The sound of an old engine roaring filled the small room, mixed with the smell of oil, hot iron, and a hint of coffee from a worn cup on the table. In the corner of the simple workshop with a rough cement floor, a young man in a plain T-shirt and faded jeans was bent over repairing the undercarriage of an old, faded blue car.

His name is Dion. Or, as the locals more familiarly call him — Mas Dion .

His hands deftly turned the wrench, while his lips sometimes murmured softly, as if talking to the machine itself.

"It's nice to live like this..." he whispered with a faint smile, as if talking to the disc brakes he was tightening.

"Peaceful. No one looking for trouble. No one arguing about numbers, stocks, or extended family matters..."

He took a deep breath. The fresh air of Salatiga mixed with the dust of the workshop that flew slowly, creating a daily rhythm that calmed his heart.

On the wooden shelves behind him, neatly lined up are old tools, some of which have even begun to rust. But somehow, everything still works as if it just came out of the factory yesterday afternoon — perhaps, thanks to Dion's hands, who, without many people realizing it, have skills beyond the ordinary mechanic's reasoning.

"If it weren't for one of these special bolts," he muttered again, examining the rare component he had assembled from used parts, "this old car might be a memory."

His smile grew wider. Instead of chasing prestige or luxury, Dion found his happiness here — amidst the roar of old machines and mediocre customers. A quiet life, without the big name that used to hang on his shoulders.

From a distance, the sound of a neighbor's shop calling could be heard.

"Mr. Dion! Have some coffee first, Mr. Dion!"

Dion chuckled softly, wiping his hands with a dirty rag hanging from his pocket.

"Wait a minute, Miss! I'm really loving my old car!"

A small laugh echoed from the stall.

Behind the simplicity, no one knew that the relaxed man in shabby clothes, who was now joking with a shabby machine, had once stood in the spotlight of a large hall, flanked by top conglomerates — before finally choosing to disappear from that world... and build his new life in this small place.

For Mas Dion, Salatiga is not just a place to live.

It is his hideout. The heat that afternoon felt sharper than usual. The dry air made dust fly along the small road to Dion's workshop.

From a distance, the sound of an expensive car engine growled closer. A shiny black sedan — a European brand that was rarely seen on the streets of Salatiga — pulled up in a flashy style in front of the modest workshop. The road dust seemed reluctant to stick to its shiny paint.

A man in his thirties came out with a swagger, wearing a crisp white shirt and shiny leather shoes. He looked around Dion's workshop — full of old tools, dilapidated cars, and the smell of oil — with a sneer on his face.

"This is... a repair shop?" he asked half in doubt, half in mockery, waving his hand in front of his nose, as if the smell of oil would stick to his expensive clothes.

Dion, who had just finished fixing the hood of an old car, wiped his hands and smiled kindly. "Yes, sir. Can I help you?"

The man frowned. "My car... made a strange noise. The official repair shop is closed today. I had no choice but to stop by here," he said, emphasizing the word "had no choice" with disgust.

Dion just smiled, not responding to the sarcastic tone. "Can I check, sir?"

Without a word, the rich man threw the key at Dion. It almost hit his head if Dion hadn't been quick to catch it.

"If you can't, don't touch it, okay? This car is expensive, you know," the man added in a warning tone, as if Dion was not worthy of touching a car of that class.

Dion nodded casually. He walked around the sedan, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. One deep breath, one twitch of the ear listening to the vibrations of the engine as he started it — and Dion knew.

"It's not too bad, sir. It looks like there's just a problem with the intake valve, and a dirty air sensor," he said simply.

The rich man laughed sarcastically. "Hah! A village mechanic pretending to understand European engines."

Dion just nodded slightly. Without saying much, he started working. His movements were fast, precise, and clean. His hands played behind the hood like a maestro with his violin. One by one, small components were cleaned, adjusted, tightened. Without sophisticated diagnostic tools, only with intuition and pure expertise.

It didn't take more than twenty minutes.

