Felzein and Mrs Atun stepped out of the police station with purposeful strides, the morning sun casting long shadows before them.
Without delay, they made their way back to the modest provisions shop, where the air still bore the lingering chill of disruption.
There, they carefully retrieved the damaged CCTV equipment, handling it with the reverence one might afford a fragile relic, its contents, they hoped, might still whisper truths that would lead to justice.
Once all was accounted for, they returned to the station and delivered the equipment into official hands, placing what little remained of their hope into the officers' care.
Sergeant Bowo, ever composed and courteous, offered his sincere thanks, "Your swift action and cooperation," he remarked with a nod, "are of great value to our inquiry. With these additional materials, our chances of locating the perpetrators are markedly improved."
With formalities concluded, Felzein and Mrs Atun prepared to depart once more.
Before they did, Sergeant Bowo assured them that any further developments would be communicated without delay.
In a gesture both practical and symbolic, Felzein handed over his mobile number to the sergeant.
"Should anything arise, you may reach me directly," he said quietly.
Sergeant Bowo returned the courtesy, passing him a card with his own number inscribed in neat ink.
"We are but servants to the people, Mr Felzein," he said, his tone firm but warm. "Especially in times such as these."
With that, they parted ways, each carrying the weight of an unfinished story, yet buoyed by the quiet resolve that justice, in time, would prevail.
Felzein accompanied Mrs Atun back to the provisions shop, the weight of the morning's events still pressing heavily upon them both.
As they arrived, the stark yellow of police tape fluttered lightly in the breeze, cordoning off the perimeter like a solemn ribbon of warning.
Several uniformed officers remained at the scene, speaking in low tones with a knot of local residents whose faces bore expressions of restless curiosity.
Surveying the scene with a steady gaze, Felzein made a quiet decision.
In light of the ordeal and out of concern for the emotional toll on his staff, he resolved to close the shop for the day and give his employees time to recover.
Drawing closer to the assembled group, he offered a polite nod to one of the constables stationed near the entrance.
With a few measured words, he requested permission to cross the tape.
The officer gave a slight incline of the head, and Felzein stepped over the threshold into his own violated domain.
Inside, disarray reigned. Shelves stood crooked, items lay strewn across the floor like casualties of chaos.
Yet amidst the wreckage, one thing caught his eye, a pristine, untouched carton of cigarettes, still perched neatly on a shelf as if defying the mayhem that surrounded it.
With a faint, ironic smile, he retrieved the carton and stepped back outside.
Silently, without fanfare, he began offering cigarettes to the gathered neighbours and officers, a simple act, but one received with gratitude.
Smiles, subdued though they were, began to flicker among the group. Words of thanks followed in hushed tones.
Though the morning had begun with violation and disquiet, this small gesture shared among strangers and guardians alike, served to ease the tension.
In the wake of turmoil, it was not grand speeches that soothed, but these quiet, human moments of solidarity that reminded them all they were not alone.
After some time spent exchanging words with the locals and officers on the scene, the sharp trill of Felzein's phone broke through the subdued murmur of the morning.
He glanced at the screen, Heru. At last. His old friend, a crime reporter with a knack for turning blood and smoke into headlines, had evidently seen the message.
"Felzein! Mate, just saw your text, bloody hell, is it true? You got robbed?" Heru's voice crackled down the line, hurried and laced with concern.
Felzein's reply came flat, tight, "Yes, it's true. I'm still here at the shop."
"Right. Don't move. I'm on my way," Heru snapped, urgency in his tone.
Felzein didn't bother with pleasantries, "Fine."
He ended the call and let out a long breath, one laced with fatigue.
Heru might not be the cavalry, but at least he was someone who could ask the right questions.
Fifteen minutes passed before the low growl of a motorbike rounded the corner.
Heru arrived with the wind in his hair and his press credentials swinging from his neck like a badge of war.
His clothing was rumpled but purposeful, every thread speaking of a man used to chasing calamity before breakfast.
Spotting Felzein by the police tape, he raised a hand in greeting. Felzein returned it with a weary nod and motioned for him to come closer.
Though his shoulders still bore the stiffness of stress, there was a flicker of ease in his eyes, the kind one has when reinforcements arrive, however informal.
