Episode 2

"Back off! Everyone back off! Don't anyone step over the yellow line, or I'll throw you all in a cell tonight!"

Kalandra's shout broke through the noise in Warehouse Number 4 of Tanjung Harapan Port. The atmosphere there was damp, with the smell of seawater mixed with the aroma of old iron rust.

Flashes of camera lights from the documentation team darted around, illuminating a dark corner where a stiff body sat perched on an old shipping container.

It was a terrifying yet beautiful sight—a hallmark of "The Puppeteer."

The victim was a young woman, her red dress hanging neatly. Both her hands were tied up with transparent fishing line, as if she were a marionette doll dancing.

Her face was made up, her lips smiling, but her eyes stared blankly at the leaking warehouse ceiling.

Kalandra burst in, breathless. "Rudi! What's the situation? Don't tell me you didn't find anything again."

Doctor Rudi, a middle-aged man with thick glasses who had been squatting near the body for an hour, looked up. His face was desperate. He roughly removed his latex gloves.

"Nothing, Chief. Absolutely nothing," Rudi complained, shaking his head. "No stab wounds, no strangulation marks on the neck, no signs of struggle. This girl just... died like that. Her heart stopped suddenly."

"Don't mess with me, Rud!" Kalandra snapped. He put his hands on his hips, staring at the corpse in frustration. "There's no way a young, healthy person just drops dead while being dressed up like a circus clown. Check again! Poison? Injections?"

"I've checked her entire skin surface, Kalan! Not a single needle mark. As clean as a newly washed plate." Rudi stood up, patting Kalandra's shoulder gently. "I have to take her to the lab for a full autopsy, but I'm pessimistic. This Puppeteer... he's a ghost. He doesn't leave any DNA traces, fingerprints, or even a cause of death."

Kalandra kicked an old tire lying nearby. "Damn it! Three bodies in two months, and we're still spinning our wheels. The media will tear us apart tomorrow morning."

Kalandra moved away from the forensic team, needing some fresh air. His head was spinning. He leaned against a concrete pillar of the warehouse, reaching into his pants pocket for a cigarette, but remembered he had quit smoking for the police health program last month.

"Chief? Have a drink."

A paper coffee cup from the Star-Mart minimarket was extended to him. Kalandra turned. Sinta, a young policewoman from the administrative division who somehow managed to be at the crime scene, smiled sweetly. Her lipstick was a little too red for a murder situation, and her uniform seemed deliberately tailored at the waist.

"Thanks, Sin. I need some caffeine to keep from going crazy," Kalandra muttered, taking the coffee and immediately gulping it down even though it was still hot.

Sinta didn't move. She stood next to Kalandra, joining him in staring at the forensic team with a contrived look of concern. "Commander looks very pale. You haven't had breakfast yet, have you? And it's already this late."

"Usual. In a hurry," Kalandra replied briefly.

"Oh, that's a shame," Sinta began her attack, lowering her voice as if they were sharing a secret.

"But Commander has a wife at home. Surely Mrs. Zoya prepared something? If I were Commander's wife, I wouldn't let my husband work hard on an empty stomach. Especially since Commander's job is life-threatening."

Kalandra was silent. Sinta's words, although they sounded like concern, were actually pouring gasoline on the fire of his resentment towards Zoya.

The image of his wife's blank face from that morning reappeared. 'There's bread in the jar,' Zoya had said. What kind of wife was that?

"She... has her own things to do," Kalandra replied diplomatically, even though his heart was annoyed.

"What's she busy with, Chief?" Sinta probed again, this time flipping her short hair. "As far as the office staff knows, Mrs. Zoya just stays at home. It's nice, her life is relaxed. Not like us who have to chase criminals in the heat. Commander is too kind, you know. A great man like Commander should have a supportive partner, someone to exchange ideas about cases with, not someone who's just a burden."

Those words hit home. Burden. The same word Kalandra had shouted that morning. Sinta was right. Zoya was indeed useless.

Before Kalandra could respond, the phone in his jacket pocket vibrated longly. The name "DAD" was displayed on the screen. Kalandra sighed heavily. His father—a former General who was tougher than steel—was calling during work hours. This was not a good sign.

"Hello, Dad. Kalan's at a crime scene, there's a body—"

"Come home now." The baritone voice on the other end cut him off mercilessly.

Kalandra held the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen in disbelief. "Dad, this is The Puppeteer case. Kalan can't leave the team. The body was just foun—"

"I don't want to hear any excuses!" his father snapped. "Tonight there's a big family dinner at the main house. Your father-in-law, Mr. Ravendra, is also coming. Your wife is already on her way there. Don't embarrass the family by arriving late or not at all. Do you want to make Zoya look like a neglected wife?"

Kalandra's jaw tightened. Zoya again.

"Dad, but this is an emergency..."

"Your position is a privilege, Kalandra. But family is absolute. You must be there in an hour. Period."

The phone connection was cut off unilaterally.

Kalandra squeezed his phone until his knuckles turned white. His breath was ragged. In front of him was an unsolved corpse, behind him was a team that needed direction, but he was being forced to go home just for a superficial dinner party.

And this was definitely Zoya's fault.

That woman must have complained to her parents that she was lonely, or complained to Kalandra's Dad. Zoya, who was silent and obedient, actually had a sly way of controlling his life through his parents.

"Damn it!" Kalandra cursed loudly, making Sinta jump in surprise.

He turned to look at Raka, who was recording evidence. "Raka! Take over command. Make sure the body is taken to the Police Hospital. I have to leave."

"Huh? But Chief, what about this..."

"Just follow my orders!" Kalandra snapped. He walked quickly away from the crime scene, leaving behind a dead-end case for the sake of a disgusting domestic charade. In his heart, his hatred for Zoya rose another level. That wife was truly a bringer of bad luck.

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