The engine that had been roaring roughly was now humming softly, almost like a whisper.

Dion patted the hood of the car gently. "Okay, sir. Try starting it."

With a disdainful expression, the rich man got into the car and started the engine. Instantly, his face changed. His eyes widened in disbelief. The engine was... smooth. Smoother than when he first bought the car.

Dion smiled slightly, politely returning the key. "It's normal, sir. Just a suggestion, you should clean the air filter regularly. If left alone, it could be dangerous."

The man stared at Dion as if it was the first time he had truly seen him. He opened his thick wallet, pulled out a few bills, and held them out in a condescending manner.

"Here. That's enough, right?"

Dion stared at the money for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "Let me give it to you for free, sir. I'm happy to see a good car running perfectly again."

The man was stunned. He withdrew his money, mumbled something incoherently, then hurriedly got into his luxury car and drove away without a word.

Dion just chuckled, waving his hand casually at the dust left behind by the car.

In the corner of the neighbor's shop, several residents who were secretly watching smiled broadly.

The afternoon began to creep into night, and Dion's workshop slowly became quiet. The breeze brought the aroma of fried food from the small stall across the street — Bu Sri's stall, where residents usually gathered after work.

Dion locked his makeshift workshop, draped a dirty rag over his shoulder, then walked leisurely to the shop.

"Mr. Dion, come here, I just fried some tofu walik!" exclaimed Mrs. Sri, a plump middle-aged woman with a wide, warm smile.

"Ah, Mrs. Sri, the smell of fried tofu has been inviting since earlier," Dion replied with a small chuckle. He sat on a shabby plastic chair, joining several other residents who had already enjoyed warm tea and casual chat.

Among the residents, there was Mr. Karto — a motorcycle taxi driver — and Mbak Yuni, the owner of a small vegetable stall. They all knew Dion, although there was still something about the man that made them often exchange furtive glances.

"This Mr. Dion," said Mr. Karto, sipping his coffee while glancing at Dion with narrowed eyes full of curiosity, "his work is magical. An old car that looks like scrap metal, just a little touch makes it run smoothly."

Ms. Yuni laughed and added, "But he's... strange. He never wants to be paid much. Even though if he wanted to, he could be rich from the profits from his workshop."

Mrs. Sri added while arranging the plates of fried food, "There was one time, a kid from the village next door's car broke down in the middle of the night. Who came to push it alone? It was Mas Dion. Even though it was raining heavily."

Everyone chuckled, looking at Dion who just nodded casually, as if all the praise was not for him.

"It's not strange, Ma'am. It's normal. I just like the car running again," Dion answered lightly, without any heroic embellishments.

But that's what makes it... different.

Simple, never seeking attention, but his cool hands, and his calm smile, slowly build respect in the hearts of the people. There is something about Mas Dion that is hard to explain - as if he carries a calmness and hidden power that ordinary eyes cannot see.

Mr. Karto cleared his throat, then whispered to Mrs. Sri, loud enough so that Dion could hear, "Mr. Dion used to be an important person, right, ma'am? I'm really sure... It's impossible for an ordinary person to be like that."

Mrs. Sri just shrugged. "I don't know, sir. But even if he did... maybe he'd be happier here."

The afternoon sky turned gray. Heavy clouds hung over Salatiga, spreading a damp air that pressed on the chest. Soon, light rain began to fall, wetting the streets full of small holes and cracked asphalt.

Dion had just half-closed the door to his workshop when the sound of a coughing engine could be heard from down the street. A small, dark red car, clearly past its prime, limped up to the side... then died completely right in front of the workshop.

From inside the car, a young woman came out. Her long hair was a little messy from the rain, her face was sweet with an expression of confusion that she didn't try to hide. She patted the steering wheel, frustrated.

"Gosh... why did it break down, when it's raining like this..."

Dion stepped closer, pulling the hood of the small car with a light movement.

"Excuse me, Miss. What's wrong with the car?"

