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The Archen family was one of the most renowned in Thailand, a dynasty built on power, wealth, and ruthless ambition. Their empire, Archen Industries, had been carefully sculpted over decades, and at the heart of it all sat the chairman. To the public, he was a legend, a man whose sharp mind had grown a company from nothing to a conglomerate worth billions.

His name carried weight in every boardroom, every bank, every government office. But behind the polished veneer, the man was a storm. His legacy was not only built on business acumen, but also on fear, control, and a coldness that froze the hearts of those closest to him.

From his early years, the chairman had made one thing clear: respect was earned, and loyalty was demanded.

His family, born of the complications of life and hidden affairs, were to be instruments of his will, not companions. Suchawit, his elder son born to the legal wife, grew up basking in praise and favor. He was the apple of the chairman’s eye, the child whose every step was applauded, whose missteps were shrugged off. Privilege flowed around him like a river, carrying with it the expectation of power, authority, and entitlement.

Pattaya, on the other hand, was a shadowed figure in the family. Born from an affair, his existence was tolerated more than celebrated. He lived with the weight of illegitimacy, aware from the beginning that no amount of talent, obedience, or achievement would fully earn him his father’s affection.

From infancy, Pattaya understood the harshness of a household ruled by the chairman. While Suchawit’s cries were soothed and his mischief excused, Pattaya’s smallest failures drew scorn, punishment, and ridicule.

The dichotomy was clear: one son to be molded into the future leader, the other a tool to bear the family’s darker lessons.

When Ekk was born to Suchawit, the chairman celebrated with lavishness. The halls of the Archen estate were filled with music, flowers, and laughter. Every corner of the sprawling mansion gleamed with opulence.

Guests arrived in black-tie, toasting to the future heir of the empire. In stark contrast, when Pattaya’s wife gave birth to Joong, the mood did not lighten. The chairman did not celebrate. He did not smile. Instead, he saw the birth as a challenge, a threat to the heir he had already chosen. Pattaya, foolish enough to hope for recognition, dared to imagine a future where his child’s existence might matter. He dared to hope. And for this, he was punished.

Joong’s earliest memories were steeped in fear and confusion. He was barely able to comprehend the complexity of adult power struggles, yet he understood pain.

He saw his father beaten with a severity that burned itself into memory. Wax dripping from the hands of the chairman onto his father’s skin left Pattaya writhing, sobbing, pleading. Joong, barely five, could do nothing but cling to the shadows, silent and trembling.

Those moments imprinted a pattern that would follow him for life: silence in the face of cruelty, obedience under threat, love preserved quietly, secretly, in the safety of small gestures and private words.

When Joong was six, his mother passed away. The grief of losing a parent was compounded by the realization that no one else in the house would soften the blows, shield him from the wrath of the chairman, or offer comfort.

The warmth and love a child should have known became distant memories, replaced by cold floors, polished halls, and the constant vigilance of a child learning to survive in a home ruled by fear. In these years, Pattaya tried to be a shield. He whispered small reassurances to Joong when the doors were closed, when the footsteps of the chairman faded.

He told Joong he was brave, that he mattered, that someday the world outside would see him as more than a shadow.

But the protection was never enough to stop the abuse. By his early teens, Joong himself became a recipient of the chairman’s attention. Threats and strikes, punishments and scorn, slowly drilled into him the lesson of obedience and invisibility.

Despite it all, Pattaya’s strength waned. The constant humiliation, the endless pressure, and the physical toll of surviving the chairman’s wrath left him weakened, both in body and spirit.

But his voice to Joong never faltered. In whispered encouragements late at night, in small smiles that broke through bruised lips, Pattaya reminded his son that life could be more than fear. That courage did not always roar—it sometimes survived in quiet resilience.

The day Joong turned eighteen, the culmination of years of horror and endurance came crashing down. Returning from school, he entered the house carrying the usual weight of silent anxiety and careful steps. He found Pattaya’s room dark, still. At first, he thought his father had merely fallen asleep. Then the small details—a door slightly ajar, a strange silence warned him that this time, the danger was final.

His heart stopped, a cold dread settling in.

Pattaya had taken his life.

The emptiness in that room was overwhelming. Joong collapsed to his knees beside his father, clutching a hand that could no longer respond. The cries he could not make escaped only in small, broken gasps.

After that day, Joong became a man of few words, a shadow moving quietly through the Archen estate. He spoke only when necessary, acted only when compelled, and learned to hide the swelling storm of pain, rage, and grief inside. He became a pushover in the eyes of those around him, a man who absorbed blows and insults without outward retaliation.

But inside, the bruises of memory and the weight of trauma festered, shaping him into someone who would endure, observe, and survive.

The Archen family’s legacy, once glittering with wealth and power, now stood as a monument to fear, cruelty, and the unspoken suffering of the illegitimate line.

Joong, shaped by every punishment, every loss, and every lesson his father had left him, carried that legacy silently in his bones.

And though the world saw a quiet, obedient young man, the boy who had survived wax, fists, and terror held within him the quiet strength and determination of a man who would one day confront the shadows of his family and the world beyond.

____________________________________________

The Archen estate had not changed since the day Pattaya died.

The marble floors still reflected chandeliers like fragments of fractured stars. The corridors were still lined with portraits of men who had built fortunes with iron hands and colder hearts. The air still carried the faint scent of polished wood and old money. The house was as imposing as ever.

Only Joong had changed.

At twenty-five, Joong Archen Aydin had grown into a man who moved through rooms like a shadow that knew its place. Tall, composed, impeccably dressed, he carried himself with quiet discipline. His expression rarely shifted. His voice, when used, was low and controlled. People often mistook his silence for weakness.

It was not weakness.

It was survival.

The trauma of his childhood did not scream from him. It lingered in subtler ways. In the way his shoulders stiffened at sudden noises. In the way his eyes instinctively tracked exits whenever he entered a room. In the way he slept little and functioned anyway. The past did not fade; it folded itself into his bones and stayed there.

The chairman still ruled Archen Industries from the top floor of the corporate tower, even in his old age. His authority had not dulled with time. If anything, it had sharpened. He summoned Joong frequently, though never with warmth. Joong stood before him in vast offices flooded with light, hands clasped behind his back, listening as instructions were delivered like verdicts.

“You will review the financial report before it reaches the board.”

“You will fix the supply chain error.”

“You will ensure Ekk’s mistake does not reach the press.”

There was never a thank you. Never acknowledgment. Only expectation.

To the chairman, Joong was not a grandson. He was a contingency plan. A spare part. A tool designed to prevent collapse when the legitimate line faltered.

Suchawit mirrored that attitude with less restraint and more condescension. Where the chairman was cold and calculating, Suchawit was dismissive. He treated Joong as a convenient solution to inconvenient problems. When contracts failed, when investors demanded answers, when projects spiraled into chaos due to Ekk’s recklessness, it was Joong who stayed late into the night repairing damage.

Suchawit would clap him lightly on the shoulder sometimes, a patronizing gesture devoid of affection.

“You’re useful, at least. Your father was good at cleaning messes too.”

The comparison was not praise. It was a reminder.

Joong would nod once, expression unreadable, and return to work.

He had long ago learned that arguing achieved nothing. Silence kept him alive.

Yet despite the suffocating environment, Pattaya’s words had never left him.

They lived quietly in his memory.

Late nights when he sat alone in his apartment overlooking Bangkok’s glittering skyline, the city humming below, he would hear his father’s voice in fragments.

You matter.

Strength does not need to shout.

Endure, and one day you will choose your own path.

Those whispers became anchors. They prevented him from dissolving entirely into the role the Archen family had assigned him. Pattaya had been broken physically, but he had never let his spirit rot. That resilience shaped Joong more than the chairman ever could.

Joong did not crave power for its own sake. He did not seek to dominate boardrooms or humiliate rivals. What he desired, though he rarely allowed himself to articulate it, was control over his own life. Control over his fate. Over whether he would continue to be treated as collateral damage in a war he never asked to fight.

If the chairman forged empires through fear, Pattaya had taught him endurance through hope.

That contrast lived inside him.

And then there was Ekk.

Ekk Archen, the golden heir.

At twenty-nine, Ekk carried himself with the entitlement of someone who had never been denied anything. He inherited his father’s indulgence and his grandfather’s cruelty, but without the discipline that made either effective. He arrived late to meetings, left early from negotiations, and surrounded himself with people who praised him without substance.

Where Joong was restrained, Ekk was volatile.

Their interactions were rarely civil.

“Fix this,” Ekk would snap, tossing a folder onto Joong’s desk without preamble. “You should be grateful I give you something to do.”

Inside the folder would be a project mismanaged beyond reason. Contracts signed without review. Funds allocated recklessly. Partnerships formed without due diligence.

Joong would skim through the damage, already calculating solutions.

“You authorized this without consulting it legally,” he would say evenly.

Ekk would lean back in his chair, smirking. “That’s why you’re here. To consult for me.”

The implication was clear. Joong was not a manager in his own right. He was an extension of Ekk’s failures.

There were worse moments.

Board meetings where Ekk deliberately interrupted him mid-sentence.

Company dinners where Ekk introduced him as “my cousin, the assistant manager who thinks he runs things.”

A press event where Joong had secured a crucial partnership, only for Ekk to step forward and accept full credit while Joong stood to the side, applauding politely like an employee rather than family.

Humiliation was a weapon Ekk wielded casually.

And Joong endured it.

Not because he lacked pride. But because he understood timing. Because reacting impulsively would only confirm the narrative the chairman had built around him. Illegitimate. Emotional. Unstable.

So he swallowed the insult. Every time.

Within Archen Industries, employees treated him with cautious respect. They knew he was competent. They knew that if something needed to be done correctly, it would pass through his hands eventually. Senior staff relied on him quietly. Junior staff feared disappointing him, not because he was cruel, but because he was exacting.

There were whispers.

That he worked too hard.

That he never attended company parties.

That he rarely smiled.

That he never dated.

Some called him cold. Others called him disciplined.

No one called him powerful.

Officially, he was a manager. Unofficially, he was the spine holding a crooked structure upright.

The irony was not lost on him.

Every success attributed to Ekk had his fingerprints beneath it. Every crisis smoothed over before reaching shareholders had passed through his late-night calculations. Every contract renegotiated to prevent disaster bore his quiet intervention.

Yet when the chairman looked at him across the long mahogany table, there was no pride in those aging eyes. Only assessment.

You exist because you are useful.

That message had been consistent since childhood.

Still, Joong never forgot who he was outside their judgment.

He was Pattaya’s son.

Not the chairman’s spare.

