Rebirth in Mana: Tales of Contraria

[Yogyakarta, RSUP Dr. Sardjito, Paviliun Cendrawasih]

Beep... Beep...

A soft rhythm echoed through a foggy silence.

Satria's eyes fluttered open, slow and reluctant, catching the flicker of white fluorescent lights above. The ceiling stared back—plain, sterile, and cold, like a stranger's face. He didn't know it. He didn't know this place.

His vision swam in and out of focus. The lights seemed too bright. He blinked slowly, again and again, but the blur only thinned, never vanished. Everything around him felt… wrong. Off. Unfamiliar.

A sharp scent flooded his nose—antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, plastic. Hospitals. That unmistakable blend of cleaning chemicals and sterile air. He inhaled shallowly. It hurt. His chest throbbed with a dull, pressing ache.

Satria tried to move. First his fingers, then his arms. Nothing. A dry, raspy breath escaped his lips.

His body didn't respond like it should. It felt distant, like a forgotten coat worn by someone else. He willed his arms to rise. They didn't. Panic prickled beneath his skin.

Why can't I move?

He tried to call out. His throat rasped. No sound came. No words. Just dry air scraping past cracked lips.

Beep... Beep…

The monitor beside him remained steady, indifferent.

He tilted his head—barely. A tangle of thin plastic tubes snaked into his skin. One trailed from his body—an IV drip, hanging from a quiet metal stand. Another curved toward his nose, feeding him shallow breaths.

In the faint distance, a clock ticked steadily, each second loud and lonely.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The pain in his chest pulsed stronger now. Throbbing. His head felt heavy, like it had been split and patched with fog.

Flashes returned—

Bright lights.

Tires screaming.

A deafening crash.

Then—nothing.

He blinked hard, trying to remember. What happened?

Where was he before this?

A smell hit him next—an old memory. Faint cologne, bleach, fabric softener. It tugged something deeper.

His grandfather.

The hospital visits.

He remembered standing beside a bed like this once, small fingers clutching a chair as he watched a man he loved slowly fade away.

Am I... dying too?

The room was plain. Pale walls, a muted curtain, a ceiling that offered no answers. Beyond the door, muffled voices drifted in and out—too far to reach. Too far to care.

Satria blinked again, slower this time.

He was still here.

But not all of him. 

The door creaked open with the softest sound—click... swish.

A woman entered, her steps light as falling feathers. She wore a green nurse's uniform, sleeves neatly folded, a name tag swaying gently with each movement. Her presence was calm, like a warm breeze cutting through the sterile chill of the hospital room.

She didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. Her movements carried a quiet grace, practiced and gentle. With careful hands, she closed the door behind her, then walked over to Satria's bedside, eyes scanning the monitors without panic, only focus.

"Oh, you are awake sir," she said softly. "Good morning."

Her voice was smooth and kind, like someone speaking to a frightened child. Satria blinked slowly. That same blur clouded his vision, but the figure in green drew into clarity. He saw her eyes—they were kind, steady. Not shocked. Not afraid.

She pulled the stool beside the bed and sat down quietly, not making him feel observed, but accompanied. Then she leaned in and pressed her cool fingers to his forehead, brushing away a stray lock of damp hair.

"Hmm," she murmured gently, more to herself than to him. 

Satria's head twitched slightly—barely noticeable, but it was movement. His blinks came again, slower, more deliberate. The nurse noticed. Her smile bloomed softly, not forced or formal, just… warm.

She reached for her stethoscope, looping it into place before placing it gently over his chest. The room went still except for the faint lub-dub... lub-dub echo through the instrument. She nodded to herself, then looked at Satria.

"Heartbeat's strong. That's good."

She didn't say it like a doctor. She said it like someone giving him permission to hope.

She glanced at the IV bag, adjusted the flow slightly, then reached for the blanket at his side. With gentle fingers, she pulled it up over his chest, tucking it in with the same care a mother might give a sleeping child.

"The doctor will come soon, okay?" she said, brushing his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand. "You're not alone."

