Chapter Text
This was Po’s third visit to the bank this week. And already, he was tired.
The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes, the one that no amount of coffee or eye drops could wash away. His camera bag felt heavier than usual, his shoulders stiff from nights spent hunched over a screen. The city had been quiet that morning, the kind of dull, gray quiet that made you want to crawl back under the blanket and pretend deadlines didn’t exist.
He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling fan whirring lazily above the bank’s waiting area.
How long had he been standing here?
Fifteen minutes?
Twenty?
Maybe a lifetime.
The line didn’t seem to move at all. He yawned—loudly—earning a glare from the lady in front of him. He muttered a soft apology and straightened up.
This was supposed to be a quick errand. Deposit a payment from one of his clients, maybe grab an iced Americano after. But nothing ever went quickly when he was already half-asleep.
He glanced at the small digital board flashing the numbers above the teller counters. Still five people before him.
Perfect.
His mind drifted.
The editing job he had pulled all-nighters for still wasn’t done. He had told himself it was worth it—working independently, taking private projects—but maybe Uncle Joei had been right. Between freelancing and helping out at the tailor shop, his schedule was a disaster. His nights bled into mornings, his meals blurred into snacks, and his body ran on caffeine and pure stubbornness.
He sighed. The hum of the air-conditioning made him drowsy. He shifted his weight and started people-watching just to stay awake.
There was a girl with long hair two lines over, clutching a stack of documents like her life depended on them. Probably here to deposit her entire paycheck—maybe saving for a trip, or to pay off a loan. Po imagined her getting home, kicking off her shoes, calling someone to tell them, “I finally did it.”
An old man in a faded button-up sat on the bench nearby, glancing nervously at his watch every few seconds. Maybe he was waiting for his pension, or maybe he just didn’t like being surrounded by this many people. His hands trembled slightly when he adjusted his glasses, and Po’s chest softened a little.
Then there was the young couple near the counter, holding hands like they had never learned how to stand apart. The boy was talking, the girl was laughing softly, leaning on him like the rest of the world had faded out. Po smiled faintly. Lucky them, he thought. His last relationship felt like a distant echo. He wasn’t even sure what he missed more—the person or just having someone to talk to when the world went quiet.
The line shuffled forward. He took one step, rubbed at his neck, checked his phone.
And then—
The glass doors didn’t just open—they slammed inward with a violent crack, the sound ricocheting through the bank so sharply it felt like something inside Po’s chest snapped with it.
For a split second, no one moved.
Then the screaming started.
It came all at once—high, panicked, tearing through the air as three men stormed in, dressed in dark clothes, faces hidden behind masks. The harsh fluorescent lights caught on the metal of their guns, turning them into something too bright, too real. One of them fired a shot straight into the ceiling.
The sound exploded through the room.
Dust rained down. Someone shrieked. A child started crying.
Po’s brain stalled.
This wasn’t real. This—this didn’t happen to people like him. Not here. Not on a random morning when all he wanted was to deposit a check and maybe get coffee after.
But his body reacted before his thoughts could catch up. He dropped instantly, crouching behind the low divider between teller lines. His camera bag slammed painfully into his side, the impact knocking the air out of him.
The smell hit next—sharp, metallic, thick with gunpowder and something sour that clung to the back of his throat.
Fear.
“Hands where we can see them!” one of the men barked, his voice loud and jagged, cutting through the chaos.
People scrambled. Chairs screeched against the floor. The old man Po had been watching earlier crumpled to his knees, hands shaking as he raised them. The young couple clung to each other, ducking behind the counter.
Po pressed himself lower, his palms flat against the cold tile. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt, each beat slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Okay. Okay. Stay down. Don’t move. Don’t look. Just breathe.
The robbers moved quickly—too quickly. One vaulted over the counter, shoving bags at the tellers, yelling at them to fill them. Another paced the floor, gun sweeping across the room in sharp, restless movements.
“Move faster!” one of them snapped. “Don’t make me fucking repeat myself!”
A woman sobbed somewhere to Po’s left. Someone’s phone started vibrating loudly before being fumbled silent.
Po squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to steady his breathing. His lungs felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the room.
Don’t look. Don’t—
He looked.
It was instinct. Stupid, dangerous curiosity.
The man with the gun was walking down the aisle now, boots striking the marble in slow, deliberate steps. Each one echoed too loudly. Too close.
Po ducked again immediately, pressing his lips together, barely daring to breathe.
Too late.
“Hey—” the voice snapped, sharp and close. “You. Get the fuck up.”
Po froze.
Maybe if he didn’t move—
A hand grabbed him.
A hand shot down and caught him by the wrist.
Hard.
Fingers clamped around the joint with crushing force, digging straight into bone. The grip was immediate, unrelenting—too tight, too sudden—and before Po could react, he was yanked upward.
Pain flared sharp and hot up his arm.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the robber snarled, dragging him up like he weighed nothing. “I said get up!”
Po stumbled, barely managing to stay on his feet as he was pulled forward. His wrist throbbed violently where the man’s fingers were locked around it, the pressure so intense it made his vision blur at the edges.
“O-okay—okay!” he stammered, breath catching. “I’m up—I’m up—just don’t—don’t shoot—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the man snapped.
His grip tightened.
Po flinched.
It felt like his bones were grinding together under the pressure, the man’s fingers digging in deeper, deeper, like he was trying to hold him in place, to control him completely. Po’s other hand instinctively came up, hovering uselessly near his wrist, like he wanted to pry the fingers off but didn’t dare.
“Empty your pockets,” the robber ordered, jerking his arm slightly for emphasis.
The movement sent another jolt of pain shooting through him.
Po sucked in a shaky breath, nodding quickly. “Okay—okay, I will, just—please—”
His fingers fumbled as he reached for his wallet, his movements clumsy from both fear and the way his wrist was still trapped in that crushing hold. He could already feel the ache settling deep, something that was going to linger. Something that would definitely bruise.
Badly.
“Faster,” the robber snapped.
“I’m trying—” Po’s voice cracked as he finally managed to pull his wallet free. “Here—just take it—there’s nothing in there, I swear—”
The robber snatched it with his free hand, but he didn’t let go of Po.
Not yet.
For a moment, Po stayed like that—half-turned, wrist still trapped, pulse racing wildly beneath the man’s grip. He could feel his own heartbeat against the robber’s fingers, fast and uneven, like it was trying to escape.
Then—
The grip loosened.
Not fully. Just enough to shift.
Just enough for Po to feel the exact shape of where each finger had been pressing into his skin.
And then—
The robber stopped.
It was subtle at first. A hesitation. A flicker.
Po noticed it immediately.
“What?” another robber called, approaching with a half-filled bag of cash slung over his shoulder. “Why’d you stop? We don’t have time—”
“Wait,” the first one said.
His voice had changed.
It wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t controlled.
It was… wrong.
“Wait, wait—just—just fucking wait.”
The second robber frowned. “What do you mean wait? What are you—”
“Just look.”
The first man let go of Po abruptly, shoving him aside hard enough that he staggered. Po barely caught himself, his arm throbbing where fingers had dug in, his heart racing even faster now—not just from fear, but confusion.
What—what was happening?
The robber was already pulling out his phone, hands shaking slightly as he scrolled through something. His breathing had gone uneven, quick and shallow.
Po blinked, his thoughts scrambling.
Why are they hesitating?
