Heavy rain poured down the city streets that night. The wailing sirens of police cars echoed in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. Muro, just ten years old at the time, ran alongside his father, Cristopher Tama, tightly gripping his hand. They had just finished dinner at a small roadside food stall, chatting about simple things.
"Dad, can I have some ice cream?" Muro asked innocently.
Cristopher chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "Ice cream? In this cold weather?"
But their peaceful moment shattered in an instant. Red and blue lights flashed around them. Several police cars screeched to a halt, surrounding them from all directions.
"Cristopher Tama! Hands up and don't move!"
Officers stormed out of their vehicles, weapons drawn. Cristopher frowned, scanning the scene, trying to understand what was happening.
"What is this? What's going on?" he demanded, his voice laced with confusion.
A high-ranking officer stepped forward. Inspector Raymond, a notoriously ruthless and ambitious cop, wore a cold expression.
"You're under arrest for the murder of a high-ranking official's son, Dimas Hartanto," Raymond declared sharply.
Cristopher's eyes widened. "What?! I don't even know that boy!"
"Tell it to the court," Raymond replied indifferently, signaling his men.
Two officers immediately seized Cristopher, roughly cuffing his wrists. Muro stood frozen, his small body trembling as he watched his father being taken away for something he hadn't done.
"No! My dad didn't kill anyone! We were together all night!" Muro screamed, trying to rush forward, but a policeman held him back.
Cristopher gritted his teeth. "Muro! Tell them! You know I didn't do this!"
But the officers ignored his plea. They shoved Cristopher into the police car with force. Muro struggled, desperately trying to reach his father, but he was too small to fight back.
"Listen, kid. Stay out of this," one of the officers sneered before shoving Muro to the pavement.
Muro could only watch as the police car sped away, taking his father into the darkness.
Days later, the news spread everywhere—Cristopher Tama was labeled as a murderer. Every channel broadcasted his face, calling him a dangerous criminal.
But Muro knew something was wrong. He had been with his father that night—his father couldn't have done it. More than that, he had seen something strange.
At the crime scene, a large man with a tattoo on his neck had been lurking nearby when the police arrived. Right before Cristopher was taken, the man had smirked before disappearing into the crowd.
Muro felt it deep in his gut—that man was involved. But who was he? And why was his father being framed?
He had no answers. But he knew one thing for sure:
He couldn't just sit still.
This wasn't just about justice anymore.
This was about saving his father before it was too late.