"In short," replied the Colonel firmly, "you will live two challenging lives. On the surface, you survivors of the forest are undergoing a strategic adaptation program to civilian life. Some of you will officially become foundation staff, some will intern at government offices to gather information, and some will work as security operators with important access. Under the surface, you will observe, record, and report any suspicious activity."
Fauzan chuckled dryly, implying his disbelief. "So we're not just ordinary soldiers serving in the jungle, but also... intelligence agents?"
"If that term makes you more enthusiastic about carrying out this difficult task, then so be it," replied the man in the white shirt wisely. "But remember, this is not a movie. There's no grand heroic soundtrack. What you'll get: long, exhausting work hours, boring meetings, and coffee shop conversations you have to listen to patiently, because that's where these people sometimes let their guard down without realizing it."
Amira sighed deeply, reflecting her uncertainty. "We were trained to track through the forest with focus, not track through a WhatsApp group full of data."
Hasan smiled slightly, showing his wisdom. "But in the forest and on WhatsApp, the same law applies: people who are too confident that they are not being followed will leave too many traces that we can pick up."
Rangga, who had been listening with his hands in his jacket pockets, finally spoke up, questioning his role. "I'm not an officially recognized staff member anywhere," he said. "I don't have a military ID card like the others. But I still have something they don't have."
"What sets you apart?" Sari asked curiously.
"The face of an outsider to this system," Rangga replied confidently. "In unexpected villages on the outskirts, in the boarding houses of workers that are often forgotten, in places where these people recruit 'volunteers' and 'victims' whose identities are unknown, people like me can enter more easily without arousing suspicion. I can sit in a small shop, pretending to know nothing, listening to what people say about the mysterious foundation. They won't be suspicious like they would be if a 'sergeant' came to chat."
The colonel observed Rangga for a moment, then nodded slowly, agreeing with his strategy. "That's why you're here," he said with a sense of responsibility. "But be careful: you are the most vulnerable. No uniform means no official protection to rely on. If something happens—"
"We all know the risks, which are unavoidable," Rangga interrupted firmly. "In the forest, nothing is as official as in a city full of intrigue."
A moment of silence fell over the room. They all knew clearly: this wasn't the first time they had walked without the guarantee of a safe return. It was just that this time, the terrain wasn't cliffs and roots haunting their steps, but rather a difficult-to-understand contract and cameras lurking from various angles.
From the corner of the room, the TV, which had been deliberately turned off, turned back on automatically—an emergency broadcast feature that could not be ignored. All heads turned quickly, focusing on the screen as if welcoming a new threat. A news anchor appeared with a serious face, full of attention to the new news that was about to be delivered.
"Breaking news," he said in a tense tone. "A social foundation volunteer was found dead in his boarding house room on the outskirts of the city. The police suspect this is a case of suicide, while the foundation expresses its deep sorrow and urges people not to speculate further."
Next to the news anchor's picture, a photo of a young man appeared, wearing a T-shirt with the name of the foundation on it. His smile seemed sincere to the camera, but under the photo, it was written clearly: "Volunteer D. (23)".
Dito froze instantly. "That's..." he swallowed hard. "That's one of the names on the list of volunteers I saw in their spreadsheet. He was actively involved in the last two events with enthusiasm."
Fahri stared at the screen with a hardened, emotional gaze. "Suicide?" he said softly, trying to understand. "Or... silenced by an invisible force?"
"Whatever it is," said the prosecutor, issuing a warning, "this is an open message. For other volunteers who are still involved, and perhaps also for those of us who know more. They want to send a message: those who know too much will disappear without a trace."
The colonel turned off the TV again. "We will not jump to conclusions without strong evidence," he said, although his tone clearly implied anger. "But we also won't pretend this is a mere coincidence. Dito, gather all the data on this young man. Who he last communicated with, where he was recruited and verified. Rizal, you and Sari go to the funeral tomorrow, as 'foundation representatives'. Listen carefully, don't talk too much."
Rizal nodded with determination. Sari swallowed hard, thinking deeply.
"Counter-operation," Rizal said softly, repeating the term that had been mentioned earlier. "They've already started with a strategy full of action. They're afraid of leaks, and they're making it a suicide mission. We have to be faster than the fear that's gripping them."
Rangga stared blankly at the table, contemplating the situation. "In the forest, the names of those who are lost are only recorded on stones. In the city, their names are lost in the headlines, and three days later people will forget them in a flash."
"Not this time," Bima replied softly, full of hope. "Not if we work correctly and quickly."
The story then ended with a calm but difficult decision: the war had now moved to a more subtle, slower layer, full of cunning strategies, but no less deadly than the previous battlefield. They were no longer just surviving obvious physical threats, but were directly confronting an organization that held the narrative, unlimited money, and the lives of ordinary people who knew nothing about what was happening. And amidst it all, one question grows increasingly tense and difficult to answer: how far does the hand of "Skull Zero" reach—and does it also have a face in the same building as them?
***
Modern criminal organizations that use fragmented communication and minimal detail have been documented in in-depth investigations of cartels and borderless extremist groups; they deliberately avoid explicit conversations, once revealed on unsafe channels prone to interception.
"Civilian adaptation" programs for military personnel often serve as a realistic cover for non-declarative intelligence assignments, as has been examined in serious studies of aggressive counter-terrorism operations in challenging urban areas.
Penetration into criminal networks is often carried out through figures not directly associated with the military, such as more accepted locals or experienced informal workers, as they are more easily accepted and do not trigger suspicion from existing networks.
Patterns of "voluntary suicide" or key witnesses often emerge and attract attention in cases of protracted violence and corruption syndicates; although not always provable as murder, the context and timing of these incidents often raise reasonable suspicions that cannot be ignored.