The man turned the phone toward his partner.
The second robber leaned in—
And froze.
Completely.
“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head, backing up a step. “No, no, no—there’s no fucking way.”
“It’s him,” the first man whispered.
“You sure?” The second one sounded panicked now. “You better be fucking sure—”
“Look at him,” the first snapped, his voice cracking. “Look at his face. It’s him.”
Po’s stomach dropped.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice thin, unsteady. “What—what do you mean it’s me? I didn’t do anything—”
Neither of them responded.
The second robber ran a hand over his masked face, pacing once, twice. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit—”
“What?” the third one shouted from the counter, irritation bleeding into his voice. “What the hell is going on? We’re on a clock—”
The first man turned toward him, pale beneath the mask. “It’s him.”
Silence hit the room like a physical force.
The third robber stilled mid-motion. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” the first shot back.
“Then what the fuck do we do?” the third demanded.
No one answered immediately.
Because they all knew.
The realization spread between them like wildfire—fast, terrifying, undeniable.
“If he finds out—” one started, his voice dropping.
“He will find out,” another cut in immediately. “You know he will. He always does.”
“Then we’re dead,” the third muttered. “We are actually fucking dead.”
“Unless—”
“Unless nothing!” the second snapped, his voice rising. “We are not touching him. Do you hear me? We are not fucking touching him—”
Po stared at them, his head spinning.
None of this made sense.
They weren’t supposed to be afraid.
They had guns. They were the ones in control. They were the ones—
“Hey—” Po said, his voice shaky, confusion bleeding through the fear. “What are you talking about? Who—who are you talking about?”
No one answered him.
They were too busy panicking.
The first robber turned back to him suddenly, stepping closer again—but this time, there was something different in his posture. Something frantic. Desperate.
“You,” he said, pointing at Po with a shaking hand. “You won’t tell him, right?”
Po blinked. “Tell who—?”
“Don’t play dumb,” the man snapped, then immediately shook his head, like he regretted the tone. “No—no, just—listen. Please. You just—just tell him we saw it, okay? The list. We saw it. We didn’t touch you. We didn’t do shit.”
Po’s mouth fell open. “What list—”
“Please,” the robber said again, and now his voice was breaking. “Otherwise he’ll fucking kill us.”
Po just stared.
Because nothing—nothing—made sense.
Before he could say anything else, the men were already backing away, their movements rushed, uncoordinated now. One of them dropped the bag of money entirely, not even bothering to pick it up.
“Go, go, go!” one of them hissed.
They turned and bolted.
Just like that.
Out the doors. Gone.
Like they’d seen something worse than the police.
Silence.
Then chaos.
The room filled with noise again—people crying, phones dialing emergency numbers, guards shouting for everyone to stay put. But all Po could do was stand there, staring at the bag of money lying at his feet.
His hands trembled.
He could still hear their voices echoing in his head.
It’s him. Oh, shit, it’s him.
Tell him we saw the list.
Otherwise he’ll kill us.
He swallowed hard, his mouth dry.
Who the hell…?
Someone touched his shoulder—one of the guards, asking if he was okay—but his body moved on autopilot. He nodded faintly, mumbling something that might’ve been a yes.
The police sirens grew louder in the distance, but Po barely heard them. He shoved his hands in his pockets, mind still reeling.
Who were those men talking about?
And why did they look at him like they had just seen a ghost?
⸻
The police had arrived with sirens wailing, lights flashing, and chaos spilling through the shattered glass doors of the bank. Red and blue streaks pulsed over broken glass and scattered papers, over trembling hands and pale, stunned faces. The air still carried the sharp tang of gunpowder, mixing with the low hum of overlapping voices and hurried footsteps.
Yet even in the middle of all that noise, no one could answer the simplest question—what had just happened?
Someone said the robbers had frozen mid-action.
Someone else swore one of them dropped his gun the second he saw him.
Him.
Everyone kept looking toward Po.
He stood near the counter, clutching his camera bag to his chest like a shield. His shirt was half untucked, his breath uneven, the lens of his camera cracked from where he’d dropped it in panic. He had no idea why people were looking at him that way—like he’d done something extraordinary, like he held the explanation to the unexplainable.
But Po hadn’t done anything.
He hadn’t fought back. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t even moved.
He’d just stood there, heart pounding in his throat, waiting for something to break.
Yet it hadn’t.
Instead, the robbers had turned pale as ghosts and fled before the police even arrived.
Now, hours later, as the flashing lights faded and the last officer took notes, Po still couldn’t piece it together.
Reporters had hovered, trying to interview him, but his answers were thin and trembling. “I don’t know,” he kept saying. “I really don’t know.”
Someone thanked him—he didn’t know for what.
Someone else said, “You’re lucky,” and patted his shoulder.
He just nodded numbly, blinking through the haze.
People came up to him—one after another—thanking him, patting his back, murmuring words like “hero” and “you saved us.”
But Po could only blink. Hero? He had done nothing. He had stood frozen, heart in his throat, convinced he would die there.
Each touch made something in him tighten.
At one point, someone’s hand brushed too close to his wrist.
Po flinched.
The movement was small, barely noticeable, but the pain wasn’t.
It had settled deep by now—a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed with every slight shift of his hand. When he finally glanced down, just for a second, his stomach twisted.
The marks were already forming.
Dark. Ugly. Spreading beneath his skin in the unmistakable shape of fingers.
A handprint.
He looked away immediately.
Too fast.
Like if he didn’t look at it, it wouldn’t be real.
Like it wasn’t his.
The feeling that crept up his spine then wasn’t just discomfort—it was something sharper. Colder. Something that made his skin crawl in a way he couldn’t quite name, but knew too well.
He shoved his sleeve down without thinking, covering the mark completely, even though no one had said anything.
Even though no one had noticed.
Even though—
He swallowed.
By the time he stumbled back to his apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving only emptiness behind.
The night outside was warm, the air thick with the scent of fried street food and rain-soaked concrete. Po’s building stood at the edge of the streetlight’s glow—small, old, and familiar. Inside, his home felt even smaller. The shadows seemed deeper tonight.
He dropped his bag by the couch and just stood there, staring at the space around him as though expecting something to move.
His cracked camera lens glinted under the dim light.
The cheque he had meant to deposit sat crumpled in his pocket.
He let out a long, tired breath, running a hand through his hair before collapsing onto the couch.
He was safe. That was all that mattered. Safe.
So why did he still feel like someone was watching him?
His wrist throbbed.
The word felt… off.
Later, in bed, he shifted under the sheets, the fabric brushing lightly against his arm. Even that was enough to make him wince. The ache had deepened, the skin sensitive in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment before exhaling quietly and reaching for the sleeve of his shirt.
He tugged it down.
Further.
Until it covered his wrist completely.
The fabric pressed lightly over the bruise, dulling the sight of it, if not the feeling.
He didn’t want to see it.
Didn’t want to think about it.
Didn’t want to remember the way fingers had wrapped around him—too tight, too familiar in a way that made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.
So he left it covered.
Even as he turned onto his side.
Even as he pulled the blanket higher.
Even as sleep refused to come.
Every time Po closed his eyes, the memory came back in pieces—
the sharp crack of the gunshot,
the sound of boots against marble,
the way the room had gone still.
And then the silence.
Not quiet. Not calm.
Pressing.
Like the air before a storm.
