I hung up, my head spinning harder than before. The library suddenly felt smaller, tighter, as if the bookshelves were closing in. Akmal and Vina were fighting—loud enough for Dea to notice, loud enough for anyone nearby to notice. In a campus environment where rumors moved faster than Wi-Fi signals, that argument would spread like wildfire. And somehow, my name had already been dragged into it.
At the same time, Cantika's group presentation tomorrow still hung in the balance because of that miserable Safety Factor. One technical misinterpretation could sink weeks of work. I exhaled sharply, grabbed the thick reference book I had been scanning, and hurried back toward the cafeteria. My footsteps echoed along the corridor, mixing with fragments of conversations from passing students. Every sound felt amplified, like my nerves were tuned too tight.
When I pushed open the cafeteria door, the atmosphere had shifted. The earlier crowd was thinning; afternoon classes were ending. The noise level had dropped into a tired murmur. Cantika was still at our table, exactly where I had left her, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes locked on the glowing laptop screen. A stack of bore logs and lab reports surrounded her like a paper barricade.
When she saw me, her eyes widened—not with panic this time, but with something sharper.
"Randi, I found it!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling but threaded with hope. "Look at this!"
She rotated the laptop toward me, the screen brightness reflecting in her glasses. I leaned down instinctively, our shoulders almost pressing together again as I tried to read the small scanned text.
"In the original bore log Pak Andi scanned, for SPT-4 at 10 meters depth… that's not ordinary soft clay," she said quickly, her finger hovering over a faint line in the description column.
I squinted. "What do you mean?"
"Here." She tapped the screen gently. "'Clay with organic matter and traces of decomposed wood.' See? Clay with organic material and decomposed wood fragments." Her voice gained momentum as she spoke. "That changes everything. Organic clay behaves differently. Lower shear strength. Higher compressibility. We used regular soft clay parameters!"
The realization hit like a punch. A small oversight buried in a single descriptive line had distorted our entire simulation.
"Meaning…?" I asked, even though I already knew.
"Meaning we've been overestimating the parameters. We need to use special parameters for organic clay. It's in Craig's appendix." She was already navigating through a PDF on her laptop, scrolling quickly. "Look—cohesion can drop significantly, and phi is even lower. We have to recalculate using these values."
Relief mixed with adrenaline. We had been wrong—but in a way that could be corrected logically. "Tik, you're a genius," I blurted, unable to hold it back. My hand instinctively touched her arm in a quick, grateful squeeze. "Let's redo it."
We worked like people racing against a closing gate. Cantika adjusted the Excel sheet first, modifying cohesion and internal friction angle according to the organic clay range. I recalculated bearing capacity manually to cross-check. The cafeteria noise faded into background static; even the remaining students seemed distant, irrelevant.
Our coordination felt natural now. She entered values; I verified equations. She ran TeraPro; I double-checked assumptions. The sky outside the cafeteria windows had shifted into a softer late-afternoon light, golden and tired. One by one, nearby tables emptied until only a few scattered students remained.
Finally, she clicked "Run Simulation."
We both leaned closer.
The loading bar crawled across the screen.
I realized I was holding my breath.
The result appeared.
SF = 2.51.
For a split second, my brain refused to process it. Then it clicked.
"YES!" I whispered loudly, clenching my fist. "2.51! It's in! Thank God!"
Cantika closed her eyes, shoulders sagging as tension drained from her body. A quiet laugh escaped her. "That was too close…"
When she opened her eyes, they were bright—not with fear this time, but with relief and pride. "We did it, Randi."
"You did it," I corrected gently. "You caught the detail."
But truthfully, it felt shared. The pressure, the panic, the correction—it had been ours together.
She shut down the laptop carefully, sliding it back into her bag with deliberate movements, as if sealing away a battle won. "I have to go home," she said. "Mom's picking me up at 4:30 in front of campus."
"Okay. Presentation tomorrow at 10. You ready?" I asked while stacking the papers neatly.
"Ready. We've survived the first hole," she said with a small grin.
Before leaving, she paused. "Earlier… who called?"
I hesitated for a second, then answered honestly. "Dea. Akmal and Vina had a big fight in the Architecture parking lot. Vina yelled about Akmal being paranoid about me."
Cantika's expression tightened. "So it's escalating."
"Yeah." I shrugged, though my chest felt heavier than I let on. "You don't need to worry about that. Focus on tomorrow. Let me handle whatever storm comes next."
She studied my face, as if trying to gauge whether I was pretending to be stronger than I felt. "Promise you'll be careful," she said softly. "And tell me if something happens."
"I promise."
She nodded, then walked down the now-quiet cafeteria corridor. I watched her until she disappeared around the corner. The table in front of me was almost empty now, except for the final simulation printout.
SF 2.51.
A small number, yet it felt like armor.
But as I packed my things, Dea's description of Akmal's face replayed in my mind. Angry. Unstable. Watching.
