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They left the noodle shop late into the night. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of clove cigarettes from the corner stall. They stood by their bikes, the engines ticking as they cooled down.

"Let's go home," Raka said. "I have a Zoom call with a client in Singapore at 8 AM."

"That's us," Sari said, sipping her iced tea. "We are high-tech, low-key. We have anxiety, but we know how to have fun. We are modern Muslims, digital natives, and we are broke, but we act rich."

"That’s the point," Raka said, ordering a "Kopi Susu Gula Aren" (palm sugar milk coffee) via the GoFood app on his phone because the line was too long. "We don't have one identity anymore. We’re fragmented. We listen to Podcasts about mental health while scrolling through memes about nihilism."

"I’m rebranding," Bimo announced. "I'm pivoting from just sneakers to 'Upcycled Streetwear.' I’m taking old thrift shop flannels and embroidering them with Batik patterns."

"Did you see the lineup for We The Fest ?" Bimo asked, tapping furiously on his iPad. "They’re mixing indie bands with K-Pop. It’s like they can’t decide who the audience is."

They ordered mountains of fried dumplings and fiery noodles. The aesthetic dropped away. Sari wiped the sweat from her forehead, smudging her eyeliner. Raka laughed as Bimo struggled to breathe after biting into a raw bird's eye chili.