Not Suchawit’s errand boy.

Not Ekk’s cleaner.

He carried the legacy of a man who had endured cruelty without losing gentleness. And in that, Joong found something steady.

He did not know yet how or when his life would shift. He did not know that darkness and light would one day divide him more sharply than he imagined.

For now, he continued.

Silent.

Observant.

Patient.

The Archen empire stood tall on the outside, gleaming under sunlight and corporate prestige. But beneath its polished exterior, fractures spread quietly.

And at the center of it all stood Joong Archen Aydin, the spare heir no one celebrated, the quiet force no one acknowledged.

Waiting.

____________________________________________

The night before the chairman’s 70th birthday, when the city lights of Bangkok blinked like cautious stars beneath heavy clouds, an email that carried more weight than any celebration invitation ever could. It was sent at exactly 10:03 p.m., brief and formal, written in the chairman’s clipped, authoritative tone.

All senior affiliates and associates of Archen Industries are to assemble in my office tomorrow at 6 a.m. sharp. No delays. Attendance mandatory.

There were no greetings, no explanation, no hint of warmth. Just an order.

Phones chimed across apartments, villas, hospital offices, hotel rooms, and quiet homes. One by one, replies came back.

Understood.

I will be present.

Yes, Chairman.

Each response polite, obedient, careful. Nobody dared ask why.

Because when the chairman called, people came.

Out of respect.

Out of loyalty.

Out of fear.

—

Morning arrived cold and grey. The glass towers of Archen Industries reflected a pale sunrise that seemed hesitant to touch the building’s sharp edges.

At exactly 6 a.m., Joong Archen Aydin stepped through the revolving doors.

Black trousers hugged his long legs, tailored so perfectly they looked sculpted into place. A fitted black compression shirt clung to his chest and arms, outlining muscle earned from years of quiet discipline. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, though everyone knew they were sharp and deep and far older than his twenty-five years.

He looked like a man about to fly to another country for negotiations. In fact, he was. His suitcase waited in the car downstairs. But when the chairman called, even Joong delayed flights.

The receptionist bowed. Security guards straightened. Staff whispered behind coffee cups.

Because even if he was treated like a spare part, Joong Archen Aydin was still an Archen.

Joong did not notice. He walked to the elevator with measured steps, the way soldiers march into battles they cannot avoid.

Inside his chest, Pattaya’s voice whispered softly.

Stand tall, my son. Even when the world tries to fold you.

—

The chairman’s office sat on the highest floor, a wide space of marble floors, heavy curtains, and antique furniture chosen not for comfort but for authority.

Joong arrived first.

He stood quietly near the long table, hands folded, posture straight, sunglasses still on. He looked calm, distant, untouchable.

Inside, memories clawed softly against his ribs.

The cries.

A father whispering apologies.

A boy learning silence.

At 6:04 a.m., the doors opened.

Pod entered first. Thirty-six years old, sharp-eyed, always holding a notebook like a weapon. He had been writing stories about the chairman for years, carefully praising him while digging for truths nobody dared speak aloud. The chairman kept him close because enemies are easiest to watch when they sit at your table.

Next came Tou. Sixty-seven, once the chairman’s best friend, now his rival in business. His smile was thin, polite, edged with old betrayal. He greeted Joong with a nod that held both sympathy and warning.

Jim followed. Thirty-one, a favored employee who rose too quickly through promotions. Loyal to the chairman in a way that smelled like ambition. He bowed deeply, eyes flicking toward Joong with faint pity.

Peem arrived quietly. Thirty-five, the chairman’s therapist and confidant. Gentle voice, careful words. He watched everything with sad understanding, as if he knew exactly how broken the Archen family truly was.

Pear and Nita came together. Pear, twenty-nine, elegant and sharp as glass, the chairman’s assistant who knew every secret email and whispered order. Nita, twenty-six, sweet-faced, always hovering near Joong with shy devotion she never dared confess.

Kao and Puth entered next. Kao, thirty-two, advisor to the company, clever and diplomatic. Puth, forty-seven, the Archen family doctor who had seen bruises and broken bones and never once asked the wrong question.

Kit followed, sixty-three, the managing director and the chairman’s closest friend. He carried authority like an old coat and spoke only when necessary.

Then came Ekk and Mina.

Ekk walked in like he owned the building. Twenty-nine, handsome in an arrogant way, confidence dripping from every step. President of Archen Industries, golden grandson of the chairman. He did not greet Joong. He never did.

Mina followed beside him, twenty-eight, elegant, sharp-eyed, the chairman’s quiet favorite. She gave Joong a look that mixed curiosity and dismissal.

The room filled with murmurs. People greeted each other carefully. Laughter stayed polite. Nobody sat until told.

Then, a few minutes later, the door opened again.

And sunshine walked in.

—

Dunk Natachai stepped into the office carrying nothing but a shy smile.

For a moment, nobody breathed.

He was dressed simply. A white tee that showed a hint of warm skin, light blue baggy jeans that made him look soft and carefree, and a fluffy yellow cardigan draped around his shoulders like morning light. His hair fell gently across his forehead. His eyes sparkled like rain caught in sunshine.

And he smelled faintly of roses.

Real roses. Fresh. Sweet.

The man bowed politely. “Good morning… um… is this where Chairman Archen’s meeting is?”

His voice was soft, warm, shy.

Joong felt something twist in his chest.

He had seen beautiful people before. Models. Socialites. Celebrities who visited the company.

But this was different.

This was light.

This was kindness wrapped in human form.

This was… safety.

The secretary nodded. “Yes, sir. Please take a seat.”

The man sat quietly in the corner, folding his hands in his lap, cardigan sleeves slipping over his fingers.

Pear whispered loudly to Nita, “Who dresses like that for a chairman’s meeting?”

Nita scoffed. “Probably someone’s eye candy.”

Their words floated sharp and cruel.

The beautiful man pretended not to hear, eyes fixed on the floor.

Joong watched him for a long moment.

Something inside him, something Pattaya had protected for years, stirred awake.

Before he could think too much, Joong stood, walked across the room, and crouched beside him.

—

Dunk sat awkwardly near the corner, hands clasped in front of him. Nobody spoke to him.

Pear leaned toward Nita and whispered something sharp. Nita giggled nervously. Mina looked him up and down like she was evaluating a decoration.

Because Dunk was just the florist.

Twenty-six years old. Quiet. Innocent. The boy who arranged roses in glass vases for chairman dinners and corporate galas. The boy who smiled at security guards and thanked cleaners.

Too gentle for this room.

Too soft for this atmosphere.

Joong watched him for a moment.

Then, without thinking, he walked over to where the pretty boy was sitting.

He crouched at the man’s level so their eyes met, voice soft. “You must be cold. The air-conditioning here is cruel.”

Dunk blinked, surprised. “Oh… no, I’m okay. Thank you.”

Joong tilted his head. “You’re the florist, right?”

Dunk nodded quickly. “Yes. I… I decorate the offices sometimes. And events.”

“I’ve seen your work,” Joong said quietly. “The white roses in the east hallway. They were beautiful.”

Dunk’s cheeks turned pink. “Really? I thought nobody noticed those…”

“I did.”

“Um… I’m Dunk.”

Joong’s heart skipped.

“I’m Joong.”

Dunk blinked. “Oh… you’re… the Archen?”

Joong nodded once. “Unfortunately.”

Dunk giggled quietly, covering his mouth with his sleeve. “That’s… honest.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“I like your tie,” Dunk said softly, then froze. “Oh… you’re not wearing a tie… sorry.”

Joong laughed quietly. A small, real sound. “That’s alright. I’ll wear one next time so you can compliment it properly.”

Dunk giggled, covering his mouth. “Okay.”

“I like your sunglasses,” Dunk said suddenly. “They make you look mysterious.”

Joong huffed a tiny laugh. “They hide my insomnia.”

“Oh,” Dunk said, pouting slightly. “You should sleep more. Sleeping is important.”

Joong stared at him, stunned by the gentle scolding.

“And you?” Joong asked. “Why roses?”

Dunk blinked. “Hmm?”

“You smell like roses.”

Dunk’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh… my grandma makes rose oil. She says it keeps bad luck away.”

“Bad luck definitely runs away from you.” Joong murmured to himself slowly.

Dunk smiled shyly. “You’re very kind.”

Joong almost flinched at the word.

Kind.

No one had called him that since Pattaya.

They stood in a tiny bubble while the rest of the room buzzed around them.

Joong asked gently, “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Dunk admitted. “I’ve never been called to the chairman’s office before. I thought maybe I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Joong said. “You arrange flowers. That’s the opposite of wrong.”

Dunk looked down. “I just… like making things pretty. It makes people happy.”

Joong’s heart tightened.

Because nobody in his life had ever tried to make things pretty.

Nobody had tried to make him happy.

He said softly, “Keep doing that.”

Dunk looked up, eyes shining. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then Dunk asked shyly, “Do you like flowers?”

Joong thought of hospital rooms, funeral wreaths, the bouquet he placed on Pattaya’s grave.

“I like roses,” he said quietly.

Dunk brightened instantly. “Me too! Pink ones are my favorite. They mean new beginnings.”

Joong swallowed.

New beginnings.

He looked at Dunk again, really looked, like memorizing sunlight after years underground.

“Maybe,” Joong said softly, “you can show me your favorite ones someday.”

Dunk smiled so brightly it hurt to see. “I’d like that.”

For the first time in years, Joong Archen Aydin felt warmth touch a place inside him that had been frozen since he was eighteen.

And he didn’t understand it.

But he didn’t want it to stop.

—

Around them, whispers continued.

Pear frowned.

Ekk smirked.

Mina watched carefully.

But Joong didn’t care.

Because for one quiet moment in a room full of power and fear and history, a boy in yellow and white smiled at him like he was not broken.

And Joong, who had lived his life in shadows, found himself wanting to stand in that sunlight just a little longer.

____________________________________________

At 6:42 in the morning, time itself seemed to shatter.

It happened so suddenly that nobody could measure the moment between light and absence. One breath the office glowed with pale sunrise spilling through glass walls, polished marble reflecting gold and silver and quiet conversation, and the next breath everything vanished. Every bulb in the lobby, every light in the chairman’s office, every soft lamp in the hallway flickered once and died.

Darkness fell like a curtain slammed shut by an unseen hand.

Someone screamed.

Another voice cursed loudly.

A chair scraped against marble. Papers fell. Glass clinked. Footsteps stumbled blindly.

The room dissolved into chaos.

Dunk froze.