The woman looked up. Their eyes met — a look of innocence mixed with relief met a look of calm and determination.

"Eh... this, Mas... suddenly died. It won't turn on again," he said nervously, his voice soft but rushed.

Dion smiled faintly. "Can I see for a moment?"

Without a word, he began to examine the machine. His hands moved quickly — no hesitation, no searching. It took only a few seconds before he found the source of the problem.

"The battery water is almost empty, Miss. Also, the spark plug cable is a bit loose. It's simple," he said while fixing the cable connection.

The woman, who introduced herself as Arum , stood awkwardly while holding a small umbrella over their heads.

"You really understand, don't you..." muttered Arum in awe.

Dion chuckled softly. "A little at a time, Miss. He's a mechanic after all."

A few minutes later, Arum's car engine came back to life, roaring softly though it sounded tired. Arum cheered a little, her eyes sparkling.

"Sir, thank you so much! This... how much should I pay?"

She hurriedly took out a small wallet from her bag, looking awkward.

Dion shook his head casually. "No need, Miss. It's raining like this, helping people is a reward."

Arum looked confused for a moment, as if she was not yet used to such selfless kindness.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Sure," Dion replied, folding the sleeves of his shabby shirt, his face remaining calm.

Arum stared at the simple mechanic in front of her, noticing how the rainwater wet his hair, forming small lines on his masculine face that looked both hard and warm.

There was something about Mas Dion that made Arum... want to know more.

"Then... tomorrow if I need service, can I come here again, Sir?" asked Arum with a shy smile.

Dion nodded. "My workshop door is always open, Miss."

As Arum drove by in her old car, Dion stood for a moment in the drizzle, watching the car disappear around the corner.

The rain was still falling. But somehow, the afternoon felt... a little warmer.

As the car drove away, Arum glanced at the rearview mirror. Dion's figure standing casually in front of his workshop was still faintly visible behind the curtain of rain.

"Strange..." he muttered softly.

"Why is that... it feels like I just met someone important."

He smiled to himself, shaking his head.

Maybe it was just because today had been hard — a job move to a small town, heavy rain, a broken down car — everything felt dramatic.

But there was something that stuck.

The way Mas Dion talked, the way he worked, the way he... didn't ask for anything in return. In the world that Arum knew, such kindness was rare.

Meanwhile, in the small workshop that was quiet again, Dion looked at the cloudy sky.

He took a deep breath, then went back inside, turning on the dim workshop lights.

It may rain.

Trouble may come. But for now, for today, his little world remains safe.

What he didn't realize, that afternoon... a fine thread had been pulled.

Connecting his fate with a girl who knew nothing about who he really was.

And maybe, slowly, that little world will change.

The following days in Salatiga went by slowly, as usual. But for Arum, there was one little thing that started to bother her mind: a simple mechanic named Mas Dion.

Her old car — the dark red one — had problems again. This time it wasn't a breakdown, but a strange vibrating sound from the engine as it climbed towards the school where Arum taught. After thinking about it, Arum finally turned the wheel to a place that was now starting to feel familiar: the small repair shop on the side of the road.

When he arrived, Dion was dismantling an old motorbike engine, with his work clothes covered in oil stains. As soon as he saw Arum get out of the car, a faint smile appeared on his face.

"Is the car being naughty again, Miss?" Dion said casually.

Arum chuckled. "Yes, bro. It seems like this red one needs a lot of attention."

Without saying much, Dion immediately took his tools. He told Arum to sit on a plastic chair under a tree, while he fixed the bottom of the hood.

A light rain was still falling from last night, wetting the leaves and making the air feel fresher. Arum watched Dion's movements silently. Dion's hands worked calmly, quickly, and with calculation. Not the usual careless movements of a mechanic.

In less than twenty minutes, Dion was done. He tapped the hood twice with the back of his hand.

"Try turning it on, Miss."

Arum obeyed. The engine sound was now more stable, no longer vibrating strangely. She jumped a little for joy.