He remembered the way one of the robbers had gone pale, eyes wide like he had seen something impossible.
He remembered the whisper—low, frantic.
He’s on the list.
Po turned onto his other side, the sheets tangling around his legs.
The bruise pulsed beneath the fabric.
When dawn finally bled through the curtains, he felt worse.
His head throbbed. His eyes burned.
He shuffled around his apartment in a fog—half-dressed, barefoot, moving without thought. He made coffee, forgot about it, then drank it cold an hour later.
The city outside had already come alive again: horns blaring, vendors shouting, the sound of the noodle stall across the street clattering with life.
It was almost comforting—almost.
Then his phone rang.
“Hello?” His voice came out hoarse.
“Good morning. Is this Khun Pawat Nuenganan?”
The voice was crisp, formal—official. “This is Officer Mick. I’m in charge of the robbery case. I’d like you to come down to the station. We have some answers to your questions.”
Before Po could even reply, the line went dead.
He stared at his phone, blinking.
“…Okay?” Rude.
He rubbed at his temple, groaning softly. “Why is it always me?”
Everything in my life always turns into a circus.
⸻
The police station sat in the middle of Sukhumvit, too modern and too bright for Po’s taste. Glass walls, polished floors, the faint hum of air conditioning that made everything feel colder than it should.
Po’s shoes clicked softly against the tiles as he entered, trying to look casual even though his insides were a tangled mess of nerves.
The moment he stepped inside, conversations stuttered.
Officers paused mid-sentence. A man carrying files turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly before moving aside.
At first, Po thought he was imagining it. Then he realized—no, people were actually parting for him.
Like the air around him shifted.
Like they knew something he didn’t.
They somehow recognized him.
Then the whispers started.
Low. Quick. Cut off too late.
“…that’s him—”
“…no, it can’t be—”
“…the list—”
Po’s steps faltered for half a second.
The list.
His fingers twitched at his side before he even realized what he was doing. He tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, pulling it down over his wrist, covering the bruised skin beneath like a reflex.
Like instinct.
Like he didn’t want anyone seeing.
His throat tightened.
He kept walking.
What is happening?
Po walked to the front desk, forcing a polite smile.
“Um, excuse me,” he said, voice soft. “I’m looking for Officer Mick. He—”
“Name?” the officer interrupted, not looking up from his paperwork.
“Pawat Nuenganan.”
The sound of his name changed everything.
The officer froze. His pen stopped mid-stroke. Slowly, his gaze lifted, and Po saw his expression shift—from irritation to alarm.
“Oh—uh—yes, of course, Khun Pawat. Please, right this way.”
The officer’s voice had gone from irritated to terrified in two seconds flat.
Po blinked. “Oh. Okay?”
The man practically jumped from his seat, leading him down the hall at a speed that made Po hurry to keep up.
Unease began to crawl up his spine.
Why did everyone suddenly sound so… careful around him?
He followed in silence, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off the tiled walls.
⸻
Officer Mick’s office was neat, almost unnervingly so. No dust, no clutter. Just a single framed certificate on the wall and a fan spinning lazily above.
Mick stood when Po entered, extending his hand in a firm shake that lingered a second too long. But what caught Po’s attention was the way he looked at him—like a man studying a loaded gun he hadn’t realized was pointed his way.
“Khun Pawat,” he said with a tight smile. “Please, have a seat.”
Po sat. His palms rested on his knees, trying to stay steady.
Mick didn’t sit immediately.
Instead, he lingered beside the desk, one hand resting lightly against the edge as if he needed the support. His gaze flicked toward the door—quick, sharp—before returning to Po.
Then it shifted again.
And again.
Not casual.
Not absentminded.
Deliberate.
Like he was checking. Listening. Making sure something—or someone—wasn’t just outside.
The faint hum of the air conditioning filled the silence, too steady, too loud in the absence of anything else. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang and was quickly cut off. Footsteps passed by the office, slowing just slightly near the door before continuing on.
Mick’s fingers tapped once against the desk.
Stopped.
Then he reached off to the side.
“Coffee?” he asked abruptly. “Or tea?”
The question landed strangely in the space between them—too normal, too polite, like it had been pulled from a completely different conversation.
Po blinked, thrown off. “No, I’m okay.”
“Right. Of course.”
But Mick didn’t move on.
He hesitated for half a second—just long enough for it to feel intentional—before continuing anyway.
A moment later, he set a cup down in front of Po.
Porcelain.
Fine china.
White, smooth, untouched by any crack or imperfection, with a thin gold rim that caught the light faintly as it tilted. It didn’t match anything else in the room—not the metal filing cabinets, not the plain desk, not the stiff-backed chairs that looked like they had been chosen for function over comfort.
It didn’t belong here.
The soft clink of ceramic against wood sounded too delicate for the space, too quiet compared to everything else Po had heard that day.
Steam rose in slow, curling ribbons from the surface.
Fresh.
Recently poured.
Po stared at it.
For a moment, he didn’t even process the coffee itself—just the wrongness of it. The way it sat there like it had been placed with care in a room that didn’t know what to do with care.
Something about it tugged at him.
Not a memory exactly.
More like the shadow of one.
A feeling.
Faint, distant, but unmistakably familiar in a way that made something uneasy settle low in his stomach.
His fingers twitched.
Without thinking, he brushed them against the edge of his sleeve, tugging it down slightly over his wrist again. The fabric dragged lightly over the sore skin beneath, and he stilled for just a second at the dull pulse of pain before forcing his hand back into his lap.
He didn’t look down. Didn’t want to.
Across from him, Mick finally took his seat.
But he didn’t relax into it.
His posture stayed rigid, spine too straight, shoulders drawn tight like he was holding himself together by force. One hand rested on the desk, but the fingers kept shifting—subtle, restless movements that betrayed more than his expression did.
His eyes moved again.
Not just to Po.
To the door.
To the wall.
To the corner of the room where nothing was.
Back to the door.
Always the door.
Like he was expecting it to open.
Like he was afraid it might.
The silence stretched between them, thickening with every passing second.
Too long.
Too deliberate.
Too heavy.
Even the hum of the air conditioning seemed to press in closer, filling the gaps where conversation should have been. The steam from the untouched coffee continued to curl upward, slow and steady, the only thing in the room that moved without tension.
Po shifted slightly in his seat.
The chair creaked under the movement, the sound sharp in the quiet.
No one spoke.
And somehow, that felt worse than anything that had happened before.
For five whole minutes, Mick didn’t say a word. He just looked at him. Studied him. Brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a riddle.
The silence was unbearable.
Finally, the officer leaned forward, the movement slow, almost reluctant, as if even this question carried weight. “Do you know why the robbers acted that way, Khun Pawat?”
Po blinked, caught off guard by how direct it was. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t. I—I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”
Mick didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, rubbing his chin, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting again—flicking, almost unconsciously, toward the door before settling back on Po. There was something tight in his posture, something restrained, like he was choosing his words too carefully.
“We did a thorough background check on you,” he said finally. “You’re clean. Completely. No records. Nothing.” He paused, the silence stretching just a little too long. “Except…” His voice lowered slightly. “Except for a case filed years ago—against your ex-boyfriend.”
Po stiffened.
The word ex-boyfriend scraped against something old and fragile, something he hadn’t expected to hear in this room, in this conversation. His shoulders tensed without him meaning to, his fingers curling slightly against his knees.