Heru was already slipping his phone from his pocket, ready to record or scribble, whichever the moment demanded.
He had made the requisite introductions to the officers and a few nosy neighbours, earning enough goodwill to hover near the crime scene without interference.
"Tell me everything, Fel," he said at once, all business now. "What happened?"
Felzein sighed, casting a glance toward the battered storefront before speaking.
"It was Mrs Atun who first saw it, just before dawn," he began, voice low but steady. "She thought I'd opened early, but when she stepped inside, she knew straight away something was wrong."
"The place was wrecked. Drawers pulled out, the till wide open, cash gone. It wasn't just a break-in. It was deliberate. Clean. Efficient."
Heru inclined his head, fingers moving deftly over his phone screen as he jotted down details, "And the CCTV? Any luck salvaging footage?"
Felzein exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening with simmering irritation, "That's the snag. The system's been tampered with. Monitor's dead, and the DVR's completely fried. Bu Atun's convinced the culprits disabled it deliberately before making their move."
Heru's eyes narrowed, his expression sharpening, "So they knew what they were doing. This wasn't some impulsive break-in, it was methodical."
Felzein nodded, bitterness lining his tone, "Exactly. And to make matters worse, they didn't just go for the till."
"They took five cartons of cigarettes, several boxes of cooking oil, two fifty-kilogram sacks of rice, and a number of high-value items. It's like they had a shopping list."
Heru rubbed his chin, brow furrowing, "Odd. Most thieves go straight for cash. These ones were after goods. Selective ones, at that."
Felzein's gaze drifted toward the store's interior, the scene of disarray still fresh, still raw. A shadow of unease lingered in his eyes.
"But there's something else," he murmured. "A resident mentioned seeing two men loitering outside the shop around two in the morning. Said they were on a motorbike. Looked like they were surveying the place."
Heru perked up, voice low with intrigue, "Any description?"
Felzein shook his head, "Not much to go on. Helmets, jackets, no visible features. But one detail stood out, the motorbike was a red Vario."
A glint sparked in Heru's eye, "Now we're getting somewhere. I'll ask around, see if anyone else has noticed a red Vario prowling about. Could be the thread we need."
Felzein offered a weary nod and placed a hand on Heru's shoulder, gratitude mingling with the tension in his posture.
"Let's hope so. The sooner we find these bastards, the better."
With a quiet determination, Heru met his gaze, "We will, Fel. One way or another, we'll find them."
After absorbing Felzein's account with the attentiveness of a seasoned hound on a scent, Heru turned with quiet deliberation toward one of the uniformed officers who had been lingering nearby, evidently listening in.
"Inspector," Heru began, his tone clipped yet courteous, "may I enquire as to how far your investigation has progressed? Have any leads emerged, say, fingerprint work or other forensic measures at the scene?"
The officer drew a measured breath, folding his arms thoughtfully before replying, "We've already conducted a full sweep of the premises and secured several items of interest."
"Forensic teams are currently analysing prints found on site. If the culprits neglected to wear gloves, there's a real chance we'll obtain a match from the existing database."
Heru gave a slow, understanding nod and began to tap brief notes into his phone, the screen casting a pale light on his focused expression.
"And beyond fingerprints," he asked, lifting his eyes, "have any other clues surfaced, anything at all that might illuminate a trail?"
The officer's brows furrowed slightly in contemplation, "We did discover some footprints, faint, but discernible, near the shop's side entrance. Judging by the soil displacement, at least one of the suspects approached on foot."
"We're also in the process of reviewing surveillance footage from nearby locations. With any luck, we'll catch sight of them, perhaps the motorcycle mentioned by that eyewitness."
Felzein, who had remained silent thus far, stepped slightly forward, his voice low but intent.
"The red Vario bike seen loitering early this morning, can that be traced?"
The officer inclined his head, "Indeed. We're coordinating with traffic surveillance units to access footage from nearby roads and intersections."
"If the camera angles serve us, we may well catch a glimpse of the plate number or something in their demeanour that gives them away."
Heru and Felzein exchanged a glance brief, but heavy with unspoken thought.
There was, at last, a glimmer amid the murk.
A thread of possibility tugged loose from the dark tapestry of the morning's events, offering the faint but vital hope that justice might yet stir from its slumber.