Satria blinked again. His dry throat couldn't speak, but in that small moment, her presence made him feel… seen. Not just as a patient, but as a person.

Before leaving, she paused by the door, turned, and looked back. Her eyes lingered a second longer, offering silent reassurance.

Then—click—she slipped out.

The machines kept humming—beep... beep...—but the fear didn't feel so heavy now.

Not gone. Just a little lighter.

Click.

The door opened again—this time with quiet intent.

A man stepped into the room. He moved with an ease that came from routine, but not carelessness. His white coat was crisp, a stethoscope looped neatly around his neck. Though his face looked youthful, streaks of gray threaded through his hair, and his eyes held the kind of calm only experience could shape.

He approached the bed without rushing, his presence steady as a heartbeat.

Satria blinked at him, the world still swimming at the edges. The man's name tag came into focus as he leaned forward slightly. It's written, Dr. Hendra Kurniawan.

"Good morning, Mr. Satria Kusuma Wijaya," the doctor said with quiet clarity. "I'm Dr. Hendra. I'll be checking on you now."

He took a penlight from his pocket and clicked it on with a soft snap.

"Look here for me," he murmured.

The light pierced through the haze. Satria's eyes twitched, struggling to follow the glow. He blinked. The doctor shifted the beam gently from one side to the other.

"Good… your pupils are reactive." He nodded, muttering more to himself than to Satria. "No signs of neurological trauma. That's a relief."

His fingers pressed lightly at Satria's wrist, checking the pulse manually this time, then glanced at the heart monitor for confirmation. Everything looked routine. Stable.

But Satria's lips moved. Trembled, barely parting. No sound came. Just the desperate effort to speak.

His brow furrowed. He tried again. A broken breath. A question forming without words. His eyes begged for answers.

"…Wha… exa…happ… o me…?"

Dr. Hendra hesitated. He knew what Satria was trying to say. He stood a little straighter, letting out a soft sigh through his nose. There was something heavy in the pause between them.

"I know you must be confused," he said gently. "But… it's better if we wait. Your parents are on their way."

Satria's head twitched. No. That wasn't enough.

He moved again—slightly more this time. His head shifted side to side in a slow shake. His eyes locked on the doctor's. Tell me, they pleaded.

Dr. Hendra stepped closer, his voice still calm, but firmer now. "I understand, Satria. I do. But this conversation… it should happen when your parents are here. You need to rest."

Satria's gaze flicked away in frustration. His neck strained to turn just a little—and that's when he noticed it.

The blanket beside him, laid so neatly before… had no shape underneath.

No curve. No rise. Just a flat stretch of fabric where his arm should be.

A chill slithered down his spine. His breathing quickened. Something wasn't right. Something was missing.

"…What… happened… to… my…arms?"

The question hung in the air like a held breath.

Dr. Hendra didn't answer right away. His expression shifted—eyebrows drawn, lips tight, gaze lowered. He looked toward the door for a moment, as if hoping someone else might come in, take over, say what he didn't want to say.

No one came.

He let out a slow, heavy breath and moved closer to Satria's bedside, his voice barely above a whisper.

"There… was an accident," he began. "A bad one. A vehicle collision. High speed. You were unconscious when they brought you in."

The world narrowed. The room felt smaller, walls pressing in.

"You had internal injuries… broken ribs… major blood loss."

He paused, jaw tightening. "But the worst damage… was to your arms."

Satria blinked, confused.

"They were crushed, beyond saving. We… we had to make a decision." His voice cracked slightly. "It was either remove them… or lose you entirely."

There it was. The truth.

At first, silence.

Then—

"No…" Satria's breath hitched. "No… no no no—"

His body thrashed, weakly, desperately. He turned his head sharply, eyes wide, staring down at the side of the bed. The blanket moved slightly from the motion—revealing nothing beneath. No shape. No arm. Just a hollow space where part of him should have been.

"NO!!"