Mick continued, watching him closely now. “Does the name Teema Kanjanakittkul mean anything to you?”
Po’s head lifted sharply.
His breath caught.
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt, his thoughts slipping, pulled backward into something he hadn’t touched in years—into a name, a face, a voice that felt distant and too close all at once.
That name hadn’t crossed his mind in so long.
“Thame,” he said quietly, the word leaving his mouth before he could stop it.
Mick’s eyes sharpened immediately. “So you do know him.”
Po let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach that point. “I… knew him,” he corrected, his voice uneven. “We were—yeah. It’s been years.” He hesitated, then added, more uncertain now, “Why?”
“Maybe this will help,” Mick said.
He reached for his phone, tapping the screen a few times before sliding it across the desk.
Po frowned slightly as he picked it up.
A list filled the screen.
Names. Faces. Details. Some blurred. Some crossed out in red.
At first, it didn’t mean anything.
Just information. Random. Disconnected.
Then his eyes moved—
And stopped.
His breath hitched.
There he was.
Younger. Smiling awkwardly in a school uniform.
Po Pawat Nuenganan.
And beside it—
NO HARM.
Po blinked.
Once.
Twice.
He looked up at Mick, then back down again, like the image might change if he stared at it long enough.
It didn’t.
The words stayed exactly where they were.
His stomach turned cold.
“What… what is this?” he asked quietly, his voice thinner now.
Mick leaned back slightly, but the tension didn’t leave him. “That’s what we call a ‘no-harm list.’ The official version, at least. There are several others circulating, but your name—Khun Pawat—is at the top of every one.”
A no-harm list.
Po let out a short breath, shaking his head faintly.
“A no-harm list?” he repeated, the words sounding strange even to him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means exactly that,” Mick said. “It means—” he paused briefly, his gaze flicking toward the door again before returning, “—that under no circumstances—no business, no deal, no accident—is anyone allowed to hurt you. You are simply the most protected person in this country.”
For a second, the words didn’t land.
Didn’t connect.
And then—
Po laughed.
It came out sudden and sharp, edged with disbelief, the kind of laugh that slipped out before he could stop it. “What?” he said, shaking his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “What is this? Some prank? This sounds like something out of a movie.”
The laugh lingered—
For a heartbeat.
And then—
It died.
Because Mick wasn’t laughing.
Mick’s face had gone pale. Completely still. His expression tight, serious in a way that didn’t leave room for doubt.
Po’s smile faltered.
The silence that followed pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
“…you’re serious,” Po said slowly.
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
Flat.
Certain.
Po swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone as his gaze dropped back to the screen.
His name.
Those words.
No harm.
His heart started to pound, uneven now.
“A no-harm list,” he repeated under his breath, like saying it again might make it make sense.
It didn’t.
“What? How? Why me?”
Mick hesitated.
He glanced toward the door again, quick and instinctive, before leaning back slightly.
“Khun Teema Kanjanakittkul—your Thame—he owns several global establishments. Bars, hotels, restaurants. What do you think it actually is?”
“His—what?” Po said, the confusion sharpening now. “Bars, hotels… what?”
Mick went quiet for a moment, like he was weighing how to say it.
“Mars.”
Po frowned. “Mars? That’s—Thame’s company?”
The name sat strangely in his mind.
Everyone had heard of Mars. It was everywhere—billboards, nightlife, luxury, something larger than life.
But Thame—
Thame had never felt like that.
At least, not the Thame Po remembered.
“Yes,” Mick said. “But Mars isn’t just hospitality, Khun Po.” He paused again, lowering his voice slightly. “Unofficially… Mars is an organized crime syndicate. A cover up.”
Po stared at him.
His mind refused to process it.
“You’re saying Thame—my Thame—is some kind of mafia boss?”
Mick swallowed. “Not some kind of. The Boss. The head of it all.”
Silence filled the room.
Heavy. Thick.
Po heard it clearly—the capital B in Boss—felt it settle somewhere deep, somewhere that didn’t know what to do with it.
He stared blankly, his thoughts scattering, refusing to align into anything that made sense.
He wanted to laugh again.
Wanted to dismiss it.
Push it away.
Because it didn’t fit.
It didn’t match.
Thame?
The same Thame who always carried extra gum in his pockets?
Who once held his hand in a thunderstorm?
Who looked at him like he was the only person in a crowded room?
Who stayed still for hours when Po had fallen asleep on his shoulder, afraid to wake him?
That Thame?
That Thame couldn’t be this.
Po shook his head slowly, his throat burning. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Some prank? This sounds like something out of a movie.”
But Mick didn’t look amused.
Instead, he stood, giving a small, almost nervous bow. “Please give Khun Kanjanakittkul my regards. If you need anything at all, we’re at your service, Khun Po.”
Po stared at him, the edges of his world tilting again.
“You—you mean that literally, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
The air in the room felt heavier.
Thicker.
Po took a slow breath, looking back down at the phone screen, at his own name sitting there like something unreal.
A no-harm list.
A crime syndicate.
Thame.
“Actually,” he said quietly, surprising even himself. “There is something you can do.”
Mick froze. “Of course. Anything.”
Po lifted his gaze, meeting his eyes. His voice was calm now—too calm.
“Give me any contact information you have for Khun Teema Kanjanakittkul.”
Mick’s face drained of color.
His mouth opened, then closed again.
He looked like a man who had just been asked to summon something he didn’t dare name.
Po almost pitied him.
Almost.
He didn’t know why he had said it.
Didn’t know if he wanted answers, closure, or just to see if Thame was real—still real.
But one thing was certain.
Whatever this was—
He was already in it too deep to turn back.
And beneath the confusion, beneath the fear, something else had started to stir.
Something small.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
If Thame really was what they said he was—
Then maybe it was time Po got some answers himself.
⸻
The world outside the police station was too loud.
Car horns blared, voices overlapped, the steady, rolling hum of Bangkok at dusk pressing in from all sides. It felt like too much—too sharp, too fast—like the city had been turned up a notch higher than usual, and Po couldn’t quite keep up with it.
He stood on the curb for a moment, unmoving.
Heat rose from the asphalt beneath his shoes, the air thick with the smell of fuel and rain, something damp and metallic clinging to the back of his throat. Somewhere behind him, a neon sign flickered, buzzing faintly, the sound irregular and irritating in a way he couldn’t ignore.
Everything felt like it was spinning.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Too much.
He flexed his hand absently—and immediately stilled.
The dull ache in his wrist pulsed in response, sharp enough to pull him back into his body. His fingers curled slightly, instinctively, before he adjusted his sleeve without thinking, tugging the fabric lower until it covered the bruised skin completely.
The motion was quick.
He had spent the last few hours surrounded by officers who didn’t know whether to salute him, question him, or simply back away. They’d treated him like something fragile, untouchable, as if he were a ghost that had wandered into their precinct.
Officer Mick—kind, stern, and suddenly far too respectful—had come out to personally see him off, eyes avoiding Po’s as if afraid to say something wrong.
It was absurd. All of it.
He had been treated like some form of royalty, oddly deferential for no apparent reason.
Even the cab driver had asked him twice if he was a celebrity, because who else would walk out of the main precinct with half the department watching?
Po had wanted to laugh at first—me? A celebrity? No one would even glance twice at me if I didn’t exist in some high school memory—but the laugh stuck somewhere in his throat, strangled by disbelief and exhaustion.
