The Modifier's Touch

"The Modifier's Touch"

That afternoon, Dion's workshop was busier than usual. The village kids gathered in front, sitting on their motorbikes and joking around. One of them, a young man named Raka , came with his mini racing motorbike — an old 2-stroke motorbike that was usually used for illegal racing on the outskirts of the city.

“Mas Dion,” Raka greeted while pushing his smoking and coughing motorbike, “my motorbike is acting up. The acceleration drops, it keeps losing on corners. Can you check it?”

Dion approached. He crouched down, observing the shape of the frame, the suspension, and the sound of the engine when it was turned on.

His eyes narrowed. He knew immediately:

the engine power was out of balance, the exhaust pipe was leaking slowly, and the carburetor was not compatible with the type of piston used.

But Dion didn't say anything. He just nodded, then pushed the motorbike inside.

“Is this a modified motorbike?” he asked while opening the engine section.

“Yes, sir. But only from a cheap repair shop. The funds are tight,” Raka answered, looking down. “If you don’t have time—”

"I'll try first," Dion interrupted briefly.

For two full hours, Dion worked in silence. He changed the angle of the intake valve, tidied up the fuel flow path, and... most surprisingly, he redesigned the shape of the handmade exhaust from used iron pipes that he shaped himself using fire and a hammer.

The kids watching outside the workshop were speechless. They had never seen a mechanic work so carefully — and so quickly.

“Mr. Dion… is that real racing knowledge?” asked one of them.

Dion smiled slightly. “A little knowledge from an old friend.”

In fact, if they knew…

Dion was once the head of research and development of racing engines at the most elite engineering university in Bandung.

Evening approaching night. Raka's motorbike is finished. Dion tells him to try going around the empty field near the workshop.

And when the gas is turned… the bike shoots off with a smooth roar and the torque explodes at the beginning of the corner. Agile, light, and… unbelievable that it’s a locally modified bike.

The kids cheered.

“Crazy! It’s like a professional team bike, Rak!”

Raka got off the motorbike with a stunned face.

"Mas... this... bro, why are you going to the village if you can make a motorbike like this?"

Dion just patted his shoulder gently.

“The important thing is that you wear it properly. Don’t hit anyone.”

Dion's workshop from the outside still looks the same: simple, quiet, and a little messy. But no one knows, behind the back wall covered in old wooden zinc... there is something hidden that an ordinary village mechanic should not have.

That day, Raka — the young man whose motorbike was modified by Dion — came back. Not for service, but to deliver a package from a delivery service.

"Mr. Dion, a delivery from out of town," he said while handing over a long brown box.

Dion accepted it, his face changing slightly. He took the package straight to a small storage room behind the workshop — a place he rarely opened when there were other people around.

As soon as the warehouse door closed, the atmosphere changed completely. Unlike the makeshift workshop in front, this space was neat and cool , the walls lined with sound-absorbing foam. In the corner of the table, a high-spec black laptop screen glowed , with several cables plugged into the machine's sensor devices.

Around him, neatly folded, half-open engineering blueprints hung — hybrid engine blueprints, digital gearbox designs, schematics for small electric motors, even handwritten notes in complicated technical language that only experienced engineers could understand.

Dion opens his package: a set of the latest microcontrollers and sensors from Bandung. A special delivery from someone who still considers him “an old mentor who disappeared.”

He took a deep breath, then sat down in front of the laptop. With a quick movement, he opened a folder:

"AR-Project Confidential – Status: Dormant"

On the screen appears a 3D animation of a prototype of an environmentally friendly engine with 40% higher efficiency than current standard technology.

Dion stared at the screen for a long time. His eyes were sharp, different from the calm smile he usually showed in the front workshop.

"If the world knew I was still developing this... they would come," he muttered under his breath.

He closed his laptop, turned off the room lights, and pulled the zinc curtains back.

Back to being a regular mechanic.

However, without him realizing it, from a small gap in the holey zinc roof, two pairs of eyes of village children were peeking in mischievously , initially wanting to look for a stray cat that liked to hide in the warehouse.

They took a quick look: a flashing screen, images of strange machines, and blueprints they had never seen before.