Darkness pressed against his eyes, thick and suffocating, a memory rushing up from childhood nights when thunder cracked the sky and he hid under blankets praying the world would stay quiet. His breath caught painfully in his chest. He crouched down instinctively, curling into himself, hands covering his face, trying to shrink smaller than fear.

Voices rose around him.

“What the hell was that?”

“Generator failure?”

“Who touched the lights?”

Pear shouted in irritation. Mina laughed nervously. Jim muttered about faulty wiring. Pod was already whispering guesses like a reporter chasing a story.

But Dunk heard none of it clearly.

All he heard was the sound of his own heart hammering like a trapped bird.

Then warmth wrapped around him.

Strong arms. Steady. Protective.

Joong.

Dunk gasped softly and grabbed his shoulders without thinking, fingers clutching into fabric as if letting go would drop him into endless night. He pressed his face against Joong’s chest, eyes squeezed shut, trembling.

Joong held him gently, one hand at his back, voice low near his ear.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

Dunk whispered shakily, “I’m… scared of the dark… I’m sorry…”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Joong said quietly. “Just breathe.”

Around them, the room buzzed with fear disguised as annoyance. People were checking phones that refused to light. Someone cursed about the network being dead. Someone else demanded security explanations that did not come.

Dunk clung tighter.

Joong did not move.

For five minutes, darkness swallowed everything.

At 6:47 a.m., the lights came back slowly, flickering like reluctant dawn. Faces emerged from shadow one by one, pale and confused, eyes wide and searching.

Dunk blinked, still holding Joong, realizing where he was only when warmth shifted and the room came back into focus. He stepped back shyly, cheeks pink, whispering, “Thank you…”

Joong nodded softly. “You’re safe.”

But before anyone could settle, before anyone could laugh it off or shout for answers, a crackle burst through the intercom speakers mounted high in the walls.

Static hissed.

Then a voice spoke.

Smooth. Calm. Cheerful in a way that made skin crawl.

“Good morning, honored guests. Welcome to the amazing of Find and Seek.”

The room went still.

Nobody laughed.

The voice continued, almost delighted.

“There are thirteen of you gathered in this tower. Twelve will be victims. One will is the killer. The twist is simple. The killer is not aware of their conscious. Their instinct will awaken… soon.”

A breathless pause.

“Clues have been hidden throughout the building. Find them. Find the killer before the killer finds you. Delay the game anymore and die.”

Static buzzed softly, then the voice whispered one last line, gentle and cruel.

“Time has already begun.”

The intercom died.

Silence swallowed the room.

Then Ekk burst out laughing.

Loud, mocking laughter that echoed off marble walls. Mina joined him, covering her mouth as she giggled. Pear leaned against the desk, shaking her head in disbelief. Jim snorted.

“This is ridiculous,” Ekk said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Who even wrote that script? Chairman is really bored this year.”

Mina smirked. “Maybe it’s a prank for his birthday. Psychological team building exercise.”

Pear added, “Honestly, whoever recorded that should win an award for drama.”

Dunk looked horrified. “What if it’s real…?”

Jim waved dismissively. “Please. Real killers don’t announce games over intercoms.”

Joong stepped forward, voice quiet but firm. “Enough.”

They turned to him.

“This isn’t funny,” Joong said. “Even if it’s a joke, it’s cruel. People are scared.”

Ekk’s smile faded into something sharp. “Relax, little cousin. Don’t act heroic. It’s just lights and speakers.”

Joong held his gaze. “We should confirm everyone’s safe.”

Ekk stepped closer, voice dropping. “Or maybe you’re scared because you think you’re the killer.”

A few people chuckled.

Joong did not react.

Ekk smirked wider. “Remember your place. You’re here to clean messes, not lecture me.”

The words landed like stones thrown at old wounds.

Joong lowered his eyes slightly. “I only meant—”

“You don’t get to mean anything,” Ekk snapped.

Silence fell again, uncomfortable and tense.

Tou cleared his throat. “We should check the exits.”

Kao nodded. “Agreed. Security protocols first.”

People began murmuring nervously now, the laughter fading. Questions bounced between them like frightened birds.

“What if the power failure was planned?”

“What if the chairman really is testing loyalty?”

“What if someone is actually hurt somewhere?”

“What if…”

Dunk stepped away slowly, drawn by something uneasy in his chest. He walked to the lobby doors, the heavy glass ones that earlier had stood slightly open to morning air.

He grabbed the handle and pulled.

It did not move.

He tried again, harder.

Locked.

He turned, voice small. “The doors… they’re locked.”

Nobody spoke.

Kit walked over, tested the handle himself. Then Jim tried. Then Kao. Then Tou.

Nothing.

Pear’s face drained of color. Mina’s smile faded. Ekk’s confidence cracked for a second before he masked it.

Pod whispered, “They were open before…”

Puth said quietly, “No network. No doors. No explanation.”

The room went very, very quiet.

Dunk looked at Joong, eyes wide and shining with fear. “This isn’t a joke… is it?”

Joong did not know how to answer.

He only knew the building suddenly felt too tall, too sealed, too silent. He only knew memories of locked rooms and helpless nights were clawing up his throat.

But he stepped closer to Dunk anyway and said softly, “We’ll figure it out.”

Around them, people began whispering louder, panic creeping into voices. Pear paced. Mina argued with Ekk. Jim tried calling security again. Pod scribbled notes with shaking hands.

The sun outside climbed slowly over Bangkok’s skyline, bright and warm and distant.

Inside the tower of Archen Industries, thirteen people stood trapped between polished marble walls, the echo of a cheerful, cruel voice still lingering in the air.

And somewhere, hidden among them, waited a killer, who did not yet know their name.

____________________________________________

Morning never truly arrived inside the tower.

The sun climbed higher over Bangkok’s skyline, pouring gold through the glass walls, but inside Archen Industries the light felt wrong, thin and fragile, as if it might snap again at any moment. No one spoke loudly anymore. Laughter had died. Confidence had drained. Even footsteps sounded careful, hesitant, like strangers walking through a graveyard.

Thirteen people had come for a birthday meeting.

Thirteen people now searched for clues in a building that would not let them leave.

It was Tou who first said it aloud, voice shaking but practical.

“If the voice told us to find clues, then we search. Standing here panicking won’t help.”

Kit nodded slowly. “Pairs. Groups. Nobody alone.”

Mina clutched Ekk’s arm, whispering that she would not step into any hallway by herself. Pear refused to leave the lobby unless someone important stayed with her. Pod looked excited in a nervous way, like a reporter smelling the biggest story of his life. Puth insisted they stay rational. Jim kept muttering about hidden cameras.

Joong said only one thing.

“Dunk stays with me.”

Dunk stood close to him, hands folded nervously in his cardigan sleeves, eyes darting around the room. Some people looked annoyed at that. Pear rolled her eyes. Mina whispered something sharp to Ekk. Nita watched silently, anger flickering in her expression.

But Joong did not move away.

They began to split.

Tou and Kit checked the accounting wing. Pod and Jim went toward the archives. Mina and Pear insisted on staying with Ekk. Kao and Puth walked toward the medical office. Nita lingered near Joong but eventually followed Peem.

Joong took Dunk toward the chairman’s office.

The hallway outside the office felt colder than the rest of the building. Dunk could smell faint sandalwood and old leather, the scent that always lingered around the chairman’s presence. It made Joong’s chest tighten in a way he did not show.

Dunk whispered, “Do you think he’s okay…?”

Joong did not answer. He only pushed the door open.

The office looked untouched. The massive desk stood like a throne. Curtains were drawn halfway. Files were stacked neatly. A clock ticked loudly in the silence.

Dunk walked carefully, eyes searching. Joong crouched near the desk and checked beneath it, the lighter that the Chariman usually kept in his draw was gone. Odd. Joong ran his hand along the wooden panel.

His fingers brushed paper.

A green file.

He pulled it out slowly.

Dunk knelt beside him, whispering, “Is that…?”

Joong nodded.

They opened it together.

A sticky note clung to the front page in messy handwriting.

“You convinced the chairman years ago to follow your advice. That advice cost him a quarter of his empire… if not for Pattaya.”

They stared at the words.

Dunk blinked. “What does that mean…?”

Joong’s jaw tightened slightly. “We should show everyone.”

They carried the file back into the lobby.

All conversations stopped when they entered.

Ekk crossed his arms. “What did you find?”

Joong placed the file on the table. “A clue.”

Kit adjusted his glasses. Tou leaned forward. Pear scoffed but came closer. Mina clutched Ekk’s sleeve.

Pod read the sticky note aloud.

Silence.

Confusion rippled through the room.

“What advice?” Jim asked.

“What quarter of the empire?” Mina demanded.

“That’s nonsense,” Kao said quickly, voice tight. “What—”

Pod suddenly snapped his fingers.

“Wait.”

Everyone looked at him.

Pod’s face had gone pale. “Isn’t this about advisor Kao? This… this was in my archives.”

Ekk frowned. “Speak clearly.”

Pod swallowed. “Years ago. I wrote an investigative article about Archen Industries’ sudden market crash. Shares were redistributed. Advisors got stakes. The stock plummeted. It almost destroyed the company.”

Kao’s face stiffened. “That was a strategic move.”

Pod shook his head. “You advised the chairman to split shares to attract foreign investors. It backfired. Markets panicked. Competitors bought cheap.”

Mina gasped. “Oh my god.”

Pod continued quietly. “When the chairman demanded answers… you told him Pattaya suggested it.”

The room went silent.

Every eye turned to Kao.

Kao’s voice trembled. “I was under pressure. The chairman wanted expansion. Pattaya agreed with the idea.” Pod scoffed, “Pattaya didn’t agree, he knew the consequences of making that choice.”

Joong spoke calmly. “Pattaya was Managing Director then. He warned you.”

Ekk slammed his hand on the table. “So you lied and fucking slammed Pattaya for your shit?”

Kao shook his head wildly. “No. No, it wasn’t like that. The chairman misunderstood. Pattaya didn’t deny it.”

Tou muttered, “Because he was loyal.”

Kit looked disgusted. “And he got beaten for it.”

Pear whispered, “So the sticky note… is accusing Kao.”

Mina pointed at him. “You ruined the company!”

Jim added loudly, “And you blamed Pattaya to save yourself.”

Puth frowned deeply. “Kao… is that true?”

Kao stepped back, hands shaking. “You don’t understand. The chairman was furious. I was afraid. Pattaya was my good friend. He said he would handle it.”

Joong’s eyes darkened slightly. “He handled it with bruises and broken bones.”

Ekk laughed harshly. “So this is the first rotten apple.”

Kao shouted, “I didn’t kill anyone!”