So he had forced a smile, shaking his head, muttering that it was nothing. But inside, his stomach twisted. The polite smiles, the sidelong glances, the hesitant words—it all pointed back to one thing.
Thame.
Khun Teema Kanjanakittkul.
His Thame.
His sunshine.
The name felt foreign and familiar all at once. It rolled around in Po’s chest like a forgotten melody he once knew by heart but could no longer hum.
A name that was now making people drop their voices mid-conversation. A name that now, apparently, protected Po from harm.
The irony was sharp enough to taste.
His mind was a blur, looping over the conversation with Officer Mick, the absurdity of it, the impossibility.
By the time Po reached his apartment, his body was begging for rest. His muscles ached, his eyes burned, and his brain refused to stop spinning. He wanted to throw himself onto his bed and sleep until all of it—every headline, every stare—disappeared.
But the moment his head hit the pillow, the memories came flooding back.
Po’s thoughts refused to settle. Thame. His Thame. The same boy he had known in high school, the one with the boyish grin.
The Thame who had made every shared moment—pinky promises, lunch sharing, whispered secrets—feel like it was just the two of them against the world.
The Thame who had listened—really listened—whenever Po spoke, his dark eyes steady and sure.
Po turned over, pressing his face into his pillow.
The same boy.
The same Thame.
And now they were calling him what? A mafia boss?
A name whispered with fear in the streets. A global presence apparently.
The juxtaposition hit Po like a punch to the chest. How had the boy he had once teased for being so dramatic and stubborn become… this?
It was laughable.
No, not even laughable—impossible.
Absolutely, irrevocably impossible.
Except…
Po blinked up at the ceiling.
Thame had never said what his parents did for work. Not once.
He’d always been vague, always redirecting with a joke or a question.
He’d had bodyguards even back then, though Po never thought much of it. And those cars—black, sleek, tinted so dark they looked like shadows moving through sunlight.
And the way Thame sometimes glanced over his shoulder, sharp and instinctive, even in the quietest moments—Po used to tease him for being paranoid.
Now, those details clattered together like broken glass in Po’s head.
Was it possible?
No.
He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—believe that.
He thought about the robbery, the moment the men had frozen at the sight of him, muttering in fear, dropping bags of money, fleeing as though the devil himself were in the room. And why? Who had the power to make men falter like that? Why were their eyes not on him, not expecting him to retaliate, but… afraid?
No.
He would ask Thame himself.
That was what he would do.
Face to face, no rumors, no secondhand words. He’d look him in the eye and demand the truth.
It took two days for Po to realize how naïve that idea was.
Finding Thame was not like finding an old classmate. You couldn’t just text him or walk into a café and hope to bump into him by chance. The addresses Officer Mick had given him were names of establishments that sounded less like places and more like whispered legends: the Mars Lounge, Sephere Tower, Eclipse House.
Each one supposedly tied to Thame. Each one guarded like a fortress.
Still, Po had decided.
He couldn’t sit still anymore. Not with questions burning holes in his chest.
He picked Mars Lounge first.
Officer Mick had said it was where Thame could be found “if he wanted to be found.” Whatever that meant.
The cab dropped him off just past sunset. The air was thick with humidity, the kind that made his shirt stick to his back. The building loomed ahead—black glass, gold trim, not a single sign out front. Just a heavy door, guarded by two men in dark suits who looked carved from stone.
Po hesitated, clutching his bag.
He was wearing cream khakis and a plain white shirt, a soft pink button-up left unbuttoned over it. For once, the sleeves weren’t rolled to his elbows like they always were. They fell straight down to his wrists, the fabric slightly creased, hiding more than just skin.
The bruise beneath had already begun to turn—dark purple fading into an ugly yellow, the shape of fingers still unmistakable if anyone looked closely enough.
So he made sure no one could.
He looked… ordinary. Deliberately harmless.
If he was underdressed, well, so be it. He was coming from work. From the tailor’s shop, where the air always smelled like starch and fabric, scissors clicking in steady rhythm against soft conversation.
And yet, even standing there now, something about him felt… off.
Not to anyone else.
Just to him.
He wasn’t about to change just to confront a man who, apparently, ran an empire of shadows.
The guards didn’t stop him. They didn’t even blink as he approached. One of them pulled open the door, the heavy hinges sighing in protest.
Inside, Mars Lounge was another world.
Low lighting. Gold accents. Velvet and glass and quiet jazz humming through hidden speakers. The air smelled faintly of smoke and sandalwood.
Po felt it immediately—the weight of money, of power, of unspoken rules.
He had no idea what exactly he was getting himself into.
Every movement felt rehearsed. The waiters gliding between tables, the quiet murmurs of conversation that never grew too loud. It was beautiful, intimidating, and utterly foreign.
The receptionist behind the black marble counter smiled at him, polite but unreadable. Her red lipstick didn’t move when she spoke.
“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?”
Po wai-ed quickly, his voice a bit too high. “Ah—hello. I’m actually here to see someone. Khun Teema? Khun Kanjanakittkul?”
Her fingers paused mid-keystroke.
Then, slowly, she looked up.
“I see,” she said evenly. “Do you have an appointment with Khun Teema?”
Po rubbed the back of his neck. “No, not exactly. But—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she interrupted, her tone polite but rehearsed. “Without an appointment, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Po’s chest tightened. Of course. He had expected that.
He tried again anyway. “Is there… maybe a way to leave a message? Or a number I can—”
“I’m afraid we don’t give out personal contact information.”
Po sighed, his voice softening into resignation. “Right. Of course. Then, could you at least tell him Po Pawat Nuenganan stopped by?”
That name—his name—seemed to shatter something in the room.
The receptionist froze.
For a heartbeat, she didn’t move at all. Then her eyes widened, and her composure cracked just slightly, like a mask slipping.
It was an eerie deja vu of the police station.
“Khun… Pawat?”
Po blinked, unsure what to say. “Um… yes?”
She stood abruptly, bowing her head. “I—I didn’t realize. Please forgive me, Khun Pawat. One moment, please.”
Po barely had time to raise his hands in protest before she was on the phone, speaking in a rapid tone, her tone suddenly formal.
Two guards appeared from nowhere, their eyes flicking toward Po with a mixture of recognition and disbelief.
And just like that, Po was no longer a customer. He was a guest.
Or perhaps something else entirely.
The receptionist came around the counter, gesturing quickly. “Please follow me, Khun Pawat. Khun Teema has been informed.”
Po wanted to ask where exactly they were taking him, but his words caught in his throat. He was being whisked away—through a maze of hallways, past heavy curtains and glass doors that seemed to muffle the world.
Every step deepened the silence.
Every step made his pulse louder in his ears.
The guards’ shoes made soft, synchronized sounds behind him, like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.
Finally, they stopped before a tall black door with a golden handle shaped like a serpent. The light here was dimmer, the air colder.
The receptionist hesitated, her voice lowering. “Please wait here, Khun Pawat. Khun Teema will join you shortly. Would you care for any refreshments?”
Po shook his head quickly, then changed his mind. “Water, please.”
She nodded and slipped inside briefly, returning with a chilled glass on a silver tray. Then she quickly stepped out, closing the door behind her.
The click of the latch echoed far too loudly.
Po looked around.
The room was immaculate.