Pain ripped through his voice. His whole face twisted as if the truth physically struck him. He tried to sit up, to reach, to see—but his body wouldn't obey. He flailed what he didn't have. His chest rose and fell in sharp, panicked breaths.

Dr. Hendra stepped forward quickly, hands raised. "Satria—please—don't move—"

Satria screamed.

It wasn't just pain—it was grief, confusion, terror. A sound torn from somewhere deep, raw and feral. His voice broke as it echoed off the sterile white walls and spilled into the hallway beyond.

"AHHHHHH—!!"

The doctor moved closer, one hand on the bed's railing, the other reaching out but never quite touching.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, guilt heavy in every word. "I'm… so sorry."

But Satria didn't hear him.

He kept screaming. Louder. A cry that said more than words ever could. A scream no one in the hospital would forget.

And in that moment, everything—

The machines, the light, the breath of the world— froze around the sound of a man's heart breaking.

Satria's scream tore down the hallway like a siren of grief—loud, raw, endless.

It was that sound that met his parents the moment they stepped off the elevator. They froze mid-step, their bags still clutched in hand, breath stolen by panic.

"That's him—" his mother whispered, her voice already breaking.

Without waiting, she ran.

Tak… tak… tak—her shoes struck the tile floor in a sharp, urgent rhythm. His father followed closely behind, jaw clenched, eyes wide but focused.

The nurse barely had time to point before they burst into Room 402.

Satria's voice cracked mid-scream as they entered, the sound crumbling into ragged sobs. He lay trembling, eyes glazed with tears, throat raw from the cry that had drained him.

His mother's heart shattered at the sight.

"Satria…!" she gasped, rushing to his side. Her hand flew to his face, brushing back sweat-damp hair. Her tears fell freely now, landing on his cheeks, mingling with his own.

"I'm here. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here…"

Satria whimpered—low, soft, a fragile sound that barely passed his lips. "M-mom…"

His father stood at the foot of the bed, fists curled at his sides. His shoulders trembled once, but he forced himself to remain upright, strong—for them.

"You're okay," he said gently, voice thick with emotion. "We're here now. You're not alone."

Satria blinked slowly, struggling to keep his eyes open. Exhaustion poured over him, heavy and final. His breathing grew shallow.

He closed his eyes. The world dimmed.

His mother leaned closer, pressing her forehead lightly to his temple, rocking gently, whispering nothing in particular—just the sound of love.

His father looked away, blinking fast, his jaw tight as stone.

The room quieted, the weight of pain settling like dust.

Dr. Hendra stood nearby, hands folded in front of him. "There's still a long road ahead," he said gently. "Physical therapy… psychological support. He'll need time to heal. But there's a path forward."

They listened. Not with hope. Not yet. But with something quieter—the will to endure.

And as the machines hummed softly, and Satria drifted into fragile sleep, the tears kept falling in silence.

The light outside faded, and with it, the world inside the room dimmed. 

The once-sterile white walls turned soft gray as shadows stretched across the floor like reaching fingers. The sun had vanished behind the city skyline, leaving only the humming glow of the hallway lights beyond the door.

The sounds of the hospital softened into distant echoes—muffled footsteps, the occasional rustle of paper, a far-off cough. They all faded until only the machines remained.

Beep... beep… A steady pulse, mechanical and indifferent.

Satria lay still beneath the blanket, his chest rising just enough to prove he was alive. Barely. He didn't move. He didn't dream. He simply existed, a quiet shape in a too-quiet room.

His parents were gone now, called away to rest or perhaps to weep in silence elsewhere. The space they left behind felt colder. Emptier.

The curtain near the window fluttered gently, stirred by a breeze too soft to hear. The IV beside him stood tall and still, its line feeding quiet drops into his veins, a drip that might as well have been time itself ticking forward.

The room was holding its breath.

The night nurse entered briefly, checked the monitors with a glance, adjusted a note on her clipboard, then left with the same silence she came in.

And then—

Stillness.

Deep and undisturbed.

But somewhere, unseen, something dark stirred.

Creeping closer.

Unwelcome.