Pear snapped, “Nobody said you did. But the game clearly thinks you deserve blame.”

Voices rose.

“You betrayed Pattaya!”

“You caused losses!”

“You almost destroyed us!”

It became ten voices against one.

Only Joong and Dunk stayed quiet.

Dunk whispered softly, “We don’t know if this clue means Kao is the killer… it just means he hurt the chairman before.”

Nobody listened.

Ekk stepped forward, grabbing Kao’s collar. “What else did you lie about?”

Kao struggled. “Let me go!”

Joong said quietly, “Violence won’t help.”

Ekk turned on him. “Of course you’d defend him. Pattaya’s son protecting his father’s enemy.”

Joong met his gaze calmly. “I’m protecting truth.”

Ekk scoffed. “Truth doesn’t matter. Survival does.”

Dunk spoke softly, voice trembling but brave. “If we accuse the wrong person… the real killer wins.”

The room quieted slightly.

Kit sighed. “The clue points to past betrayal. It doesn’t prove murder.”

Pod nodded slowly. “This game wants us to remember sins.”

Tou murmured, “Old crimes returning.”

Kao sank into a chair, face white, whispering, “I didn’t kill anyone… I swear.”

Joong watched him silently.

Because he remembered Pattaya’s bruises.

Because he remembered nights of quiet crying.

Because he remembered hope spoken through broken lips.

The argument had grown louder, sharper, uglier.

Voices collided against the marble walls of the Archen lobby like shattered glass. Accusations flew in tangled knots. Kit insisted on calm but shouted louder than anyone. Mina clung to Ekk’s arm, trembling with anger and fear in equal measure. Pod tried to piece together timelines like he was writing an article in his head. Jim muttered prayers under his breath. Pear paced back and forth, heels clicking frantically.

And Kao… Kao stood in the center of them all, pale and shaking, repeating the same fragile sentence.

“I didn’t betray anyone. I swear I didn’t.”

The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have. The sound crept into Joong’s ears like a warning.

7:23 am.

The lights went out.

Not slowly. Not gently.

They snapped off one after another in a sharp descending rhythm, plunging the tower into suffocating darkness.

Someone screamed.

Another voice shouted a curse.

A chair scraped violently across the floor.

And in that sudden blackness, Dunk froze.

Fear swallowed him whole. His breath caught in his throat, hands trembling as the world disappeared around him. The darkness was not empty to him. It was heavy. It pressed on his chest. It whispered memories he did not want to remember.

He crouched instinctively, covering his face, whispering, “No… no…”

Then warmth surrounded him.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him close.

Joong.

Joong’s voice was low and steady near his ear. “I’m here. It’s okay. Don’t be scared.”

Dunk clutched his shirt desperately, fingers digging into the fabric as if Joong were the only solid thing left in the universe. His face pressed into Joong’s chest, trembling, breathing in the faint scent of soap and leather that somehow grounded him. Joong helped him sit down and remained near.

The room was silent.

Too silent.

Then came a scream.

Kao’s scream.

It tore through the darkness like a blade, raw and terrified and full of pain that ended too suddenly.

Silence followed.

No footsteps. No struggle. No second cry.

Just silence.

Dunk’s nails pressed harder into Joong’s hand. Joong held him tighter, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. He did not speak. He could not.

The clock ticked.

7:27 am.

The lights came back.

Slowly.

One by one.

A pale glow filled the lobby.

And everyone saw.

Kao lay on the marble floor.

Thick iron rods had been driven through him. One through his forehead. One through his chest. One through each hand that lay pinned to the ground like broken wings.

Blood spread dark and terrible beneath him.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then Dunk screamed.

A high, broken sound that did not feel human.

He buried his face against Joong’s shoulder, shaking violently. His hands clung to Joong’s back like he would fall apart if he let go.

Joong wrapped both arms around him, pulling him close, shielding his eyes gently with his palm.

“Don’t look,” Joong whispered softly. “Don’t look, Dunk… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Dunk sobbed into his chest, voice small and terrified. “He’s… he’s dead… he’s dead… they killed him… they killed him…”

Joong’s throat tightened. He stroked Dunk’s hair slowly, gently, the way Pattaya used to soothe him when nightmares came. His hand trembled but he kept it steady for Dunk.

Around them, chaos erupted.

Pear began crying loudly, hands over her mouth, tears streaming. “We’re going to die… oh my god we’re all going to die…”

Mina screamed and clung to Ekk. Jim backed away until he hit the wall. Kit whispered prayers. Tou stared at the body with hollow eyes. Pod kept repeating, “This can’t be real… this can’t be real…”

Peem whispered shakily, “Everyone… everyone step back…”

But no one listened.

Panic spread like wildfire.

Joong closed his eyes for a second, steadying himself, then spoke clearly.

“Stop.”

His voice was calm. Firm. Quiet.

It cut through the noise.

Puth stepped beside him, voice gentle but strong. “Panic will make things worse. Please… breathe. Stay together.”

Pear sobbed harder. “How can we stay calm? He was just standing there…”

Joong held Dunk with one arm while raising the other slightly. “We need to think. If the killer wants us to lose control, then losing control helps them.”

Kit swallowed. “He’s right.”

Tou nodded slowly. “We stay rational.”

Mina whispered hysterically, “Rational? There’s a corpse in front of us!”

Joong looked at her calmly. “There will be more if we don’t keep our heads.”

Silence followed.

Dunk’s crying softened into shaky breaths. He did not let go of Joong. His face stayed hidden against his chest.

Joong bent his head slightly, whispering so only Dunk could hear.

“I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Dunk’s voice was small. “Promise…?”

Joong answered softly, “I promise.”

Dunk nodded weakly, fingers tightening in his shirt.

And for a moment, in a room filled with terror and blood and betrayal, there was something fragile and warm between them. Something quiet. Something gentle.

Hope, trying to survive.

Puth spoke again, voice careful. “We need to check the building. Understand how this happened. Nobody leaves anyone alone.”

Pod wiped his face. “The killer struck during darkness… exactly like the voice said.”

Peem whispered, “This is planned. Precise.”

Kit looked at Kao’s body and closed his eyes. “First rotten apple.”

Joong’s gaze lingered on the iron rods, expression unreadable.

Then he looked down at Dunk.

Dunk looked up at him, eyes red, cheeks wet, trust shining painfully bright.

And Joong held him closer, like the world could collapse and he would still keep that promise.

____________________________________________

Fear changed the air inside the Archen tower.

It thickened it, weighed it down, turned every breath into something heavy and sharp, as though the marble lobby itself had begun to watch them with cold indifference. No one stood far from anyone anymore. The wide room that had once felt grand now felt suffocating, every shadow holding the possibility of iron rods, every flicker of light making hearts leap violently in chests.

After Kao’s death, they huddled together like strangers in a storm, voices hushed, eyes restless, shoulders tense.

And Dunk did not leave Joong’s side.

He stayed close, fingers sometimes brushing Joong’s arms unconsciously, sometimes gripping it outright, as if the world might swallow him whole the moment he stepped away. Joong did not move away. He stood steady beside him, protective without making a show of it, his presence quiet and constant, his eyes always scanning the room.

Pear whispered to Mina, Mina whispered to Ekk, Kit wiped his forehead again and again, Tou stood stiffly like a statue carved out of guilt, and Jim… Jim stared at the floor like something unseen crawled beneath it.

Peem cleared his throat, trying to anchor them. “We need to keep looking for clues, because standing still will not save us.”

Ekk snapped back bitterly, “Oh sure, because that worked so well for Kao.”

Joong spoke softly but firmly, “If we stop thinking, we die faster.”

Puth calmly spoke, “Our aim is to survive.”

Dunk nodded faintly, humming in agreement with Joong’s words.

That small agreement made Joong glance down at him, something gentle flickering behind his tired eyes, before he nodded once and turned back toward the others.

They moved as a group toward the chairman’s office, where the computer screens still glowed faintly, casting sterile light over polished wood and expensive leather chairs. The chair behind the desk stood empty, massive and silent, like the ghost of the man who had ruled their lives.

Nita was the one who approached the laptop.

Her fingers trembled slightly, though she tried to hide it. She opened file after file, scrolling quickly, her lips moving as she read.

Then she froze.

“What is it?” Pear asked shakily.

Nita swallowed, her voice thin. “There’s… there’s a document. A conversation log between the chairman and Kit.”

Everyone turned.

Kit looked up slowly, confusion crossing his lined face. “What about it?”

Nita read aloud, voice unsteady but clear.

“Request submitted by Managing Director Kit Rattanawong, asking for a salary increase. Chairman response… quote… ‘Why the increase now, when you don’t have the balls to achieve anything anyway?’ End quote.”

Kit’s face went pale.

Tou’s eyes narrowed.

Nita kept reading. “Additional note… internal audit flagged irregular tender sale, Archen Industries land in Phuket sold to external party, value ninety five thousand baht.”

Tou let out a hollow laugh. “External party was me.”

Silence fell.

Pear whispered, horrified, “Kit… you… you sold company land?”

Kit’s lips trembled. “I… I was angry. He humiliated me, he laughed at me in front of the board, he treated me like a servant after thirty years of loyalty, I just… I just wanted to hurt him a little.”

Ekk’s face twisted with rage. “A little? You sold company property to our rival for pocket change!”

He lunged forward and punched Kit hard across the face, the sound echoing sharply across the room.

Kit stumbled back, blood appearing at his lip. “I was loyal for decades, you brat, you don’t know what he did to me, you don’t know what he said—”

Ekk grabbed his collar. “You traitor!”

Joong stepped in instantly, pulling Ekk back with quiet strength. “Enough.”

Ekk shoved him away. “Don’t touch me, spare heir. You have no right.”

Dunk frowned at the words, feeling his heart pounding at the hatred Ekk had for Joong.

Joong said nothing, his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

Tou spoke coldly, “So you sold the tender to me, because you were insulted. You betrayed your own company for pride.”

Kit whispered, “I never thought it would go this far.”

Peem shook his head sadly. “Pride ruins more than money.”

The clock ticked loudly.

7:39 am.

The lights went out.

Again.

No warning, no flicker, just darkness swallowing them whole.

Someone gasped.

Joong stepped in fast, pulling Dunk close. Joong wrapped an arm around him, holding him close, whispering softly near his ear.

“It’s okay, stay with me.”

The room fell silent.

Too silent.

Then something thudded.

A wet sound.

A choking noise that cut off abruptly.

Dunk gagged at the sound, covering his mouth with his hands shaking.

7:45 am.

The lights came back.

Kit lay over the counter.