Dark wood floors, soft carpet, walls lined with art that looked older than the building itself. A massive desk dominated the far side of the room—polished mahogany, edges gleaming under the soft light. Behind it, a chair of black leather sat turned slightly away, empty.
It smelled faintly of something warm—expensive cologne, maybe, mixed with cedar.
Po felt like an intruder.
He stood in the middle of the office for a moment, unsure whether to sit or stand, afraid that even breathing too loudly would somehow offend the air. His pastel shirt and soft khakis felt ridiculous here—like color bleeding into a grayscale world.
Finally, he lowered himself into one of the chairs across from the desk, hands clasped in his lap to stop them from fidgeting.
The silence was thick.
Outside, he could hear faint sounds—the hum of voices, a door shutting somewhere far away. Inside, nothing moved.
He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.
What would he say when Thame walked in?
How did one even begin a conversation like this?
Hey, remember me? The boy you used to share snacks with in class? By the way, are you the head of a global crime syndicate now? A mafia boss?
He almost laughed. The sound would’ve broken something sacred, so he didn’t.
Instead, he stared at the empty chair across from him.
Was Thame taller now? Did he still smile with that slight curve in his lip, the one that made his eyes soften? Did he still laugh like sunshine breaking through clouds?
Did he remember Po at all?
The clock on the wall ticked softly, each second stretching thin.
Po’s fingers curled around the cool glass of water on the desk. He took a sip, his throat dry. The sound of his swallow was deafening in the quiet.
He thought back to the last time he saw Thame.
And now here they were.
The thought made Po’s heart ache, a strange mix of longing and fear twined together.
He was about to stand, to pace just to calm his nerves, when the faintest sound made him freeze.
A footstep.
Slow, deliberate, just outside the door.
Then the knob turned.
Po’s pulse leapt into his throat. The door opened with a soft hiss of air.
And for the first time in years—
Po saw him.
Thame.
The moment Thame stepped into the room, Po felt a weight settle over his chest, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and something dangerous he couldn’t name. The first thought that flashed through his mind was—Tall.
Thame had grown taller. Broader. The gangly arms and legs that Po remembered from high school were gone, replaced with lean muscle that spoke of discipline and power. The boyish charm, the awkward laughs, the flushed cheeks—everything had been stripped away. In its place was a man who moved like he owned the room before even speaking.
He was dressed immaculately—a three-piece suit tailored to perfection, black with subtle hints of charcoal pinstripes. The jacket clung to his shoulders in a way that spoke of strength, while the vest outlined the faint rise of his chest muscles, the fabric perfectly tailored to his form. His hair was slicked back, a single strand falling just forward over his forehead, and it made him look untouchable, formidable, mesmerizing.
He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, each step measured, each gesture precise.
Po froze, heart hammering, because this Thame was no longer the boy who had stolen his mornings with quiet smiles. No, this Thame was devastating. Unfathomably so.
And yet…
Po’s gaze locked onto those eyes, and suddenly the physical change didn’t matter. Those eyes—dark, sharp, brilliant—were the same ones that had once held him in a quiet orbit in high school. They were familiar constellations he had memorized, traced in the margins of notebooks, mapped in daydreams. They were his Thame’s eyes.
Heat coursed through Po’s veins, leaving his hands damp as they trembled in his lap.
His pulse caught in his throat, and suddenly the room felt too small, too silent, too charged.
Po tried to look elsewhere, anywhere, to ground himself, to escape the magnetic pull of those eyes—but every glance back drew him in further. Thame didn’t blink, didn’t look away. Every inch of him was attuned to Po, as if reading his thoughts before they were even fully formed.
Finally, Thame moved, smooth and deliberate, and sat across the table. The space between them felt electric. The dark mahogany of the table did nothing to dull the tension; it only highlighted how separate and fragile Po felt in comparison. Neither of them spoke. Neither wanted to break the spell that had drawn them back into each other’s orbit after so many years.
Po cleared his throat, attempting to dispel some of the nervousness that wrapped tight around his chest. He opened his mouth, but the words tangled in his tongue. He closed it again, exhaling softly, defeated. His eyes flicked back to Thame, who regarded him with a glint of amusement that stung.
He’s finding this funny, Po thought, indignation flaring up in tandem with the heat pooling in his stomach.
Slowly, cautiously, Po’s voice emerged, uncertain but deliberate. “Uh… Thame—um… I mean, Khun Teema? Khun Kanjanakittkul?”
His words faltered. What was he supposed to call him?
How could he address the boy who had once leaned on his shoulder, shared secrets with him, teased him endlessly, stolen kisses from him, now transformed into a man whose mere presence demanded obedience?
The boy he had once loved? The man who might now be untouchable? The leader of a world Po hadn’t even dared to imagine?
Thame’s voice cut through the taut silence, low, steady, with that familiar lilt that Po had never forgotten. “It’s always been Thame for you, Phi Po.”
Po froze. Phi Po.
He hadn’t heard it in years, not since the way Thame had once teased him on quiet afternoons, nor since the way his voice had been soft and teasing and entirely, wholly his. It hit him like a wave of memory and warmth, counteracting the fear that had lodged in his chest.
Po whispered, almost inaudibly, “Thame.”
The slight softening of Thame’s jaw, the faint curve of his lips, caught him off guard. His own breath caught in response.
Dangerous, he thought. Absolutely dangerous.
Every instinct in him warned that this closeness, this magnetic pull, was risky. And yet, he couldn’t step back. Not yet.
The danger, the allure, the power—it all coiled around him like a slow, intoxicating current.
“I can tell you’re not here for some reunion. You need something so you can spare me the niceties. What is it?” Thame’s voice cut through the silence in the room.
Po swallowed the words that he was about to spew and closed his mouth.
Thame raised a brow.
Po tried again, words halting, foreign on his tongue. “Thame, I… I don’t know where to start.”
His response was measured, almost teasing in its calmness. “From the beginning. What do you want, Phi Po?”
Thame leaned back slightly, his presence confident and calm, a subtle challenge in the tilt of his head. It was deliberate, poised, as if to draw Po out, to test him.
Po raised his brows, exasperation threading through the tension. Fine. If Thame wanted to play this way, so be it.
“Um… why am I on a no-harm list?” Po asked, his voice quiet but resolute.
The words struck the room like a wave crashing against jagged rocks. Thame’s expression flickered ever so slightly, but he didn’t give away more than a fraction of what Po already knew.
And Po knew him too well—not just the surface, but the subtle tells, the microexpressions that revealed more than words ever could. Clenched fists, a jaw that tightened imperceptibly, eyes darkening slightly—all controlled, restrained. Po felt every beat, every pulse of it, like a live wire under his skin.
“And may I ask,” Thame said, low and deliberate, “where did you get such information?”
Po’s eyes narrowed, exasperated that he was already playing catch-up in a game he didn’t know the rules for. His frustration and need for clarity surged. His words tumbled out before he could temper them:
“At the police station. There was a robbery, and—”
Thame’s posture stiffened instantly, sharp and alert. “There was a what?”
Po’s stomach lurched. Oh no. Had he just invited trouble? The memory of the trembling robbers, the bags of money abandoned in panic, flashed across his mind. Did he make it worse? Did he just put himself and… everyone else in danger?
“I mean… it was a small incident,” Po hurried, the words tumbling out faster than thought could govern. “But that doesn’t matter. You tell me why I’m on this… list. The officer gave me your name. Why? What is going on, Thame?”