"Wow, Mas! That's amazing!"

Dion just smiled, wiping his hands with a shabby cloth.

"How much, sir?" Arum asked while taking out his wallet.

As before, Dion just shook his head slowly.

"No need, Sis. It's true. It's just that small, it's not worth paying."

Arum frowned. "But... Mas Dion works. Why don't you want to get paid?"

Dion leaned his body against the wooden pole of the workshop, staring at the empty street in front of him.

"For me, helping people is... not about money, Miss.

Besides, Miss Arum's car is like an old friend now," he said with a small chuckle.

Arum laughed softly, but behind her laughter was a growing curiosity.

This man... was different.

Not only was he friendly, but there was an invisible wall around him. As if he was keeping his distance — not out of arrogance, but because... he was protecting something.

"Is Mas Dion originally from here?" asked Arum, trying to make small talk.

Dion just shrugged casually. "You could say that, you could say it's not. I'm just living here, Miss."

A hanging answer. Doesn't reveal anything, but doesn't reject the conversation either.

Arum wanted to ask further — about where he learned to fix cars with such finesse, about why he seemed to avoid all talk about himself — but Dion had already quickly changed the subject.

"If this car is acting up again, just come over. Free consultation, pay when you're bored," he said with a joking smile.

Arum could only reply with a small laugh, keeping all those questions in her heart.

Several days passed.

At school, Arum had begun to get used to the new atmosphere and her students. But one thing still bothered her: her old car was getting more and more cranky.

That morning, when he was about to leave for teaching, the dark red suddenly died completely. No sound, no vibration. Silence.

Arum looked at the steering wheel in resignation.

"Gosh, what's wrong with you, kid..."

The only place Arum could think of was the small repair shop. Without thinking much, she pushed her car slowly there — luckily it wasn't too far away.

Dion, who was sweeping the workshop yard, immediately approached when he saw Arum was struggling.

"The machine has completely broken down, bro..." said Arum, half complaining.

Dion smiled slightly, then signaled Arum to relax.

"Leave it to me, Miss. Don't panic."

With a light movement, Dion opened the hood. Arum stood beside him, watching silently.

This time, Dion did not just do a regular check. His hands moved quickly, his eyes focused with full concentration, as if the old machine was talking directly to him. In an instant, he removed several cables, opened several small bolts, then fiddled with the carburetor parts that were almost worn out.

All done without the help of heavy equipment. Just a wrench, a screwdriver, and a pair of nimble hands.

Less than ten minutes later, Dion closed the hood with a click.

"Try starting it, Miss."

Arum, half-doubting, got into the car and turned the ignition key.

The engine immediately started. Not only did it start — the sound was much smoother than before. It was as if the old car had become decades younger again!

Arum stared. "Oh my God... Mas Dion! How can you be so fast?"

Dion just nodded casually, as if what he had just done was nothing extraordinary.

"Old machines are like old people, Miss," he said lightly. "You can't just push them. They have to be stroked, understood one by one. Only then will they start again."

Arum laughed, half amazed, half confused.

How could a mechanic this small be able to handle the damage so quickly, without expensive tools, without fuss?

Curious, Arum dared to ask.

"Mas Dion... Where did you go to school?"

Dion smiled faintly. A strange shadow crossed his eyes — something like a memory he didn't want to touch.

"Ah, a regular school, Miss. It's not important," he answered as he took a rag and cleaned his hands.

Another hanging answer. Holding back a story that was clearly bigger than just "a regular school."

The afternoon sun shines on Salatiga with a soft golden light. In Bu Sri's small shop, the atmosphere is as usual — the hustle and bustle of residents chatting while sipping coffee and enjoying fried bananas.

But that day, the topic of conversation was a little different.

"Eh, Mr Karto," whispered Mbak Yuni as she leaned towards the motorbike taxi driver, "did you know that Mas Dion was once a big man?"

Mr. Karto, who was stirring his coffee, raised an eyebrow. "Big man? What do you mean?"

