***

"Dit visum er ikke længere gyldigt!"

I was sitting in an airport interrogation room, a cold plastic chair pressed against my back. The immigration officer—a pale blond man with a permanent frown line between his brows—looked at me like I was a puzzle he’d failed to solve.

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, I can't speak Danish."

"Dit visum er ikke længere gyldigt!" he repeated, louder this time, his fingers tapping angrily on the computer screen. A blinking red date flashed next to my passport photo: 01-04-2025.

The air in the room suddenly got heavier. I stared at the hologram sticker on my passport—it should’ve marked a valid multi-entry business visa. But it expired today? Just one day?

"I don't understand, Sir!"

He sighed and switched to choppy English. "Your residence permit only valid if report to immigration office one day. You no report!"

What?! That can’t be right!

"I'm sure the Danish Embassy approved my Residence Permit for Work for a full year!"

"No, you lie!" he barked. "But we found your mistake. You must be deported. Tonight!"

I shot to my feet. "Deported? That makes no sense!"

Suddenly, he slammed a large bag onto the table—with the same energy as a courtroom verdict. It flopped open, and its contents spilled like shame that couldn’t be contained: dozens of erotic novels scattered out one by one, like evidence of a crime from a very dark... and very glossy world.

Shiny covers.

Muscles. Sweat. Chains.

So many chains.

It looked like a BDSM equipment store was having a clearance sale—

I stepped back.

My chair squeaked as I scooted away. "Those aren't mine!"

I didn’t even bring those books! I left all of them back in Indonesia!

"Don't deny it!"

"I swear—I would *never* pack that many books!"

He pointed dramatically.

"Then... can you explain what this is?!"

THUD.

A plastic container landed on the table. I recognized it immediately by its dark brown color, the perfectly shredded meat, the spices that—despite hours of air travel—still hit my nose like a memory.

I swallowed hard.

"My mom's rendang?"

"You cannot bring rendang to Denmark!"

"But—"

The immigration officer raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing as if examining a weapon of mass destruction.

"No bringing this to Denmark!" he repeated, like it was an international law written in blood.

Two other officers approached and grabbed my arms.

"Take her. Last plane leaves at midnight!"

"No! Wait—I need to call my boss—"

He ignored me completely. In slow motion, like the final scene of a telenovela, he picked up a spoon, scooped my rendang—and put it in his mouth with the cold authority of someone nationalizing a citizen’s last hope.

"Wait! That’s my rendang!!!"

I was furious. That was my six-month emergency stock!

Instinctively, I climbed onto the table, pointed at him, voice shrill, hands shaking, heart breaking.

But before I could scream for justice over my mom’s rendang—

Laughter.

They popped the little bubble around my head.

I looked again at the immigration officer—and...

The blond hair disappeared.

Replaced by brown.

Sharper jawline.

It was... the sunglasses guy from the airport?

And all those ‘foreigners’ from my immigration nightmare—

were now just employees sitting at their desks.

Formal clothes.

Open laptops.

Office lighting.

Gray carpet.

Printer singing in the corner.

Quickly stepped off the table.

Still confused by what had just happened.

Even my curly hair couldn’t hide how red my face was.

A water bottle hit my head.

I turned around.

"Adela Hartono! Are you insane?"

Mrs. Widya yelled at me.

I nearly opened my mouth. Then shut it.

My eyes scanned the office.

Some coworkers pretended to look busy.

Others were clearly holding back laughter.

I wanted to be deported right then and there.

***

Mrs. Widya scolded me for a full hour—her voice like a fire alarm stuck in someone’s throat.

She said I had fainted. A mix of jet lag, stress, and possibly a soul-deep exhaustion from losing my rendang. They had taken me to LL’s office—one of the main sponsors of our exchange program.

And while everyone else was busy...

I apparently woke up—got on a table—and screamed about rendang.

What made me want to shove my face into the pantry trash bin was...

I just found out—

The guy in sunglasses... Louandre Lucien!

Is the CEO of this company.

Maybe he had just watched me with a blank face, mentally debating whether to press the emergency eject button—booting Adela Hartono out of the program, the country, and possibly the planet.

Should I explain it like my old teenlit stories? "Sorry, sir. That wasn’t me. That was an alien controlling my body. HAHAHA!"

Now all I could do was sit in silence.

Clutching my teacup like it was my last scrap of dignity.

"What’s wrong with you?"

Mrs. Widya’s voice cut the air like a dull knife—it hurt, but not enough to kill. She slumped onto the couch, her face a mix of exhaustion and secondhand embarrassment.

"Not even twenty-four hours in Denmark, and you’re already humiliating me!"

I lowered my head, fingers clutching the edge of my sweater. "S-sorry, Ma’am..."

"All over some rendang?"

I shrugged softly.

Honestly, I was more panicked about my missing backpack.

Inside... my laptop.

And inside that laptop—all my drafts. Even if I had no inspiration to write again yet.