Aditya sat in the living room of his luxurious house with a dark face. In his hand, a glass of red wine shook slowly as he held back his anger.

“The small workshop is getting busier,” he hissed.

A large man sat across from him. A stern face, faintly tattooed hands. Not from Salatiga — that was clear from his low but dangerous way of speaking.

"Do you want to make it quiet, or do you want to destroy it?" he asked briefly.

Aditya grinned thinly. “I just want him to stop being the talk of the town. That workshop needs to… die slowly. Quietly.”

That night, as the city began to sleep, two strange men moved in the shadows. They wore black jackets and hats, sneaking through the back alley of Dion's workshop.

In quick movements, they poured used oil over some of the equipment on the side shelves. Sharp nails were stuck into electrical cables, a bolt on a customer's machine was loosened slightly... not enough to cause immediate damage, but enough to create a dangerous technical error .

Before leaving, they slipped a small razor blade into Dion's toolbox — enough so that when he used it the next day, Dion's hand would be cut.

The sabotage was... designed to be silent.

The next day, Dion opened his workshop as usual. He didn't notice anything... until his hands peeled off while opening the toolbox.

"Ah..." he hissed softly.

Blood dripped a little, but that wasn’t what made Dion pause. He stared at the small razor, then at the position of his tools that were… different. Too neat. Too… slightly shifted from his usual self.

He closed the box slowly. Didn't say anything. But his eyes changed.

He carefully checked every corner of the workshop. He found suspicious cables, loose nuts, and oil in places where it shouldn't be.

He knew this was no accident.

Someone wants to bring him down.

But as usual, Dion didn't make a fuss. He cleaned everything, fixed what was broken, and... opened his workshop like nothing happened.

At the stall across the street, Mrs. Sri saw Dion's hand wrapped in bandages.

"Mrs. Dion, what's wrong?"

"Slice it a little, ma'am. The tool is stuck."

However, in his heart, Dion had already started to make plans.

"If this has already started," he thought, "then they are really scared."

And that night, in his back room, he opened his laptop.

He wrote a new line of code on his machine's blueprint. Not to show off. But to prepare.

Dion's workshop was busy again. As if nothing had changed.

Motorcycles were queuing in front, the sound of metal tapping could be heard from morning to evening, and Mas Dion — as usual — smiled as he worked.

But only Dion knows: all of this is being watched.

And he has no intention of responding with violence.

Not the way.

That afternoon, Raka came on his motorbike again.

“Sir, why does my motorbike shake after I accelerate hard?” he asked.

Dion checked. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first glance, but he opened the bottom of the engine — and saw it right away: the engine mount nut had been loosened a little.

It can be fatal if left untreated.

He just nodded, then re-tightened everything without a word. When he was done, he slipped in a new, larger bolt, one that could only be removed with a special tool. Then he wrote something in black marker on a hidden part of the machine:

“I have recorded your one move.”

That night, Dion assembled a small surveillance device — a homemade mini camera, tucked into an old wooden pole, and a simple motion sensor on the back door of the workshop.

Nobody knew that the workshop had now been installed with a spy made by Dion himself. He doesn't need to accuse anyone. He just had to wait.

Two days later, Aditya's motorbike entered his workshop with minor engine problems.

Aditya's workshop technician was amazed.

“Boss, why are there traces of assembly that look like old racing designs? But... the details are very neat. Not from our workshop.”

Aditya suddenly turned pale.

On the dashboard of his car, he found something: a small red screw. Not part of his car. And on the head of the screw, was written a single letter...

“D”

He was angry. But also... scared.

Dion never accused.

Never threatened. But with one small bolt and one counter-action... he sent a message that was louder than words.

That afternoon, at the workshop, Arum saw Dion working as usual. His hands were still bandaged, but his expression remained calm. Even calmer than usual.

“Mas Dion,” Arum asked softly, “aren’t you afraid if someone disturbs you?”

Dion turned his head. His gaze was deep, but soft.

“It’s normal to be afraid. But if we know who we are, we don’t need to shout so much.”

Then he went about his work, fixing up the old motorcycle with the calm of a master craftsman...

who knew his enemy was watching — and now hesitated to take another step.

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