His throat had been slit cleanly, blood pouring dark and endless onto polished marble, his body twisted like something thrown aside without care.

Pear screamed.

Mina almost fainted, collapsing into Ekk’s arms.

Tou stared with hollow eyes, whispering, “God forgive us…”

Pod covered his mouth, backing into the wall.

Nita started sobbing uncontrollably.

Dunk turned his face into Joong’s chest, gagging and shutting his eyes close, “I don’t want to see… what is happening Joong?!…”

Joong held him gently, his hand resting on the back of Dunk’s head, voice soft, steady, protective. “You don’t have to look. Stay with me.”

Dunk nodded weakly, clinging to him.

Peem spoke through his shock, voice trembling. “We have to stay calm, we have to stay together.”

Puth whispered, “The killer strikes only when lights go out.”

Ekk stared at Kit’s body, breathing hard, anger turning slowly into fear.

And Jim… Jim stood frozen.

His face was pale, his hands shaking, his eyes darting around the room like something hunted him from the inside.

Joong noticed.

He stepped closer, his voice quiet but concerned. “Jim, are you okay?”

Jim flinched violently, shoving Joong’s shoulder away. “Don’t touch me!”

The reaction startled everyone.

Jim backed away, wiping sweat from his face, his voice cracking. “I… I just need air… I just need a minute…”

But there was no air in that tower anymore.

Only fear.

Only secrets.

And Dunk leaned onto Joong, as though he knew, somewhere deep in his heart, that the worst was still coming.

____________________________________________

The tower no longer felt like a building.

It felt like a courtroom without mercy, a place where past sins were dragged into light one by one and judged in blood.

Kit’s body had barely been moved aside, covered with a trembling jacket no one wanted to touch for long, and already the air had changed again. The scent of iron lingered thick and metallic, clinging to the back of throats. No one stood comfortably. No one trusted the silence anymore.

And Jim… Jim could not stop shaking.

He had retreated to the far end of the lobby, near the tall windows that refused to open, his hands pressed against his temples, his breathing uneven and sharp. His eyes looked hollow, unfocused, like a man already drowning before water reached his lungs.

Pear noticed first.

She leaned toward Nita, whispering, her voice thin but sharp, “Look at him. He’s been acting strange since Kao.”

Nita swallowed, glancing over. “He pushed Joong earlier. That’s not like him.”

Pear’s lips tightened. “He looks guilty.”

Nita hesitated, fear flickering across her face, then something harder settled there. “We can’t ignore that.”

They approached him together.

Jim flinched the moment their shadows fell over him.

Pear crossed her arms. “Why are you acting like this?”

Jim shook his head rapidly. “I’m not— I’m just scared— we all are—”

Nita’s voice cut in, trembling but firm. “No. This is different. You’re not just scared. You look like you’re hiding something.”

Jim stepped back, hitting the wall behind him.

Pear pressed forward. “What are you hiding? Every time a clue is found, you go pale. Every time someone dies, you look relieved it’s not you.”

“That’s not true!” Jim snapped.

“Then explain yourself!” Nita demanded. “Why are you shaking like that? Why did you shove Joong? Why do you look like you’re waiting for your name to be called?”

His breathing grew erratic.

Around them, others slowly turned, watching.

“Say something,” Pear hissed. “Unless you’re the killer.”

“I’m not!” Jim screamed.

“Then what are you?” Nita shot back.

Jim suddenly covered his ears, collapsing to his knees.

“Stop! Stop talking!”

Tears spilled down his face as he rocked back and forth, voice breaking into pieces.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for it to happen…”

The room went still.

Joong’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his face remained calm.

Pear stepped back, whispering, “What did you do?”

Jim’s voice cracked under the weight of years.

“Eight years ago… the chairman asked me to transfer funds. From his account to a shareholder. A large sum. I handled the transaction.”

Pod inhaled sharply.

Jim’s hands trembled violently. “I was greedy. Just for a moment. I told myself no one would notice. I transferred eighty percent to the shareholder… and twenty percent to Pattaya’s account.”

Dunk’s chest tightened, his eyes wide at the confession.

Joong did not move.

Jim sobbed. “Then I withdrew it later through an anonymous account. I thought it was perfect. Clean.”

Tou’s face went pale.

Jim’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But the chairman found out only eighty percent arrived. He tracked the missing funds. They led to Pattaya.”

The room seemed to shrink.

“He thought Pattaya stole from him,” Jim choked. “He beat him… he beat him so badly…”

Dunk slowly turned to look at Joong.

Joong’s face had gone still.

Completely still.

Jim continued, voice dissolving into guilt. “No one knew it was me. Pattaya never defended himself properly. He just… took it. I let him take it. I let him bleed for my greed.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Seventeen-year-old Joong returning from school.

A hospital hallway.

His father broken.

Joong’s jaw clenched once.

Just once.

His body felt hot, like something inside him had ignited, but his expression remained controlled, unreadable.

Ekk whispered hoarsely, “You fucking thief!”

Jim sobbed harder. “I was young. I was stupid. I needed money. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” Tou spat. “You were just too greedy.”

Pear covered her mouth.

Nita stepped back slowly.

Dunk whispered softly, voice trembling, “Joong…”

Joong did not look at Jim.

He did not speak.

He simply stood there, straight-backed, silent, hands at his sides, as if holding himself together required every ounce of strength he had.

The clock ticked.

8:45 am.

The lights died.

This time faster than ever.

Darkness slammed down like a blade.

Someone screamed.

Footsteps scrambled.

A heavy, sickening crack split the air.

The unmistakable sound of something hard striking bone.

Once.

Twice.

A wet, crushing impact.

Then silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

Dunk covered his ears at the sound of the crack.

Joong wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, his other hand steady at Dunk’s back, his breathing controlled despite the roaring in his ears.

8:49 am.

The lights returned.

Jim lay on the floor.

His skull had been split open, fractured brutally, bone and tissue visible in a grotesque display that made several people gag immediately. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading dark and sticky across the marble.

Several 100-baht notes were shoved into his mouth, crumpled and stained.

A message.

Greed.

Pear screamed.

Mina collapsed into Ekk again.

Pod staggered backward.

Tou whispered a prayer.

And Dunk—

Dunk ran.

He bolted toward the restroom, hand over his mouth, the image too violent, too real, too close.

Joong followed instantly.

Inside the restroom, Dunk gripped the sink and vomited violently, his body shaking, tears streaming down his face. His cardigan sleeves fell into the water, but he did not notice.

Joong stepped behind him carefully, one hand supporting his waist, the other gently brushing his hair back from his face.

“It’s okay,” Joong murmured softly. “Let it out.”

Dunk gasped between breaths, voice broken. “We’re… we’re going to die!”

Joong turned him gently, pulling him into his chest despite the mess, holding him firmly but tenderly.

“You won’t ,” he whispered near Dunk’s ear. “I won’t let it happen.”

Dunk buried his face against him, trembling.

Outside the restroom, the tower remained silent.

Three sins exposed.

Three deaths delivered.

And somewhere in the building, the hunter continued to wait.

____________________________________________

By now, fear had begun to rot into something uglier.

It was not just terror anymore. It was suspicion, resentment, jealousy, desperation, all tangled together until no one trusted the person beside them, not even themselves. The marble floors of Archen Tower reflected pale faces and trembling hands, the clock above the reception desk ticking with a cruel patience that only one pair of eyes seemed to follow carefully.

Only one man still noticed the minutes.

Only Joong Archen Aydin kept glancing at the clock without meaning to, memorising the rhythm of time like it was a heartbeat he could not silence.

And beside him, fragile and frightened, stood Dunk unaware of anything except the warmth of the hand that never left his sleeve.

But someone else was watching too.

Nita.

Her eyes followed Joong the way a storm cloud follows the sun, dark, suffocating, hungry.

Every time Joong patted Dunk’s back, every time he whispered reassurance, every time he stood half a step in front of him like a shield, Nita’s nails dug deeper into her palms. Her smile became thinner, sharper, like cracked glass barely holding together.

She had loved him quietly for years.

Loved him until love turned into possession.

And now she hated.

Because the boy who never even noticed her existed… noticed Dunk.

When fear scattered everyone into their own corners of panic, whispering and pacing, Nita approached Joong softly, her voice calm in a way that made Dunk uneasy.

“Joong,” she said sweetly, “Ekk is calling you. He wants to talk privately.”

Joong glanced toward Ekk, who stood far away arguing with Pod, then back at Nita.

“Now?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “He sounded urgent.”

Joong hesitated, eyes flicking once to Dunk, who nodded nervously.

“I’ll be here,” Dunk whispered.

Joong gave a small nod and walked away.

Nita waited until he disappeared down the corridor.

Then her smile dropped.

She turned to Dunk slowly, eyes glittering.

“Well, look at you,” she said coldly. “So pretty. So delicate. So lucky.”

Dunk blinked, confused. “I’m sorry…?”

“Pathetic whore,” she snapped, grabbing the hem of his cardigan. “You stole what was mine.”

She tugged his clothes roughly, pulling him closer.

Dunk gasped. “Please stop—”

Nita yanked his hair hard, forcing his head back. “Do you know how long I waited for him? How long I helped him? Protected him? Kept him grounded to me?”

Dunk’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t know… I never—”

“You never what?” she hissed. “You never flirted with him? Never smiled at him? Never stood there smelling like roses so he would look at you?”

Dunk shook his head desperately, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

Her laugh cracked into something manic.

“You didn’t mean to? That’s worse.”

She shoved him hard against the wall. “You’re weak. You’re useless. You’re only here because you look pretty.”

Dunk bit his lip, trembling.

Then a voice cut through the air.

“Nita.”

Joong stood there, eyes cold, shoulders straight.

Nita froze.

Joong walked forward slowly, placing himself between them, his hand resting gently on Dunk’s arm.

“Stop behaving like this,” he said quietly.

Nita’s face twisted.

Years of obsession burst like glass under pressure.

“You care about him?” she screamed. “You care about him but never saw me?”

Joong’s voice stayed calm. “This isn’t love, Nita. This is cruelty.”

Her laugh broke into something wild. “Cruelty? After everything I did for you?”

At that moment, Peem and Puth emerged from the chairman’s side office, holding a bundle of photographs.

Peem’s voice trembled. “We found these in the cabinet.”

They spread them across the desk.

Photograph one showed Nita standing beside the chairman’s desk, her posture stiff, eyes lowered while he signed documents. Behind her, faintly visible, was Joong in the doorway, carrying files, unaware.

