Take And Draw

267

Morning in Jakarta always arrived the same way: the layered noise of motorbikes weaving through traffic, car horns arguing with each other, and the smell of fried rice drifting up from the food stall beneath Raka's apartment. He sat at the small dining table near the window, wearing a worn black T-shirt and shorts, staring at a plate of omelet that had already gone cold.

He chewed slowly, not because the food was special, but because his mind was elsewhere.

He needed to upload today.

YouTube didn't care if someone was tired, uninspired, or mentally drained. The algorithm never paused. The audience never waited. And the numbers—always the numbers—kept moving. Raka had grown used to living between statistics: watch time, retention curves, subscriber counts that rose and fell without explanation.

He finished the last bite, washed the plate, dried it halfheartedly, then returned to his desk. The laptop opened with a familiar hum. A pair of headphones lay beside it. His black notebook sat open to a blank page.

"What kind of video today…" he muttered.

Raka wasn't the kind of creator who could talk aimlessly. His channel focused on mystery stories, strange cases, and quiet anomalies—things that sat uncomfortably between fact and speculation. Content that required research, not reactions. The problem was that he'd already covered most of the "safe" local cases. If he wanted something that would make people stop scrolling, he needed something new.

He typed random keywords into YouTube's search bar: mysterious death, unsolved case, sudden death teenager.

At first, the results were ordinary. Old cases. Cheap conspiracy videos. Thumbnails screaming too loudly to be taken seriously. Then, in the recommendation column on the right, a single video caught his eye.

The title was plain. Almost too plain.

"13-Year-Old Girl Dies Suddenly at Home | US News"

Raka frowned. He didn't click immediately. Stories like this usually ended with a predictable medical explanation. But something held him back. Not the title. Not the channel.

The thumbnail.

It wasn't dramatic. Just an apartment building, police tape, and a small red circle in the corner of the image—as if the editor wanted to point at something but didn't dare make it obvious.

Raka clicked.

The video opened with neutral background music, the kind used in international news segments. Then a female narrator's voice came in—flat, professional, carefully detached.

"A thirteen-year-old girl, Clara Bennett, was reported dead in her family apartment in the United States three days ago."

Raka stopped chewing the gum he hadn't realized was in his mouth.

"According to initial reports, Clara was found unresponsive by her family in the morning. There were no signs of violence and no known history of serious illness."

Images appeared on screen. A family photo. A young girl with brown hair, smiling awkwardly at the camera. She looked… normal. Too normal.

"However, one detail has drawn public attention and raised questions among investigators."

The footage changed. Blurred. But not entirely.

The narrator slowed slightly.

"In an early medical report, a circular marking with a number beside it was found on the victim's thigh. The number was… two hundred and sixty-seven."

Raka straightened in his chair.

The video zoomed in on the censored image. Even through the blur, the shape was clear. A thin circle, precisely formed. And next to it, the number 267.

It didn't look like a wound. It didn't look accidental. It was too clean. Too deliberate.

"Authorities have not released an official statement regarding the meaning of the marking and emphasize that the investigation is ongoing."

The video ended. No follow-up. No speculation. Just raw information, left hanging.

Raka stared at the screen for several seconds after it stopped.

"A number…" he whispered.

He closed the YouTube tab, but his thoughts refused to follow. Clara Bennett. Thirteen years old. Sudden death. No cause. No warning. But a number.

Why a number?

He grabbed his notebook and wrote: Clara Bennett – 13 – sudden death – number 267 (circle) on thigh.

The pen paused there.

The number disturbed him, not because it was mysterious, but because it was specific. If it were a medical code, why place it on the thigh? If it were a hospital mark, why report it publicly? If someone had done this, why leave no other trace?

And why… assign a number?

His mind jumped to a reference he immediately disliked.

Squid Game.

Raka exhaled softly. He hated easy comparisons like that. Too popular. Too lazy. But it was hard to ignore. Numbered participants. Human identities reduced to digits. A system that treated people as entries.

The difference was that Squid Game was a game. There were stages. Rules. A visible structure.

Clara died at home. After breakfast. Without anything else happening.

"If this is a system," Raka thought, leaning back in his chair, "then it's not one that needs consent."

He wrote another note: 3 digits.

Three digits meant a range from 001 to 999. Not small. Not absurd either. A reasonable number for a list. For a batch. For… participants.

Participants in what?

Raka reopened the browser, this time not on YouTube. He searched news sites. Different keywords. Same age group. Sudden deaths. United States. Several results appeared. Different states. Different families. Most ended the same way: cause unknown, under investigation.

None mentioned numbers.

Or maybe… they weren't reported.

A cold sensation slowly crept into his chest. The feeling he always got when he found a gap in a story—an empty space that should have been filled but wasn't.

If Clara was number 267, then she wasn't the first.

And if the number had only three digits, then whatever system this was—if it existed at all—was either in an early stage or actively ongoing.

He closed the laptop slowly. The clock in the corner of the screen showed almost eleven in the morning. A morning that should have been ordinary now felt heavier. Quieter, despite the noise of Jakarta outside.

Raka looked back at his notes.

267.

"If this is just a coincidence," he said softly to himself, "then it's a coincidence that's far too neat."

One thing was certain. Today's video wouldn't be just content. This wasn't clickbait. This wasn't cheap horror.

This was something unfinished.

And somehow, from the moment he pressed play, Raka felt he was no longer just watching.

He was standing inside something that was counting.