Room of
Romance.

Rain struck the ambulance bay hard enough to turn the glass doors into grey water. Inside, Hospital Sufardi was bright, awake, and pretending not to be tired.

Dr Karl Sufardi stood beside the vending machine with a paper cup of iced tea and a plastic fork suspended over mee goreng. The first siren cut through the corridor.

“Where is Zara?”

“Behind you,” said a woman already pulling on gloves.

Rain struck the workshop roof hard enough to wake the indigo pigment sleeping in the cloth.

The unfinished SU-RT01 jacket brightened on Loom 03, blue veins moving through black batik as if the night had found a pulse.

Kapten raised both arms while the cutter pinned the sleeves. The sample was broad through the chest and belly, but the fabric caught beneath his shoulders.

“Ketiak,” he said.