This time Po was careful in not taking Officer Mick’s name. It was the least he could do, after all the police officer had led him here.
Thame leaned back, composed, perhaps allowing Po’s question to settle, perhaps using it as a shield for something he didn’t want to reveal just yet. Silence stretched between them like a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken energy.
The tension between them coiled, tight and electric, unbroken. Po could feel it in his chest, in the shallow rise and fall of his breaths, in the prickling heat on his skin.
Po’s voice softened, almost a whisper now. “Thame… just tell me.”
The sigh Thame released was quiet but measured, deliberate. “The list… it was created when I was in high school. Back when you and I were—” He paused, gaze flicking briefly away. “Apparently someone must have forgotten to update it.”
Po noticed the evasion but chose not to pursue it.
There was no use labeling the past now.
What mattered was the present—the fact that he was alive, sitting here, staring at the boy who had once made his heart ache.
The fact that he existed on this list, and that Thame—his Thame—was the reason.
A warmth lingered in Po’s chest, mingling with fear, disbelief, and something more dangerous: nostalgia.
“And… should I even ask about the… global… crime… syndicate thing? Is that true?” Po’s words stumbled, each one hesitant, heavy, as if the mere act of naming it could make it real. In for the penny, in for the pound.
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Not passive.
It stretched, deliberate and controlled, like Thame was letting it build—letting Po sit in it, feel it, understand the weight of what he was asking before giving anything away.
Po shifted in his seat, tension coiling under his skin. His hand lifted slightly as he spoke again, frustration creeping in despite himself.
“Thame, I—”
The movement was small.
Unthinking.
But enough.
His sleeve slipped back.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
The fabric pulled away from his wrist, exposing skin that had no business being seen in this room—yellowed now, ugly and unmistakable, the faint shape of fingers still etched into it like something that refused to fade.
A handprint.
It lasted barely a second.
Maybe less.
But Thame saw it.
Of course he did.
His gaze dropped—sharp, immediate, instinctive.
A flicker.
That was all it was.
A single, almost imperceptible shift of his eyes.
But everything in him stilled.
Not outwardly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But inside—
Something snapped tight.
The room seemed to narrow, focus pulling to that one point, that one detail that didn’t belong.
That shouldn’t exist.
His jaw tightened.
Barely.
His fingers curled once against the table, slow and controlled, before relaxing again.
When his gaze lifted back to Po’s face, it was seamless.
Smooth.
Untouched.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t seen anything at all.
Po didn’t notice.
He was too focused on the conversation, on the way Thame was dragging out the silence, on the tension pressing against his ribs.
He pulled his hand back slightly, the sleeve falling back into place without thought, covering the mark again.
Gone.
Hidden.
Like it had never been there.
But Thame had already seen enough.
“What do you want me to say, Phi Po?”
“The truth. Always the truth,” Po said, voice firm despite the storm raging inside him.
They held each other’s gaze. The tension coiled tight around the room, palpable, electric.
“Would knowing the truth,” Thame said finally, measured, “be better… or would it be better to live in fantasy?”
Po’s shoulders drooped, a flush rising in his chest. Part of him wanted to accept the comfortable lie, pretend that his life could remain mundane and untouched.
But this was Thame.
His Thame.
His sunshine.
The boy who had once fallen asleep beside him during study sessions, who had kissed him under the stars. The boy who had made his heart skip a beat.
“Just tell me the truth, please,” Po whispered.
Thame’s voice was monotone, steady, but the weight of it crushed against Po’s ribs. “I wouldn’t call it a crime syndicate. We work globally. Anything… and everything.”
Po’s eyelids fluttered closed. Weapons? Drugs? Anything? The world he had lived in so safely until now shattered piece by piece.
His stomach sank. His mind raced, and before he could stop it: “Weapons?”
“Anything and everything,” Thame confirmed, tone casual, unnerving.
“Drugs?” His voice was barely a whisper, a tremor of disbelief creeping in.
“Anything and everything,” Thame repeated, faintly shrugging, as if it were nothing.
“Oh my God,” Po breathed, disbelief, panic, awe—a tornado all at once. Why had he asked? Why had he wanted the truth? Why did it feel like both a gift and a curse?
But, why was Thame telling him all this so easily?
Before Po could spiral further, a calm, measured voice brought him back.
“Phi Po… maybe you should go home and rest. You’re starting to look a bit pale.”
Dizzy, breathless, and still trapped in the haze of revelation, and before Po could protest, Thame had picked up his phone and was calling someone. “Please get a car ready and drop Khun Pawat home.”
In a flash, he had arranged transportation—something he barely had time to question before a sleek car with tinted windows was waiting outside.
“Give me your number,” Thame said, almost offhandedly.
Po took the phone when it was handed to him, almost automatically, submitting to the quiet authority that radiated from Thame. He felt a flush rise in his chest, a cocktail of fear, wonder, and something that felt dangerously like longing.
And just like that, he was whisked away, leaving the room, the desk, the man who had once been his world—and now dominated it.
He had answers, yes, but more than that, questions tangled in every corner of his consciousness.
⸻
The moment Po disappeared from view, the atmosphere in the office shifted.
The lights, muted until now, seemed to sharpen, and the air tasted faintly of smoke, leather, and power.
Thame turned in his chair, his throne, black leather creaking softly under the weight of his body. The cigarette in his hand glowed faintly as he inhaled deeply, exhaling a swirl of smoke that curled upward like smoke signals in the dim light.
Several figures remained behind him.
One, bruised and sniveling, knelt on the floor, hands trembling as if pleading for mercy.
Officer Mick.
His sobs were soft, almost inaudible, but the tension in the room magnified them, making each one feel like a gunshot.
Thame waved a single hand, the motion fluid and terrifyingly casual.
Two guards moved silently, dragging Officer Mick aside as though removing a minor obstacle, leaving the room silent but for the low hum of the air conditioning.
Thame exhaled another slow plume of smoke, the glow from the cigarette reflecting faintly in his dark eyes.
Only one person remained standing—a young man, a year or two younger than Thame, with bright blonde hair and clothes that seemed almost loud against the somber darkness of the office. His posture was alert, but respectful.
Thame’s gaze shifted to him, precise and commanding. “Nano, I want you to inform every single establishment that if Po ever visits, they are to escort him straight to me. If I am not there, I am to be called immediately.”
Nano’s eyes widened slightly, but his nod was immediate, understanding the gravity behind the instructions. He had worked under Thame long enough to know that orders like these were non-negotiable.
“And Officer Mick?” Nano asked cautiously.
Thame’s dark chuckle cut through the air, low, almost predatory. “You can reward him as you see fit. After all… he sent Po on the right path. But make sure he understands that even if Po’s name is spoken at any police station, I am to be informed.” His voice was calm, detached, yet beneath it pulsed a quiet satisfaction. The officer had steered the man back to him—efficient, precise, useful. Mick could have sent Po straight to the office, but Thame would let it go this time.
He leaned back in his chair, the black leather absorbing his weight, the room filled with the faint scent of smoke, leather, and subtle cologne that seemed impossibly expensive.
Thame’s eyes lingered on the empty space where Po had just been, and for a fleeting second, his expression softened—not for business, not for the world, but for him. For Po.