On the back of the photo, written in the elegant cursives handwriting:

You always wondered why you’re just a manager? Nita is one of the reasons why. She sold your credit in return for the chairman to never let you move forward.

Gasps filled the room.

Photograph two showed Nita whispering in the chairman’s ear while employees gathered outside the office. Joong stood alone in the background, ignored.

The note read:

She’s so insane over you, she’s the reason no one ever befriended you.

Nita did not flinch.

Photograph three showed her kneeling beside the chairman’s chair, tears on her face, hands clasped.

The note read:

She told the chairman if you ranked up higher than a manager she would end her life.

Silence fell.

Pear whispered, horrified, “What is wrong with you?”

Tou shook his head slowly.

Ekk scoffed, “You fucking freak, you were attracted to this spare piece?”

Nita smiled.

A terrifying, peaceful smile.

She stepped toward Joong, eyes shining.

“I did everything for you. Everything. If I can’t have you… no one can.”

Joong did not step back.

His voice was steady. “Get out of your imagination, Nita.”

The clock ticked.

9:35 am.

The lights dimmed.

Slowly this time.

One by one.

Nita laughed once, a sharp, broken sound.

Then darkness swallowed her scream.

It echoed down the corridor, dragged farther and farther away, footsteps scraping, something heavy falling, water splashing violently.

Mina clutched Ekk’s arm, shaking.

Joong’s shielded Dunk with his own body.

9:46 am.

The lights returned.

They followed the sound toward the indoor pool behind the executive lounge.

Nita floated face-down in the water, her hair spreading like ink, her body eerily still, ripples touching marble tiles.

Pear burst into tears.

Puth turned away.

Ekk stared coldly, muttering, “Crazy bitch.”

Dunk moved closer to Joong, whispering shakily, “This is crazy, Joong. Horrifying.”

Joong watched the pool silently.

The clock above the glass door ticked.

He knew exactly how many minutes had passed.

But he said nothing.

Only placed his hand gently on Dunk’s waist, steady, quiet, protective, while madness sank beneath the water and the tower prepared for its next sin.

____________________________________________

The lobby had begun to smell like fear and stale perfume, like a ballroom abandoned after a ruined wedding, like laughter that had turned into choking silence and refused to leave.

Everyone moved in tight little circles now, shoulders brushing shoulders, eyes flicking to the ceilings and the corners and the clocks that no one trusted anymore, and Dunk clung to Joong’s hand without even noticing, fingers trembling against the veiny flesh, breath shallow as though the air itself had teeth.

It was then that Dunk heard it, a thin static whisper leaking from somewhere far down the corridor, a jittering mechanical sound that did not belong to a hotel filled with rich men and ruined secrets, a scratching hum like broken insects trapped in wires.

He froze, heart knocking wildly against his ribs, and his eyes darted toward the dark mouth of the hallway near the computer room.

No one else seemed to hear it, or maybe they were pretending not to, maybe they were all too busy holding their own panic together with shaking hands.

He swallowed, forced his legs to move, and slipped away.

Each step felt like stepping onto glass, each shadow stretched too long across the floor, each flicker of light made his stomach twist as though someone were wringing it out like cloth.

He reached the computer room, the door already ajar, the static louder now, and when he pushed it open the glow from dozens of monitors hit him like cold water.

Every screen was alive.

Every screen was showing the same thing.

Pear and the chairman, tangled in sheets and secrets, bodies blurred by camera grain and cheap angles, their voices loud in the silent room, laughter that sounded wrong now, words that made Dunk’s ears burn as he turned away in shock, cheeks flushing, hands covering his face as though that could erase what he had already seen.

Mina gasped when she arrived, Puth swore under his breath, Peem froze like stone, and Joong stepped in last, eyes scanning every corner before settling on the screens, jaw tightening, fingers curling slowly into fists. Tou stood there smirking.

Pear stumbled forward, her knees buckling, her lips trembling, her face drained of all color as the final clip played.

The chairman’s voice came through the speakers, smug and cruel, telling her that if she refused him again the video would be leaked, that her future and dignity and family would be ruined in a single click, and in the footage Pear’s expression twisted into fury and desperation, her hand grabbing a heavy marble pen holder from the desk, her arm swinging in a blur.

The crack was loud.

The chairman screamed, blood spilling, Pear ran, the video cut to black.

Silence filled the room like smoke.

They all turned to Pear slowly, as though she were made of glass that might shatter, and she stood there shaking, lips moving, eyes unfocused, whispering fragments of sentences that made no sense, words breaking into sobs as she clutched her head.

Then suddenly her voice rose, sharp and wild, “That motherfucker tried to ruin my life,” and her scream seemed to echo forever in the metal room.

10:24 am.

The lights snapped off.

A single shriek cut through the darkness, Pear’s voice dragged into distance, footsteps scrambling, someone knocking into a chair, Mina sobbing loudly, Dunk clutching Joong in blind terror as hands reached into nothing, as breathing filled the air like a storm.

When the lights returned at 11:23 am, time felt like a cruel joke that Joong alone seemed to track, eyes flicking once to his watch before lifting again.

Pear was lying on the couch in the lobby as though she had simply fallen asleep, except her eyes were bulging horribly, her tongue swollen and purple, and a silk scarf stuffed with hard marbles was wound tight around her throat, the knots biting deep into bruised skin.

Mina broke.

Her scream cracked through the hall as she collapsed into Ekk’s arms, crying about bodies and blood and no answers, about ghosts and monsters and sins crawling back to claim them all.

Puth looked away, jaw clenched, Peem stared blankly, and Dunk’s knees nearly gave out as he clung harder to Joong, nausea rolling through him in waves.

Pear was dead.

Another secret turned into a corpse.

Peem spoke first, voice trembling but steady enough, suggesting that they move all the bodies into one room, that at least the sight of them wouldn’t haunt every corner, that maybe they could think better without stepping over death every time they walked.

No one wanted to agree, no one wanted to touch cold skin and stiff limbs, but Joong nodded slowly, Ekk followed with a cold shrug, and the decision settled like dust.

They carried the dead.

Kit’s limp arm swung against Joong’s side, Jim’s shattered skull wrapped in cloth, Nita’s wet hair trailing like seaweed, Pear’s scarf still biting into her neck. Joong lifted and walked without complaint, expression blank, steps measured, while Ekk stood aside ordering and directing like a king too proud to soil his hands.

Peem and Puth helped in silence, Mina sobbed quietly in the corner, and Dunk stood frozen, nails digging into his palms until crescent moons appeared in skin.

He wanted to help.

He wanted to run.

He wanted to scream and beg for his mother and pretend none of this was real, but he swallowed everything down because he didn’t want anyone to call him weak, didn’t want anyone to see the shaking in his hands or the tears burning behind his eyes.

He straightened his back, forced his breath to steady, forced himself to stand tall like a statue carved from fear.

Joong saw through him immediately.

When the last body of Kao was laid inside the storage room, the door was closed with a heavy thud that sounded too final, Joong found Dunk leaning against the wall, eyes wide and glassy, lips pale, trying so hard to pretend he was fine that it hurt to look at him.

Joong stepped closer, voice soft, asking if he was alright, and Dunk nodded too fast, too eager, like a child caught crying.

“I’m okay,” Dunk whispered, voice cracking.

Joong didn’t argue, didn’t push, just reached out and brushed his knuckles lightly against Dunk’s wrist, grounding him, steadying him, letting silence say what words couldn’t. Dunk’s shoulders shook once, barely noticeable, and he looked away, ashamed of tears he refused to shed.

Around them the others argued quietly, voices hoarse, minds breaking under pressure, and the clocks ticked louder than before, every minute another step toward something worse. Joong glanced again at the time, habit he couldn’t break, eyes narrowing slightly, calculating silently, and Dunk noticed the motion without understanding it, only knowing that Joong looked like a man bracing for a storm he alone could see.

That Joong was his only support here.

Fear wrapped around them all like chains.

The hotel lights flickered softly, almost kindly, as though mocking their terror.

And somewhere, hidden in the walls and wires and broken secrets, the killer watched and waited, patient and cruel, counting sins like beads on a rosary, choosing the next name with quiet, terrible certainty.

____________________________________________

The silence after Pear’s death lingered like thick fog over poisoned water, heavy and suffocating, curling around every breath and heartbeat until even the bravest among them spoke only in whispers.

The survivors gathered in the ruined lobby, seven souls sitting too close together as if closeness alone could save them, their eyes hollow, their hands restless, their nerves shredded thin by the endless parade of sins and corpses.

Tou stood before them.

For the first time since all of this began, the man who had once been loud and arrogant, smug with money and influence, looked strangely calm, almost peaceful, as though confession had already carved his guilt into stone and there was nothing left to fear.

His face was pale, sweat clinging to his temples, yet his voice when he spoke was steady, almost gentle, and that frightened them more than any scream.

“I owe you all the truth,” Tou said quietly, fingers clasped in front of him, eyes drifting briefly toward Joong before settling on the cracked marble floor. “Especially you.”

Joong’s expression didn’t change, didn’t flicker, didn’t betray the sudden tightness in his jaw, the subtle way his hand curled into a fist at his side. Dunk noticed, because Dunk always noticed, because his eyes never left Joong’s face for long.

Tou took a slow breath.

“I wasn’t always the chairman’s enemy,” he continued, voice low, memories dragging behind each word like chains. “We were… best friends once. Closer than brothers. We built everything together, we drank together, we planned futures together. But I wanted more than friendship, more than partnership, more than a seat at his table. I wanted him, and I wanted him all to myself.”

Mina covered her mouth, Peem looked away, and Ekk scoffed softly, though his eyes stayed sharp and watchful.

Tou laughed bitterly.

“And Pattaya,” he said, glancing again at Joong, “he was always there. Like a like loyal dog, like the picture perfect son. Always interrupting, always dragging the chairman away for meetings, responsibilities, paperwork, calls, contracts. Every time things between us felt… perfect, Pattaya would appear like a shadow, ruining it. Ruining me.”

Joong’s breath hitched so softly only Dunk heard it.

“I hated him,” Tou whispered. “I hated him so much I wanted him gone. So one night, after the chairman and I stopped talking, after everything fell apart, I decided to burn down Archen Industries. Pattaya was still inside the building, working late like always, and I… I didn’t care.”

The room froze.

Dunk’s hand slipped into Joong’s instinctively, squeezing tight.

“I poured gasoline,” Tou continued, voice hollow now, “I lit the match, and I watched the flames crawl. I left before anyone saw me. I told myself it was fate, that Pattaya deserved it for ruining my life, for stealing the chairman from me. Unfortunately, people rescued him before the fire could even reach him.”