But yeah. I totally crashed on my very first overseas flight.

Soon, the meeting room door burst open. A red-haired woman with a sharp bob peeked in. Her eyes—icy blue like melting frost—landed on me with a look I couldn’t read: part pity, part amusement.

"The driver who will take you to the apartment has arrived," she said in English, thick Scandinavian accent curling the words.

"Ah, thank you." Mrs. Widya stood up immediately, the buckles on her black work bag clicking loudly. Her red-nailed hand patted my shoulder. Not in a comforting way, more like: "Get out of here before you embarrass me again."

"... The driver will take you to the apartment. Go get some rest," she said, flat voice but eyes full of warning.

My eyes widened. "R-rest? Ma’am?"

My heart pounded. Was this code for: You’re fired?

She sighed, her fingers tapping my sweater. "I’ll catch up later. We have a meeting to attend."

Guilt notifications popped up in my brain. I felt terrible. Was I now a liability? Or worse—was this their way of quietly freezing me out?

"I-I don’t want to go to the apartment, Ma’am." My voice almost cracked. I glanced around, wondering if this was a trap. "I can wait here. I promise I won’t say a word!"

Mrs. Widya pressed her lips together, then leaned down like she was talking to a stubborn toddler. "Listen. I don’t want you rambling about rendang again in front of Mr. Lou and the rest. You’re sick, Adel. And you need to rest. Understand?"

***

The apartment turned out way fancier than I imagined—a minimalist studio on the 5th floor, with white walls and soft wooden floors that creaked gently underfoot. It was right in the center of Fredericia, a town that used to be a military fortress. From my wide window, I could see the small harbor and rows of red-roofed old buildings, standing still as if hiding secrets from winter.

Bicycles passed quietly over cobblestone roads, and the sound of distant ships drifted in like a foreign whisper through the fog.

At first, I couldn’t sleep. The unfamiliar sounds—the squeak of bicycle wheels, faint laughter from outside, even the wind sneaking through the window—felt deafening. My body was tired, but my mind wouldn’t stop. It kept replaying every embarrassing scene from this afternoon.

I rolled over on the bed. The coarse blanket brushed my skin like a reminder: I was far from home. Jet lag. It must just be jet lag.

Then, my eyes caught a small wooden box on the tiny pantry.

I opened it. Inside were neatly arranged tea bags with comforting aromas. Chamomile. Peppermint. And—oh My God—one labeled Ginger and Lemon. Almost exactly like the one my mom made whenever I was sick.

Without thinking, I boiled water and steeped the tea. The scent warmed the tiny room, and for the first time since landing, I could breathe a little easier.

I sipped slowly. The warmth spread through my chest. The tension in my shoulders began to melt.

And that night, for the first time... I fell asleep. No weird dreams.

When I woke up, it was already dark.

But not just any darkness—it was the kind coastal cities had in winter. Silent, heavy, and a little melancholic. Through the window, streetlights reflected in puddles on the asphalt. The air looked still, like it was waiting for something that would never come.

I wiped my face.

Still wearing the same sweater from yesterday. Its green looked duller than a rag. It smelled like a mix of airplane cabin, panic sweat from fainting, some coffee stains, and a faint trace of... vomit?

I sniffed. Regretted it instantly.

I wanted to shower, change clothes—But of course, my suitcase was missing.

Slowly, I sat on the edge of the bed. Picked up my phone.

The screen lit up.

6:23 p.m. But my body had no idea what time it was. It felt like I’d only napped briefly, yet my brain had already returned from an interdimensional journey.

I immediately sent a message to my family group chat.

"Arrived. Fainted earlier, but I’m okay now. Don’t panic."

I typed slowly. Re-read it before hitting send.

Then BRRRT.

My phone vibrated. A message from Mrs. Widya.

I read it twice. A little disappointed.

"Oh? You’re not staying here?"

Maybe because I hoped she’d say, "I’m in the room next door," or at least, "Don’t worry, you’re not alone."

"Room 303, third floor."

Then, silence again.

I stared at my half-empty tea.

Outside the window, Fredericia still embraced the night.

The harbor lights blinked in the distance, like old eyes watching every newcomer’s mistake. The biting sea breeze hit the glass, whispering something in Danish I couldn’t understand—like a warning: You don’t belong here!

That sound made me freeze. At first, I thought it came from the bathroom, but no... it was my stomach.

I touched my rumbling belly. I hadn’t eaten anything since... the overpriced airport bread this morning. Bread that cost as much as a full Padang meal—rice with beef, curry, veggies, the works—but tasted like a dried couch cushion. I was almost hallucinating rendang.

My phone vibrated again. Like an electric jolt. I sighed—who now?

Misswa. Of course.

The screen lit up with a message that made my temple throb:

"Hey, enjoy. Don’t forget… hunt Nathaniel!"

Just as I was about to reply with a sticker of someone throwing a shoe, my phone buzzed again.

Another notification.

From Mrs. Widya.

I swallowed.

***