There was a stillness in the office, almost reverent. The room was grand but sterile in its perfection: dark mahogany furniture polished to a mirror sheen, gold accents catching the dim light, shadows pooling in corners like secrets waiting to be uncovered. The contrast between this opulence and Po’s pastel presence earlier was a memory Thame replayed quietly.
He could almost feel the warmth that had radiated from Po, the nervous energy, the hands trembling ever so slightly. Thame had noticed every microexpression, every subtle twitch of muscle, every hitch of breath.
There had been something compelling in the way Po had navigated the space—so careful, so cautious, and yet undeniably alive, undeniably aware of him.
Thame stubbed out the cigarette, letting the last wisp of smoke curl lazily into the air. “I want the list re-circulated all over the country. In every home. In every workplace. In every nook and corner, with emphasis on him,” he said finally, voice low, measured. “Tell Pepper I want updates every hour. Po is not to be disturbed. Ever. Understood?”
“Yes, P’Thame,” Nano replied immediately, his tone respectful but carrying a slight tremor—a mixture of awe and fear.
Everyone knew Thame’s reputation. Everyone knew the quiet, lethal precision that lay beneath his calm exterior.
Thame’s eyes darkened momentarily as he thought of the robbery, of the moment Po had been placed directly in the path of danger without realizing it. His lips pressed together briefly before he allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. Still the same. Always careful. Always soft.
Nano didn’t miss the shift.
At first, it was subtle—so subtle that anyone unfamiliar with Thame might have overlooked it entirely. The tone hadn’t changed. The posture hadn’t changed. Even the cadence of his voice remained steady, measured, almost indifferent. And yet… something beneath it had sharpened. Something colder, something far more dangerous than anger.
“Tell Jun and Dylan, I want souvenirs," Thame said, as if issuing nothing more than a routine directive.
Nano nodded immediately, the response instinctive, ingrained. He had heard commands like this before. He had carried them out without hesitation.
“They know what to do with the thieves," Thame continued, the words calm, almost quiet. “I think I’ll keep their hands.”
The sentence settled into the room with a weight that pressed against Nano’s chest before he could stop it.
He stilled.
Not outwardly—not enough for it to be called hesitation—but internally, something tightened. His breath hitched just slightly, the reaction so brief it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.
But he felt it.
Because he understood.
Understood what wasn’t being said.
Understood the space between those words, the restraint within them, the quiet, deliberate way Thame chose to phrase something that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be clear.
Nano’s eyes lifted before he could stop himself.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to look at him.
And that was his mistake.
Because Thame looked exactly the same as he always did—composed, relaxed, almost bored.
But Nano had worked under him long enough to know better.
That calm wasn’t absence.
It was control.
And beneath it—buried deep, tightly leashed—was something far more ruthless than any display of anger.
Something that didn’t need volume.
Didn’t need threats.
Didn’t need to prove itself.
Nano’s spine straightened instinctively, his body reacting before his mind fully caught up. The fleeting flicker of surprise in his expression vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
For a brief moment, the polished office around him seemed to fall away—the velvet, the gold accents, the quiet hum of controlled luxury.
And in its place, there was only this.
The man in front of him.
The one people didn’t speak about loudly.
The one people didn’t question.
The one who built everything—and could unmake it just as easily.
A reminder, clear and unmistakable, settling heavily into his chest.
Nano lowered his gaze slightly, steadying himself.
“Understood,” he said, his voice controlled, respectful—but just a fraction tighter than before.
And this time, he meant it with full awareness of exactly what it would require.
Thame turned back to the desk, hands clasped loosely together, and exhaled slowly. The room seemed quieter now, filled only with the subtle hum of electronics and the distant murmur of security updates filtering in. He allowed his gaze to drift to the cityscape outside the tinted windows, lights twinkling like a reflection of the stars.
And somewhere, in the midst of all that chaos, was Po.
The boy who had once been so timid, so bright, so impossible to forget.
Thame’s mind replayed the moments from earlier, each detail sharper than any photograph. The way Po had whispered his name, the subtle flush of color in his cheeks, the way his eyes had searched for safety and found only Thame. It was intoxicating, dangerous. He reminded himself that he was the one in control here—always had been, always would be.
Yet… there was a tension, a pull that he could not ignore, and perhaps, he did not want to.
Nano shifted slightly, breaking the spell. “Shall I begin circulating the updated directives?” he asked carefully.
“Yes,” Thame said, voice flat, commanding, though the faint edge of thought in his eyes betrayed him. “And make certain even every single employee under my management understands the hierarchy. Po is… special. No harm is to come to him. If anyone disobeys… they will answer to me personally.”
Nano nodded again, the weight of the order sinking in. The office settled into a controlled quiet once more. Guards remained at strategic points, eyes flicking over monitors, hands brushing lightly over weapons concealed beneath suits and blazers.
Even here, at the lounge, Thame’s presence radiated authority—every subtle movement precise, every glance calculated.
The world would turn as it always did. Thame wouldn’t need to interfere. He never had to.
Some things… simply found their way back.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him, smoke coiling in lazy ribbons from between his fingers. The city lights outside blinked like a thousand watchful eyes, their glow painting his sharp features in fragments—half man, half shadow.
Po was out there, alive, oblivious to the fact that the world he had stepped back into had suddenly become infinitely larger, infinitely more dangerous.
And yet, even with all this power, all this control, Thame allowed himself a single thought that he didn’t dare voice: He is mine. And will always be.
The cigarette had long since been extinguished, yet the faint scent lingered, mingling with the room’s natural musk of leather, polished wood, and faint perfume. It was a reminder, a signature of presence.
A silent echo of the man who commanded everything in this domain. And in that silence, Thame’s gaze softened ever so slightly, turned inward, locked onto a memory he had not dared indulge in years—Po’s laughter, the warmth of his shoulder, the quiet intimacy of their younger selves entwined in a world far simpler, far smaller.
The room, the office, the world outside—it all existed, but the only constant, the only unshakable reality, was the boy who had become a man, and the man who had become a force to be reckoned with. And somewhere in the balance of power, danger, and desire, Po had been and would always be the constant.
The soft clink of his ring against the glass table echoed faintly. The sound reminded him of Po’s voice—hesitant, questioning, so achingly familiar it had pressed against something buried deep inside him.
Po hadn’t changed much. Still wore his heart too close to the surface. Still looked like he was fighting the urge to care too much.
And yet, something in him had changed. Po had walked into that office with trembling hands but steady eyes, unaware that he had just stepped back into the center of a storm that had always, quietly, waited for him.
Thame smiled faintly, a curl of smoke leaving his lips.
The years apart had done nothing to dull the inevitability of this moment. No plan could have predicted it. No scheme could have forced it. Po had come back—on his own. And that, Thame thought, was far more binding than fate.
He exhaled softly, letting the smoke drift upward like a whisper of memory. His voice came low, almost indulgent.
“You were the one who walked back into my life, Phi Po.”
The words hung in the dim air, heavy with something that wasn’t quite affection and wasn’t quite menace—something in between, deep and deliberate. His eyes flicked toward the door Po had disappeared through, and the smallest of smiles touched his mouth.
“Be prepared.”
It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even a promise. It was simply truth spoken into the quiet.
Because Thame had waited for many things in his life—victory, power, peace—but only one of them had ever felt unfinished.
And now, by some strange twist of time or destiny, that unfinished thing had walked back to him on its own two feet.
Po might think this was over. That this was just one strange, accidental encounter.
Thame knew better.
This was only the beginning.