He looked up at Joong then, eyes shining.

“I do feel a little guilty,” he admitted. “For you. You lost your father, you grew up alone, treated like trash by men who called you family. But regret… regret?” Tou smiled faintly. “No. I don’t regret what I did.”

Joong’s composure cracked, just slightly, like ice fracturing under hidden pressure. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze dropped, his lips parted.

He wanted to speak but swallowed the words instead.

No one noticed except Dunk, whose heart twisted painfully at the sight, whose fingers tightened around Joong’s hand as if trying to hold him together.

Ekk muttered, “You’re insane.”

Tou nodded.

“Yes,” he said softly.

The clock struck 12:00 pm.

The lights went out.

Darkness swallowed them whole, thick and suffocating, and the smell came next, sharp and choking, gasoline flooding the air like a tidal wave.

Someone coughed violently, Mina cried out, Dunk clutched Joong’s arm, and in the blackness a scream erupted, high and terrible.

Flames burst into existence.

Tou was running.

Running wildly through the lobby, his entire body engulfed in fire, clothes melting, skin blistering, his screams echoing off marble walls as he stumbled and thrashed, knocking over chairs and tables, his burning hands clawing at his own face. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, thick and nauseating, smoke curling into their lungs as they watched in frozen horror.

“Help me!” Tou shrieked, voice cracking into something inhuman. “Please—!”

No one could move.

No one could breathe.

He ran toward the pool, flames trailing behind him like a comet’s tail, and with one final scream he collapsed into the water, the fire hissing violently, steam rising like ghosts into the darkness.

12:20 pm.

The lights came back on.

Tou floated in the pool, blackened and still, skin charred to crisp, smoke curling softly from what remained of him.

The water shimmered with oily rainbows, the smell unbearable, and Mina gagged violently as she stumbled backward.

Dunk couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He ran past Mina and went straight toward the bathroom, retching into the sink as his body shook uncontrollably, tears welling up in his eyes as he tried to breathe through the horror. Mina sobbed loudly, clutching her sleeve, whispering broken prayers, while Dunk trembled so hard his knees nearly gave out.

Joong arrived seconds later, pulling Dunk gently back, rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring soft reassurances that sounded fragile even to his own ears. Ekk followed too, quieter now, face pale, eyes distant.

In the empty lobby, Pod slipped away.

He moved toward the chairman’s desk with cautious steps, heart pounding, hands trembling.

He opened drawers one by one until he found a thick folder hidden beneath stacks of paperwork, the word CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the cover in bold red ink.

Pod swallowed.

Somewhere behind him, the lights flickered again.

And in the silence that followed Tou’s burning confession, every survivor understood one terrible truth, their sins were being counted one by one, their secrets dragged screaming into the light, and whatever waited at the end of this nightmare was still watching patiently, choosing who would fall next.

____________________________________________

The smell of smoke still clung to the lobby, stubborn and sour, refusing to leave even as the windows fogged and the pool water stilled, Tou’s charred body drifting quietly like a warning carved into flesh.

No one spoke for a long time, because words felt useless now, fragile little things that could not compete with screams, with secrets, with death.

It was Pod who broke the silence.

He came rushing in from the chairman’s office, breath uneven, hands shaking, clutching the thick file against his chest like it might bite him. His glasses were crooked, his face pale, his eyes wide with something between triumph and terror.

“Everyone,” he called out, voice cracking, “come here. You need to see this.”

They gathered slowly, reluctantly, as if stepping closer to the truth meant stepping closer to the blade. Joong stayed near Dunk, one hand hovering protectively at his back, and Dunk clung to his arm without even realizing it, knuckles white, heartbeat loud in his ears.

Pod placed the file on the lobby table.

The red letters—CONFIDENTIAL—glared up at them like a wound.

Peem swallowed hard. “Open it.”

Pod did.

The first page slid into view.

A medical report.

They all leaned in, their shadows pooling over the paper like ink, and Puth read aloud because his voice was the steadiest among them.

“Patient Name: Joong Archen Aydin,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up in recognition before returning to the page. “Diagnosis: Severe insomnia. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Prescribed medication: sedatives for sleep regulation.”

The room froze.

Every eye turned to Joong.

Dunk’s hand tightened instinctively around his arm.

Pod stepped back slowly, voice trembling but loud. “There it is. That’s it. Insomnia. PTSD. He doesn’t sleep. He’s the fucking killer look at him he’s intimidating like one!”

The accusation hung heavy in the air.

Joong didn’t react.

Didn’t shout.

Didn’t deny.

He just stared at the page, jaw clenched, eyes distant, like he’d seen that report a thousand times before and hated every single one.

Dunk shook his head fiercely. “No. No, that’s senseless. That doesn’t prove anything.”

Ekk crossed his arms. “You’re crazy, this shithole is getting to you.”

Pod snapped back, voice desperate. “You all saw how calm he is. How he keeps quiet. How he doesn’t react. That’s not normal—”

“Enough.”

Peem stepped forward, voice firm, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“I treated him,” he said quietly, looking straight at Pod. “After Pattaya died. I gave Joong therapy myself. I knew about his insomnia. I knew about his nightmares. I was the one who recommended Puth to prescribe sleeping pills, because Joong couldn’t sleep without reliving everything he saw.”

Puth nodded slowly. “It’s true. I wrote the prescription.”

The suspicion wavered, shifted.

Pod’s mouth opened, then closed.

Joong exhaled softly, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Dunk leaned into him just a little more, whispering, “I believe you.”

Joong’s fingers brushed Dunk’s wrist in silent gratitude.

Then Puth turned the page.

His expression changed instantly.

“What is it?” Mina asked, voice trembling.

Puth swallowed. “Pod… this is about you.”

Pod froze.

Puth read aloud, voice low and heavy. “Documentation of financial dispute. Reporter Pod blackmailing the chairman after participating in fraudulent advertisement campaign that caused monetary losses… demanding compensation to keep quiet.”

The room exploded.

“You blackmailed him?!” Ekk shouted.

Pod’s face went white. “It’s not like that! He dragged me into fraud, I lost everything, I had debts, I had nothing left, I just wanted my money back—”

“You threatened him,” Mina cried.

“I was desperate!”

Joong spoke quietly. “To save yourself, you took my medical report and tried to label me as mental unstable? When in truth you have a bigger conviction.”

Pod’s shoulders sagged. “Because none of you would understand. None of you cared when I lost everything.”

Silence fell again.

A terrible silence.

1:40 pm.

The lights went out.

No warning.

No flicker.

Just darkness swallowing them whole.

Someone screamed.

Glass shattered violently, loud and sharp, echoing through the room like thunder breaking bones. Something heavy crashed to the floor, something wet splattered, and then—

Silence.

A suffocating, endless silence.

Dunk buried his face into Joong’s chest, trembling uncontrollably, and Joong held him tightly, one hand covering Dunk’s ear, whispering soft, steady nonsense meant only to calm him, his own heart hammering painfully against his ribs.

Seconds stretched into centuries.

Then—

The lights came back on.

Pod lay on the floor.

Covered in blood.

Shards of glass surrounded him like cruel glitter, his body twitching weakly as his lungs struggled for air, red bubbling at his lips.

A broken window panel had been driven into his chest, jagged and merciless, his hands clutching uselessly at the wound.

“Help me…” he whispered, voice barely sound at all.

No one moved.

No one could.

They froze like figures of ice.

Pod’s eyes popped out and rolled toward Joong, toward Dunk, toward all of them, terror and regret drowning together, and then his chest stilled.

Gone.

Mina screamed.

Peem staggered backward, dropping the file, papers scattering across the floor like fallen feathers, secrets spilling everywhere. Puth pressed his hands to his face, shaking, whispering frantic prayers.

Ekk cursed under his breath, pacing like a trapped animal.

Dunk couldn’t breathe.

He clung to Joong, shaking violently, tears soaking into Joong’s shirt, whispering broken, terrified words that made no sense.

Joong wrapped both arms around him, holding him close, stroking his hair gently, murmuring promises he didn’t know if he could keep.

“It’s okay,” Joong whispered softly. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But his eyes, dark and sharp, flicked once toward the clock.

Toward the scattered file.

Toward the empty corners of the lobby.

Because whoever was playing this game, whoever had turned Archen Industries into a graveyard of secrets and bodies, was still watching.

Still counting.

Still waiting for the next sin to surface.

____________________________________________

2:17 pm.

The lobby had fallen into a tired, hollow quiet, the kind that only came after too many screams, too much blood, too many truths dragged into the open and left to rot. The others were scattered in uneasy clusters, Mina curled against a pillar with swollen eyes, Ekk whispering low reassurances she barely heard, Peem pacing in restless circles, Puth staring blankly at the pool where Tou’s ashes still clung to the water like a curse that refused to dissolve.

Joong and Dunk slipped away without a word.

They settled in the farthest corner of the second-floor hallway, near a tall window overlooking the courtyard, where the light filtered in weak and pale through dusty glass.

The windows were covered in blinds looking absurdly suffocating, breeze touched the glass before flowing by, as if this building were not a cage of sins and ghosts.

Dunk sank down first, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, fingers trembling slightly before he forced them still. Joong lowered himself beside him, slower, more deliberate, shoulders heavy as though carrying the weight of every body they had moved earlier.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Dunk watched Joong carefully.

The faint tension in his jaw. The way his gaze seemed distant. The subtle stiffness in his hands.

To anyone else, Joong looked composed. Strong. Controlled.

To Dunk, he looked tired in a way that made his chest ache.

“Are you okay?” Dunk asked softly.

Joong let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I should be asking you that.”

Dunk shook his head, a small stubborn motion. “You first.”

There it was again, that softness in Dunk’s voice, that gentle insistence that never felt demanding, only caring. It disarmed Joong in ways knives and accusations never could.

Joong leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes briefly.

“My father,” he began, voice low and steady, “Pattaya wasn’t what people think.”

Dunk shifted closer without realizing, his knee brushing Joong’s.

“He wasn’t weak,” Joong continued. “He wasn’t greedy. He wasn’t the villain they made him into. He was strict. Always working. Always putting the company first but being a good father to me as well.”

His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.

“I used to hate that. That he devoted his entire existence to Archen Industries. But he never got the respect he deserved.”

Dunk’s brows knit together instantly, hurt flashing across his face as if Joong had just told him someone kicked a puppy.

“That’s unfair,” Dunk said immediately, almost fiercely. “How can power and status blind people so much they forget who truly is their own.”

Joong’s eyes opened slowly, turning to look at him.

“You’d be surprised.”

