Meanwhile, at Hadiyaksa Hospital, urgency filled the corridors as the medical team fought against time.
[BEEP!]
In the ICU, the heart monitor traced a single, unbroken line, its shrill tone piercing the silence.
Doctors and nurses moved swiftly, checking pulse, breathing, and pupil reflexes. Yet no sign of life remained.
The duty physician, solemn and composed, declared that Havian Shahreza, known simply as Havi, was clinically dead.
The time of death was recorded in the official medical report, a stark entry that marked the end of his struggle.
When he had first arrived, the emergency department had received him with haste.
Tubes and wires were attached, a breathing aid secured, vital signs monitored, and intravenous fluids administered to sustain circulation.
His injuries, however, were grave. The head trauma demanded immediate examination, and a CT scan revealed the extent of bleeding and damage within the brain.
Transferred to the ICU, Havi lay beneath the watchful gaze of machines.
A heart monitor pulsed beside him, a ventilator breathed for him, and every few minutes the staff observed his fragile state.
Though every measure was taken, every protocol followed, his condition declined steadily.
At last, he ceased to respond to the instruments or to human touch.
Inspector Wildan and Nuriana arrived at Hadiyaksa Hospital only moments after Havi had been taken inside.
They stood in silence as the doctor delivered the sombre news, his voice steady yet heavy with finality.
The physician explained that the medical team had acted without delay, performing resuscitation and intensive observation as soon as Havi entered the emergency department.
Yet his condition was far too critical, and he showed no response to any intervention.
Havi was pronounced dead at 10:45 in the morning, scarcely ten minutes after his arrival.
The time was recorded formally in the medical report, a line that marked the end of his life.
With permission from the attending doctor, Inspector Wildan and Nuriana were allowed into the ICU.
Within the sterile room, nurses were carefully arranging Havi's body, their movements quiet and respectful.
Nuriana approached one of them and, with courtesy, asked to see Havi's face for the last time.
The nurse, after ensuring the room remained sterile, granted her request and stepped aside.
Inspector Wildan, gazing upon the lifeless figure, offered his condolences with solemn sincerity.
He remembered Havi not merely as a thief but as a repeat offender, a man who had spent much of his life in and out of prison.
Wildan himself had handled several of Havi's cases in the past, and so he knew the troubled history that had shaped him.
Now, as the sterile air of the ICU hung heavy around them, both Wildan and Nuriana were left to confront the stark truth of a life that had ended too soon.
Inspector Wildan carried within him a memory that lingered with quiet insistence, a recollection that bound him in gratitude to Havi.
It was not the man's reputation, nor the shadow of his past, but the counsel he had once given, counsel that had saved Wildan's small farm from ruin.
At that time, the enterprise had been faltering.
The books lay in disorder, losses mounted with each passing week, and confusion clouded his judgement.
The farm stood perilously close to collapse, yet Havi, with a clarity born of hardship, had offered words that proved to be salvation.
The advice was plain, yet it carried the weight of necessity.
He had urged Wildan to record every coin that entered or left the farm, however small.
Feed, labour, sales, all must be written down with precision, for only in such detail could the flow of money be understood.
Order, too, was demanded. Feeding, cleaning, health checks, all must be set to time, lest the rhythm of the farm falter.
Efficiency, Havi insisted, was born of structure.
There was counsel on men as well. Workers must be chosen not for friendship or favour, but for skill and experience.
In the tending of animals, mistakes were costly, and sentiment had no place.
Equally vital was the separation of accounts.
Business and personal finances must never mingle, for without division profit and loss could not be discerned.
A dedicated account, transparent and precise, would safeguard the farm's future.
At the close of each month, reflection was required.
Livestock bought and sold must be counted, gains and losses measured, and plans laid for correction where faults were found.
Prudence in purchase was another lesson.
Feed must be bought in bulk from distributors, not piecemeal, for in this way the price would be lower and the supply secure.
And finally, with a vision that reached beyond the farmyard, Havi had spoken of the new world of social media.
Modest promotion through local groups and personal accounts would open the farm to buyers unseen, without the burden of costly advertisement.
Inspector Wildan had never imagined that the words of a prisoner could alter the course of his life so profoundly.
Yet Havi's counsel, offered in moments of quiet candour, had breathed order into chaos and given structure to a failing enterprise.
Within a week of applying the advice, the farm began to change.
The ledgers, once neglected, now bore neat lines of figures.
The schedules, once uncertain, now dictated the rhythm of labour.
The feed and sales, once scattered, now flowed with efficiency.
What had seemed destined for collapse stirred again with life.
The workers themselves felt the difference.
They praised the new measures, unaware that the ideas had sprung from a man behind bars.
Wildan, however, knew the truth, and in his heart he marvelled at it.
That a convict could possess such clarity, such practical wisdom, was a revelation.
He did not shrink from sharing the story. Among his fellow officers he spoke openly, even proudly, of the changes wrought by Havi's advice.
The farm's turnover had risen, its management had sharpened, and its survival was owed to counsel that few would have expected.
The revelation startled many. Some officers, burdened with their own side ventures, sought Havi's guidance.
They came with questions of small shops, of second hand motor trading, of workshops in need of order.
And Havi, with the same plain wisdom, offered counsel that proved effective.
Soon their businesses too began to prosper. Records were kept, schedules observed, and profits grew.
Word spread quietly, and Havi, though still marked by the law as a prisoner, became known in whispers as a man of practical insight, one whose grasp of management was as steady as it was unexpected.
Thus, in the sterile shadow of confinement, Havi's voice carried beyond the walls, shaping lives and enterprises, leaving behind a legacy of order where once there had been only confusion.
Though Havi had been judged worthy of parole, his release was met with cautious hope.
The authorities, mindful of his good behaviour and the counsel he had offered to others, believed he might yet carve a new path.
His early freedom was granted as a gesture of trust, a recognition of cooperation within the prison walls.
Outside, the air was different, heavy with possibility.
Officers spoke to him with measured tones, urging him towards a life of steadiness.
They spoke of honest labour, of training schemes, of small ventures supported by programmes designed to ease the passage of former prisoners back into society.
They offered him the names of institutions, the addresses of offices, the promise of guidance.
Yet Havi, listening with a detached calm, turned away from such prospects.
The streets, with their shadows and swift rewards, called to him more strongly than the patient toil of lawful work.
He dismissed the counsel, believing that crime would yield its harvest more quickly than any honest endeavour.
Thus, though the door of the prison had opened and the world had offered him a chance at renewal, Havi chose instead the familiar path of transgression.
It was a choice that carried him back into the night, where fleeting gain outweighed the promise of redemption, and where the lessons of freedom were cast aside for the perilous lure of the streets.