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Slamet looked at the envelope, then at the cat—now well-fed—sleeping near the speaker.

He should have refused. But the rent was due. “Fifty thousand rupiah,” he grunted.

He then pulled out his own smartphone—a cheap, cracked-screen model. “But first,” he added, making Semar’s wooden face leer at the camera Cinta still held. “Teach me how to put that ‘sad violin’ music on my next video.”

She handed him a crisp bill. Bams started filming.