Ms. Yuni lowered her voice, almost whispering. "I heard from Mas Udin who works at the car dealership... he said Mas Dion used to study at a famous engineering university outside the city. Not just ordinary engineering... elite engineering!"

Mrs. Sri, who had been pretending to be busy arranging the fried food, quietly listened with alert ears.

"Ah, really?" Mr. Karto sounded doubtful. "If that's true, why do you live here, in a small workshop like this?"

Ms. Yuni shrugged. "I don't know either. They said again, there was... something. A big problem. But no one wanted to tell me the details."

Pak Karto nodded slowly. "Yes... sometimes I see Mas Dion, his style... different. A simple person, but the way he works, the way he talks... like someone who is used to handling big things."

Mrs. Sri finally spoke up, her voice heavy but full of understanding.

"Whatever his past, what's important now is that Mas Dion is good to us. He never looks for trouble. In fact, he often helps people in need without expecting anything in return."

They all nodded slowly.

Yes, maybe it's better that way. There's no need to bring up people's past.

Night slowly descended, covering the city of Salatiga with a thin fog and a bone-chilling cold wind. Dion's workshop was closed, but the dim lights were still on from the small room behind — where Dion usually sat alone, accompanied by black coffee and the sound of crickets.

On the old wooden table, there was a worn notebook. Dion opened it slowly. Between the pages, there was a worn photo...

A young man in a college uniform, smiling broadly while holding an engineering trophy.

His eyes stared at the photo silently.

For a long time.

And for the first time in a long time...

the memories came flooding back.

Bandung, five years ago.

A prestigious engineering campus — where future engineers, machinists, and tech geniuses gathered.

Young Dion stood in the middle of a large hall, surrounded by a crowd of students. Full of confidence, he explained the prototype of an energy-saving machine that he designed himself. The lecturers applauded, investors began to look. Everyone was sure: Dion Arkanata would be a big star.

He's not just smart — he's brilliant. The campus golden boy.

And more than that, he's... the heir to the Arkanata family , one of the biggest names in the national automotive industry.

His life should have been secure.

His path had been prepared.

All he had to do was walk straight...

But that was where everything began to crack.

One mistake.

One decision too quickly. One betrayal from someone he trusted.

And the world that had been built for years...

collapsed overnight.

Back to the night in the workshop, Dion took a deep breath. He closed the book slowly, put it back under the drawer, then turned off the light.

Outside, a light rain began to fall.

Its rhythm accompanied Dion's steps towards the small bed in the corner of the room.

He knew that the past could not be avoided forever.

But for now, the only thing he could do was... hide a little longer.

The days in Salatiga were calm again, but not for Arum.

For some reason, her thoughts began to stop at one point: Mas Dion.

At first it was just because her car often had problems.

Then because the workshop felt comfortable. Then because... Dion's thin smile that always appeared without being fake. And now, even when her car had no problems, Arum started... looking for excuses.

“Mas Dion,” said Arum one afternoon, pulling her car over in front of the repair shop.

Dion, who was washing the oil filter, turned his head, wiping his hands on his work pants as usual. “Can I help you, Miss Arum? What’s wrong with the car?”

Arum smiled awkwardly. "Um... I think... the steering wheel is a bit dragging. Or maybe it's just a feeling..."

Dion stared at Arum's car for a while, then approached and checked. Less than two minutes later, he stood back up.

“Still normal, Miss. Maybe the front tire is a little underinflated. I’ll add a little more.”

Arum nodded quickly.

Even though she knew... her steering wheel was fine.

Since that day, Arum began to appear more often. Sometimes in the morning when going to school, sometimes in the afternoon with the excuse of buying snacks from Bu Sri's stall but "happening to pass by" the repair shop.

Sometimes just delivering cookies. Sometimes bringing sweet tea. Sometimes just... sitting and chatting.

And Dion? As usual — relaxed, calm, and accepting without question. He kept his distance, polite and friendly, but never opened up too deeply.