Winning a technical battle was one thing. Winning a social war was another. And this one felt personal.
The wind outside picked up, pushing air through the open cafeteria windows. The sound carried an uneasy promise—like a storm gathering just beyond sight.
EXAM IN ROOM 305
The warmth from yesterday's small victory still lingered faintly inside me, but this morning it was overshadowed by pressure. Not emotional this time—academic.
Today was my Assignment Presentation in front of Pak Dani.
The morning air at the UI Depok campus felt thick, humid, almost sticky. My backpack felt heavier than usual, packed with printed reports, structural drawings, response spectrum graphs, and a few OHP transparencies—backup in case technology betrayed me. In 2005, that was a real possibility.
My Nokia 7610 vibrated in my pocket.
Cantika: Already on campus? Good luck! I'm in the corridor waiting for my group's presentation at 11. Text me when you're done. You got this!
A small smile formed despite my nerves. Even a short text from her carried surprising weight. I replied quickly: About to enter room 305. Nervous as hell. Thanks, Tik. Good luck too.
Room 305 was half full when I stepped inside. The tension was immediate. The smell of whiteboard markers mixed with paper and anxiety. Students sat stiffly, whispering final revisions. At the back of the room sat Pak Dani—legs crossed, thick glasses reflecting the blank projector screen, face expressionless.
He didn't look like a lecturer. He looked like judgment incarnate.
I chose a seat near the window, trying not to sit directly in his line of sight. My fingers felt cold as I flipped through my bound report. Equivalent static earthquake load analysis. Reinforced concrete portal frame modeling. Base shear distribution.
"Next participant!" the assistant called. "Randi Pranata! Topic: Performance Analysis of Medium-Span Bridge Structure Against Earthquake Loads in the Bekasi Region."
My name echoed louder than it should have.
I stood, legs slightly unsteady, and walked to the front. My Sony Vaio laptop roared to life like an aircraft engine. Thankfully, the projector connected smoothly.
"Good morning, Pak Dani, assistants, and friends," I began. My voice was controlled, but I could hear the tension beneath it.
The first few slides felt mechanical. Introduction. Background. Site description. But once I entered the methodology—explaining SNI 03-1726-2002 earthquake load calculations, response spectrum usage, and modeling assumptions—I felt myself stabilizing.
This wasn't memorization. This was understanding.
I explained base shear calculation, load combinations, internal force distribution. I showed graphs of lateral displacement under design earthquake loads. When I reached soil data assumptions, I briefly mentioned the importance of accurate parameter identification—an indirect echo of yesterday's organic clay correction.
Pak Dani adjusted his glasses slightly. He was listening.
Twenty minutes passed faster than expected.
"Thank you," I concluded. "I am open to questions."
Silence.
Then Pak Dani stood.
"The procedure is correct," he began slowly. "However, I want to ask about your selection of earthquake reduction factor R = 8.5. Considering lateral displacement reaching 150 millimeters under design earthquake—are you confident this R value is applicable without deeper P-Delta analysis?"
There it was. The strike.
I inhaled carefully. "Sir, I acknowledge the limitation regarding P-Delta effects in this study. The selection of R = 8.5 follows SNI criteria for a special reinforced concrete portal frame system meeting detailing requirements. I conducted a limited sensitivity analysis reducing R to 7.5. While displacement decreased around 15 millimeters, reinforcement demand increased significantly. I've noted the P-Delta effect as a limitation and recommendation for detailed design phase."
He studied me for a long second.
"Safety first, efficiency second," he said finally. "Remember that."
"Yes, Sir."
Other questions followed—about live loads, concrete models, soil validation. I answered steadily. The storm felt manageable.
Then, suddenly, the back door opened.
Morning light poured into the room, cutting across the dim interior.
A silhouette stood there.
Akmal.
He wasn't supposed to be here. This wasn't his class.
For a split second, our eyes met. His expression was unreadable—but intense.
The air shifted.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Not now. Not here.
Pak Dani turned slightly toward the door, annoyed by the interruption. "Yes?"
Akmal stepped inside slowly. "Sorry, Sir. I was looking for someone."
His gaze didn't leave me.
The room felt smaller. My classmates sensed the tension immediately. No one spoke.
"This is an exam session," Pak Dani said sharply. "Find your someone elsewhere."
Akmal's jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might argue. Then he looked at me one last time—something dark flickering behind his eyes—before turning and walking out.
The door closed.
Silence returned, but not the same silence as before. This one was heavier.
Pak Dani glanced at me. "Continue."
I swallowed and forced my focus back to the screen. The remaining discussion wrapped up quickly after that.
When I finally returned to my seat, adrenaline drained from my body, leaving behind exhaustion.
My phone vibrated again.
Cantika: How did it go?
I stared at the screen for a second before typing back: Technically survived. But Akmal just showed up outside the room.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Are you okay?
I looked toward the closed door of Room 305.
For now, yes.
But the war outside the classroom was far from over.