Unseen.

The bed didn't know. The IV didn't know. Satria didn't know.

The night… It was changing.

CRASH!

The door slammed open with a thunderous bang, wood and metal screeching against the wall. In the dead silence of night, the sound hit like a bomb.

A shadow moved fast—too fast to think, too wild to recognize. A man, face twisted with fury, eyes wide and wild, stormed into the room like a beast unchained. He didn't hesitate. He didn't speak.

He lunged.

His hands went straight for Satria's throat.

Slam!

The bed rocked under the weight as the man gripped Satria's neck with both hands. Fingernails dug into soft skin.

Satria's eyes flew open, but his body couldn't keep up.

He couldn't raise his arms. He had none.

He couldn't scream—his throat had no breath left to spare.

The machines beeped erratically as his chest heaved, gasping, choking.

A nurse passing in the hallway caught a glimpse through the open door. She froze—eyes wide, mouth parted in shock. Then—

"Security! Help!!" she screamed, bolting down the corridor.

Just then, another figure entered in a blur—Satria's father, charging into the room.

"Get away from him!" he roared, grabbing at the attacker's neck, trying to pry him off. The two men struggled, stumbling against the bed, the IV stand crashing to the ground with a sharp clang!

The attacker laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "He deserves it! He was supposed to die!"

He squeezed harder, Satria's skin turning pale beneath his fingers.

Satria gasped, mouth wide, eyes rolling. He thrashed weakly—but with no arms, he couldn't even push. He could only struggle with what little strength remained, each second darker than the last.

His father shoved again, yelling, striking with his fists, desperate. The attacker barely reacted—driven by something deeper than rage. Something unhinged.

Then—THUD!

A security guard arrived, boot crashing into the attacker's ribs. The man crumpled sideways with a grunt, coughing. Another guard tackled him to the floor, arms locked around his torso.

The madman laughed through the pain, even as he was pinned.

"It's done…" he rasped. "He's finished…"

Satria's body slumped back against the pillows.

Still.

Motionless.

Alarms wailed.

Dr. Hendra burst in seconds later, pushing past the crowd. His eyes landed on the boy's pale face—his unmoving chest.

"No pulse!" he shouted, already reaching for the stethoscope.

Everyone in the room froze, breaths caught midair, hearts suspended between beats.

The monitor screamed.

BEEEEEEEP.

A flat, unwavering line of death stretched across the screen. No blips. No rhythm. No heartbeat.

"Code blue!" Dr. Hendra barked. "Get the crash cart—now!"

A nurse darted out the door. Within seconds, the wheels of the cart squealed against the tile floor as she returned, pushing it to the bedside. Cabinets opened, gloves snapped into place. The room transformed—fear turned into action.

"Starting compressions!" one nurse called, climbing up beside the bed. Her hands moved fast, firm, slamming rhythmically into Satria's chest. Bones shifted beneath the pressure.

Thud-thud-thud.

Another nurse fitted a mask over Satria's mouth and began pumping air into his lungs—artificial breath for a body that no longer remembered how to breathe.

Hsshh—pause—hsshh.

"Switch! Go!" Dr. Hendra commanded, taking over compressions, sweat already forming on his brow.

Outside the room, the intruder was dragged down the hall by two guards. His laughter echoed—a sound that scraped at the edges of sanity.

"He's gone!" the man shrieked. "Hahahaha!"

Inside, no one responded. They couldn't.

Every second mattered.

Every second hurts.

"Push one milligram epinephrine," Dr. Hendra ordered. The nurse complied without a word, injecting the syringe into the IV line.

They worked like a machine—fast, desperate, together. But the monitor didn't budge.

Satria's chest rose and fell under pressure, his face pale and still, lips faintly blue.

No flicker in his fingers.

No flutter in his lashes.

They switched again. More compressions. More oxygen.

More silence from the boy who once screamed.

Satria's parents stood against the wall, too stunned to move. His mother's hands covered her mouth. His father stared ahead, fists trembling, unable to speak.