“Mas Dion never told me about his family, huh?” Arum asked one afternoon, trying to dig slowly.

Dion just chuckled, took the screwdriver and went back to tidying up his shelves. “It’s no fun, Miss. My family is… far away.”

Arum stared at him silently. Not because Dion didn't answer, but because his answer... sounded like a wound that had long since hardened.

On the other hand, residents began to notice.

"Arum is a beautiful new teacher, why are you hanging out in the workshop?" whispered Mbak Yuni to Bu Sri.

"Signs of a soulmate cannot be predicted," Mrs. Sri answered with a meaningful smile.

But for Arum, it’s not about a soulmate — not yet.

It’s about curiosity. About a mysterious figure named Mas Dion, who hides a great light behind simple shadows.

And the more often he stopped by the workshop, the deeper his curiosity grew.

That day, Dion's workshop seemed to be closed early. The wooden door was half-slid, a "TEMPORARY HOLIDAY" sign was hung haphazardly, and there was no activity in the yard as usual.

But inside, the sound of work tools clanked softly.

Behind a gray plastic curtain that covers the back of the workshop, Dion is hunched over a shiny black classic car — a 1967 Chevrolet Impala , a rare model that would be impossible to drive on the streets of Salatiga without attracting attention.

The car was covered in dust when it arrived two nights ago, unloaded from the transport truck without much ado. The truck driver only said, “A request from an old acquaintance. He said, only Mas Dion can make this car run again.”

Dion didn't answer at that time. He just stared at the old car with a gaze that was... not just professional. There was nostalgia. There was honor.

Today is the fourth day he works in silence.

No assistants, no fancy diagnostic tools, no sound. Just him, a wounded classic car, and the memory of a past he wants to bury .

Dion's hands groped the underside of the engine, then reassembled the components with a combination of old techniques and cutting-edge modification approaches — something that wasn't even in any manual. He replaced the carburetor system with his own hybrid version, re-soldered the corroded electrical lines, and refined the cooling system like he was treating a work of art, not just a machine.

Nobody knows it, but that night, in the back room of a small workshop, something extraordinary happened.

With one turn of the key, the classic car starts to fire up .

It doesn’t just start up — the engine roars in a perfect low register. As smooth as a modern engine, as powerful as a street monster.

Dion looked at his work. He didn't smile proudly. He just nodded slightly.

"Not bad... for a hand that hasn't been used seriously for a long time," he muttered softly.

He turned off the engine and gently closed the hood. The car would be picked up in a few days, and would never be associated with this shop. As usual — no evidence, no trace.

However, what Dion didn't realize...

From the gap in the plastic curtain, someone was peeking secretly .

Arum, who came that afternoon carrying fried bread, accidentally saw the shiny classic car — and Dion working with the calm of a maestro.

He didn't come in. He didn't speak.

But in his heart, curiosity grew deeper.

Who exactly is Mas Dion?

And why does he hide his skills so well?

In a small town like Salatiga, word spreads faster than the wind. In no time, stories about the “great mechanic” in a suburban workshop began circulating — from shop to shop, from neighborhood WhatsApp groups to the ears of local rich people.

And one of those ears…

belongs to Aditya Mahardika .

The only child of a well-known property entrepreneur in Salatiga. He is only in his thirties, but his mouth is sharp, his style is arrogant, and his life is full of prestige.

"A village mechanic can fix classic cars? Huh!" Aditya laughed out loud in his own expensive cafe. "A small workshop in a narrow alley? That doesn't make sense."

He doesn’t like it when something — or someone — steals the public’s attention beyond his control. Especially when some of his friends started asking about Dion’s workshop, one of them even canceled a service at Aditya’s workshop to try the “magic workshop.”

"Insolent," he muttered angrily. "How dare you disturb my market."

So, that morning, Aditya showed up in front of Dion's workshop. His Japanese sports car — modified more for style than performance — came to a stop with a loud exhaust note that rattled the windows of neighboring shops.

