The next morning, the Hutomo residence was like a besieged fortress. The "Sweepers" team patrolled with faces like steel, motion sensors were installed in every corner, and surveillance drones buzzed above like furious giant bees. But all that technology felt useless against enemies who moved like fog, striking precisely at their softest weak point: the psychological.
Audia did not leave her room. She sat at the edge of the bed, hugging a pillow, her eyes swollen and empty. Every sound—the creak of the floor, the hum of the AC, even her own breath—felt like a threat. The image of the black butterfly mobile and the dissected teddy bear still haunted her. The safest space for a mother—her child's room—had been violated.
Alvin, in his study, felt like he was leading a war against ghosts.
The reports from the digital forensic team were always the same: "Clean traces, sir. They're using layered proxies, military-grade encryption."