Outside, the hallway was a blur of chaos. Footsteps. Voices. The shrieking laughter grew more distant… but still echoing.

Inside the room—only the harsh beat of hands on flesh. The relentless hiss of air. The soft, endless tone of a flatline.

Minutes passed like hours.

Still no change.

Still no heartbeat.

Dr. Hendra's hands slowed, then stopped, pressed flat against Satria's chest. His breath caught. His eyes flicked up at the screen again, hoping for a change that never came.

Nothing.

He stepped back, jaw tight, chest rising with a restrained sigh of sorrow. "Clear," he said quietly, voice tight with finality.

But then—he turned. "Switch out! Get the defibrillator! Now!"

One of the interns leapt forward, taking his place on compressions as Dr. Hendra grabbed the back of his neck, eyes sharp again. "Go!" he barked.

A nurse spun out of the room, shoes squealing down the hallway.

For a moment, there was only the thud of hands and the hum of silence. Satria's body bounced slightly with each push, lifeless and pale. His parents stood near the wall, unmoving. His mother's lips were pressed tight, her whole body shaking. His father clenched the edge of a chair like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Then—wheels squealed.

The nurse returned with the defibrillator cart. It rolled into place beside the bed. Gel pads were ripped open, their sterile scent mixing with sweat, fear, and despair.

"Charging, two hundred joules," a nurse announced.

Dr. Hendra leaned over, pressing the paddles to Satria's chest—sternum and side.

"Clear."

ZZ-KTCH!

Satria's body arched violently, what remained of his arms twitching, stumps jerking against the sheets. His body collapsed back to stillness.

The line didn't move.

"Again," the doctor said.

ZKTCH!

Another jolt. His body jumped, spasmed. A flicker. 

The monitor blinked— then flatlined again.

"One more!" Dr. Hendra snapped. His voice cracked.

The third shock came.

KTCH!

The body arched—harder this time. The screen lit up.

A flutter. A tiny quiver of a pulse.

Then—

Gone.

The line went flat once more, long and merciless.

Silence followed.

Satria's mother fell to the ground with a sob that splintered through the room like broken glass. She covered her face, unable to breathe through the grief.

His father didn't move.

His tears fell slowly, silently, his hands curled into shaking fists at his sides. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe.

Only the machine did.

Beep... Beep…

One long, final note. Beep...

Dr. Hendra leaned forward one last time, pressing his fingers to the boy's neck.

No pulse. No life.

Only silence, heavy and absolute.

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he nodded once—slowly, like the weight of the world hung from that motion. He signaled for one more round of CPR.

The intern resumed compressions, but they were different now—slower, heavier, hollow with knowing. Each push was a silent goodbye. Each beat a desperate denial of the inevitable.

No one spoke. The team moved like shadows, eyes avoiding the monitor.

Dr. Hendra took one final look at the screen—flat, cold, unforgiving. The same as before. The same it would remain.

He stepped back.

"Time of death…"

His voice broke, the words dry in his throat.

"…Zero two forty-seven."

For a moment, time itself paused.

Then—his mother collapsed beside the bed.

The sound that left her was not a cry. It was deeper than that—a raw, animal grief that tore out from her chest and shattered against the white walls. Her hands grasped the sheets, the rails, anything, as if she could pull her son back from the place he had gone.

Her sobs echoed through the sterile air, loud and endless.

His father remained where he stood. Lips parted, eyes wide. He didn't blink. He didn't speak. Tears slid down his face without resistance—slow rivers tracing the edge of his jaw.

A nurse, gently and without a word, moved forward. She reached for the curtain and pulled it closed with a soft shhkk, shielding the family from the staring beyond. From pity. From the outside world.

The smell of burned skin lingered faintly in the air, clinging to the corners of the room, to the paddles, to the silence.

Dr. Hendra stood at the foot of the bed, his hands trembling, stained with effort and loss. He bowed his head, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

Above them, the ceiling light flickered once.

Cold.

Unmoving.

Merciless.

Tonight, Satria died.