That morning, alarms rang in two different places.
In a luxurious apartment in the city's elite district, Rendra opened his eyes lazily. Morning sunlight slipped through silk curtains, illuminating a bedroom larger than most people's entire homes. He reached for his latest smartphone—a birthday gift from last month—and silenced the alarm with a single tap.
"Rendra! Breakfast is ready!" his mother's voice called from downstairs.
He yawned, stretched, and strolled into a bathroom fitted with a marble bathtub. His class was at nine. There were still two hours left. No need to rush.
Meanwhile, in a rundown rented room on the edge of the city, Arkan was jolted awake. The alarm on his cheap phone had been ringing for five minutes, but his body was too exhausted to respond. He had only fallen asleep at two in the morning after working late at the small food stall where he had a part-time job.
"Arkan! You'll be late again!" shouted Pak Harto, the landlord, from outside.
He jumped off the thin, deflated mattress. There was no time for a long shower—sometimes the water barely flowed in the mornings. Five minutes to get ready, then a run to the bus stop. His class was at nine. The trip took an hour and a half, with two transfers between public vans.
At the same campus, two students in the same major— but living in completely different worlds.