Dion, who was preparing the tools to clean the carburetor, turned his head calmly.

From inside the car, Aditya came out wearing sunglasses and a half-sneering smile.

"This workshop... which is said to be great?" he asked sarcastically, his eyes sweeping over the dull walls, old shelves, and dusty floor.

"Good morning, sir," Dion answered calmly. "Anything I can help?"

Aditya laughed shortly. "You're the mechanic? Hmm... I thought it would be more... professional. At least there's a uniform, electronic equipment, a tuning computer..."

Dion just nodded. Didn't defend himself. Didn't respond to the belittling tone.

Aditya stepped in uninvited, his eyes still roaming with disgust. "I'm curious. How can a garage like this make people excited?"

Dion shrugged lightly. "I just help as much as I can, sir. Maybe people are compatible."

“Suitable?” Aditya snorted. “Or just because it’s cheap?”

He patted the hood of his sports car proudly. "If you can fix my car smoother than my own shop... then I will believe you are great."

Dion stared at the car for a moment. A typical racing machine, with lots of decoration but poor balance. Dion knew the problem just by hearing the sound of the engine.

But he didn't react.

He just said briefly, "Please park, sir. If you really want to check, I'll help you. But if you just want to compare... I don't entertain debates."

Aditya was silent for a moment. He didn't expect Dion's reply to be so calm — not arrogant, but firm. Then he smiled lopsidedly.

"You're brave, little mechanic."

And as Aditya walked away to “wait in the car”, several local residents who were passing by could only exchange glances.

This was the first time they had seen Mas Dion’s face… look serious.

The next day, Aditya came to Dion's workshop again — not alone, but with two of his friends and a cameraman from a small local media outlet that usually covered automotive community events. With a friendly attitude, he got out of his sports car while laughing loudly.

"Let's cover it, who knows, it might go viral!" he said while pointing to Dion's workshop which looked simple as usual.

Local residents began to arrive, curious. Some stopped at Bu Sri's stall, others pretended to pass by while watching from afar. Arum, who happened to be coming home from school, also pulled over, feeling that something was wrong.

Dion came out of the workshop, wearing a shabby shirt and oil-stained pants. He looked at Aditya's group calmly.

"Wow, our genius mechanic is out too!" Aditya exclaimed loudly. "Look, guys... this is the mechanic who can fix a classic car in one night!"

His friends burst out laughing. The cameraman raised his camera, recording the atmosphere as if this was morning entertainment.

Dion didn't speak. He just stared, didn't smile, didn't back down.

Aditya approached, then shouted louder so that the residents could hear.

"Salatiga is getting funnier. The workshop looks like a chicken coop, the mechanic looks like a vagrant, eh... he's said to be a hero. There are always people who believe him!"

Some residents chuckled — not because they agreed, but because they felt bad about arguing. But uncomfortable faces began to appear.

Arum stepped forward, standing beside Dion.

"Mr. Aditya, this is too much," she said firmly. "If you want to serve, go ahead. If you just want to show off and belittle, you better go home."

Aditya chuckled sarcastically. "Wow, defended by a beautiful teacher apparently... it's a good match. We both like acting in drama."

Dion finally spoke. Quietly. But his voice was firm, enough to silence everyone.

"Mr. Aditya. I'm not looking for fame, not looking for sensation. If you feel this workshop is small and unworthy, there's no need to come twice. But if you come again... maybe, secretly, you're admitting something."

Aditya was silent for a moment. His face turned red, not used to having his words turned on him.

“If you want me to check your car, go ahead. If not, please don’t disturb my work,” Dion continued calmly. “I’m working, not playing with the camera.”

The atmosphere was silent for a few seconds.

The cameraman lowered his camera slowly. The residents began to whisper to each other.

Arum looked at Dion with new admiration.

And Aditya... silently gritted his teeth. Behind his smile, his eyes held fire.

That day, everyone knew:

A new hostilities had begun.