“No,” Dunk insisted, voice cracking with sincerity. “How can the chairman not see Mr. Pattaya striving for his approval, while managing to raise you to be like this Joong?”

The conviction in Dunk’s voice was raw, unfiltered. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t cautious. It was pure.

And it struck Joong somewhere dangerously deep.

“My last memory of him,” Joong said after a pause, “was arguing. I told him I was tired of being treated like a slave instead of a son. He told me one day I’d understand responsibility. That was it.”

Dunk’s lips parted slightly.

“When I came home and saw his body swaying from the ceiling,” Joong went on, gaze unfocused now, “my grand said my father was a quitter… I didn’t even cry at first. I just felt empty.”

Dunk’s eyes filled immediately.

Not politely.

Not subtly.

Tears welled up fast and bright, slipping down his cheeks before he could stop them.

“The world is so cruel,” he whispered.

Joong blinked at him.

Dunk wiped at his face clumsily but failed to hide how deeply he felt it, how the idea of Joong standing alone in that emptiness physically hurt him.

“You shouldn’t have lost him like that,” Dunk said, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have had to grow up alone. You were just a kid.”

Joong stared.

He had told that story before. To therapists. To lawyers. To board members.

No one had ever cried for him.

No one had ever looked at him like that — like he had been wronged, like he had been something fragile instead of something dangerous.

Dunk reached for his hand.

Not hesitantly.

Not calculatingly.

Just instinctively.

“You’re not alone now,” Dunk said softly.

The words were simple.

Too simple.

But they settled inside Joong like something permanent.

He turned his hand slightly, fingers closing around Dunk’s. His grip wasn’t crushing, wasn’t desperate. It was steady. Grounded.

“You trust me a lot,” Joong murmured quietly.

Dunk looked confused by the question.

“Of course I do.”

“Even now?” Joong asked. “After everything. After the report. After Pod said—”

“I don’t believe it,” Dunk interrupted, shaking his head firmly. “People can say whatever they want. I believe you.”

Joong’s gaze darkened slightly. “You do?”

“Yes,” Dunk said without hesitation. “You’re not a failure. You’re just… hurting.”

The innocence of it.

The certainty.

The way Dunk saw pain instead of threat.

It did something to Joong.

Something warm.

Something possessive.

Something that made him want to protect this boy from every cruelty in the world, including the one unfolding around them.

Dunk squeezed his hand again. “Your dad would be proud of you.”

Joong’s throat tightened.

“He never told me that.”

“But I know,” Dunk insisted softly. “You didn’t turn bitter. You didn’t turn cruel. You’re still kind.”

Joong almost smiled at that.

Still kind.

If only Dunk knew how complicated that word felt.

A faint noise echoed somewhere downstairs — a chair scraping, someone coughing — but neither of them moved. Time stretched lazily now, heavy with exhaustion instead of terror.

Dunk shifted closer, resting his head lightly against Joong’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he murmured. “Not with me.”

Joong’s arm lifted slowly, hesitating for just a second before settling around Dunk’s waist, pulling him closer.

Dunk relaxed instantly.

Completely.

Trusting.

His breathing steadied.

His fingers absently twisted into the fabric of Joong’s shirt.

And Joong looked down at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes — not suspicion, not guilt, not calculation.

Something deeper.

Something dangerously devoted.

“You’re too soft,” Joong whispered.

Dunk smiled faintly. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Joong said quietly. “It’s rare.”

Dunk tilted his head slightly to look up at him. “You won’t leave me, right?”

The question was so small it almost broke.

Joong didn’t answer immediately.

He brushed a stray hair from Dunk’s cheek with his thumb instead, gentle, deliberate.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said at last.

And in that corner of a building filled with blood and secrets, while the others waited unknowingly for the next hour to strike, Dunk closed his eyes and believed him completely.

Outside, the sky remained bright.

Inside, something else was quietly deepening — not suspicion, not fear.

Something far more binding.

____________________________________________

Between the hours of two in the afternoon and the slow, dragging approach of evening, the lobby of Archen Industries felt less like a place of marble and glass and more like a mausoleum breathing shallowly, its polished floors reflecting grief, its high ceilings swallowing whispers, its corners heavy with the presence of the dead.

Bodies had been moved into one of the conference rooms, covered with white cloths that trembled whenever the air conditioning exhaled. The others kept distance from that door as if death might seep out through its hinges, and the silence that followed the chaos was louder than any scream that had come before.

Joong sat on the far side of the lobby, near a column where shadows gathered gently without swallowing the light.

His back leaned against cool stone, his head tipped slightly upward, eyes closed behind dark lashes that trembled with exhaustion. Anyone who looked at him would have seen a man crushed by horror, drained by shock, barely holding himself together.

Only Dunk, sitting close beside him, could feel the careful steadiness of Joong’s breathing, the quiet strength in his shoulders, the strange calm beneath the surface.

Dunk hugged his knees to his chest, cardigan sleeves pulled over trembling fingers, cheek resting against Joong’s arm like a child seeking warmth.

For a long time they didn’t speak. They just breathed, listened to distant footsteps, counted seconds without meaning to.

Then, very softly, Dunk said,

“Can I tell you something random?”

Joong opened his eyes immediately, turning toward him with a gentleness that almost hurt to see.

“You can tell me anything.”

Dunk’s lips twitched into a smile, uncertain but real, like sunlight peeking through rain.

And then he started talking.

At first it was silly things. Little things. Things that had nothing to do with murder or fear or blood.

He told Joong about the tiny greenhouse behind the florist section of the company gardens, how he liked to name plants after people he knew. He laughed shyly and confessed that he had once named a stubborn cactus after Ekk because of his horrendous encounter with the latter. He talked about how lilies made him sneeze but he still kept them because they looked elegant. He spoke about watering roses before sunrise because they liked the quiet, about humming songs while trimming leaves, about getting scolded for tracking soil into hallways.

Joong didn’t interrupt.

Not once.

He didn’t even smile too broadly, afraid that if he showed too much emotion, Dunk might stop talking and sink back into fear.

So he just listened, eyes soft, heart tightening painfully at every tiny detail.

Because this was the first time since morning that Dunk sounded alive instead of terrified.

Dunk leaned closer as he spoke, voice warming, hands moving in small gestures.

“I used to think… if I worked quietly, maybe no one would notice me, and that would be nice, you know? But sometimes… sometimes I wanted someone to notice.”

He glanced up shyly.

“Like you.”

Joong’s breath caught.

Dunk hurried on, embarrassed.

“I mean not like that! I just… I knew who you were. Everyone does. The man who works harder than anyone else, who stays late, who never shouts. You always looked so tired… I wanted to give you flowers once at an event, but I got scared.”

Joong swallowed slowly, throat tight.

“You should have,” he said softly. “I would have kept them forever.”

Dunk’s eyes widened in surprise, cheeks turning pink, smile trembling with disbelief.

And Joong realised something in that moment that frightened him more than the murders.

He wanted to see that smile every day.

He wanted to protect it.

He wanted it so desperately it hurt.

Dunk kept talking, rambling gently, telling stories about childhood games, about losing his mother’s favourite plant and crying for two days, about dreaming of opening a tiny flower shop by the sea where everything smelled like salt and roses.

Joong listened to every word like it was sacred scripture.

Because Dunk wasn’t talking to fill silence.

Dunk was trusting him.

And trust, Joong knew, was rarer than diamonds in his world.

At one point Dunk hesitated, voice dropping.

“Can I ask something?”

Joong nodded immediately.

“Anything.”

Dunk twisted his sleeve nervously.

“When… when you talked about your father earlier… Mr. Pattaya… did he like flowers?”

The question was so gentle, so sincere, that Joong felt his chest crack open quietly.

“He did,” Joong whispered. “He liked tulips. He said they looked honest.”

Dunk’s eyes filled instantly, he wiped them before the tears fell.

“Oh…” he breathed, pressing his hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you sad…”

Joong shook his head quickly.

“You didn’t.”

Dunk’s voice broke anyway.

“He sounded kind… even after everything… he still loved you… I can tell…”

Joong stared at him, stunned by the raw pain in Dunk’s eyes, pain for someone he had never even met.

It was too much.

Too pure.

Too gentle.

And something inside Joong twisted into something darker and deeper than affection.

An obsession blooming like poison ivy wrapped in roses.

Because Dunk cared about Pattaya.

Because Dunk cared about him.

Because Dunk didn’t look at him like a spare heir or a mistake or a tool.

Dunk looked at him like he mattered.

Joong reached out slowly, brushing tears from Dunk’s cheek with his thumb, movements careful as if Dunk were made of glass.

“You don’t have to cry for me,” he murmured.

Dunk shook his head stubbornly.

“I want to. You’ve been hurt your whole life… someone should cry for you.”

Joong laughed softly, a broken sound, and then before he could stop himself he said,

“You are the first person who ever has.”

Dunk’s face crumpled completely, and he leaned forward, hugging Joong tightly, arms wrapping around him with desperate warmth.

Joong froze for a heartbeat.

Then he held him back.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

But like a drowning man clinging to the only thing keeping him alive.

Dunk whispered into his shoulder, voice trembling,

“You’re safe with me too, okay? I know I’m weak and scared and stupid but… I won’t leave you.”

Joong closed his eyes.

And in that quiet, dangerous moment, truth slipped from him like a blade.

“Listen to me,” he said softly.

Dunk pulled back, confused. Joong held his face with both of his hands, cheeks squished together gently.

Joong looked at him with an intensity that made Dunk’s breath hitch, eyes dark and burning with something impossible to name.

“If your survival ever depends on my death…” Joong said slowly, voice calm and terrifyingly sincere, “I will give you my life without hesitation. I won’t even think twice. Because a world where you don’t exist isn’t worth breathing in.”

Dunk stared at him, shocked, heart racing.

“Joong… don’t say things like that…”

Joong smiled faintly, brushing hair from Dunk’s forehead.

“I mean it. You are my answer. To loneliness. To pain. To everything.”

Dunk’s cheeks burned, tears shining again, but this time they were mixed with something softer, warmer.

He whispered, almost shyly,

“You’re my safe place too.”

Joong’s heart slammed violently in his chest.

And in that moment, surrounded by death and fear and shadows creeping closer, they leaned their foreheads together quietly, sharing breath, sharing warmth, sharing something fragile and dangerous and beautiful.

Two lonely souls, finding light in each other, while the world around them burned.

And anyone watching would have sworn there was no darkness inside Joong Archen Aydin at all.

Only love.

Only devotion.

Only a man ready to give everything for the pretty man in yellow and white who smiled at him like sunrise.

____________________________________________

The evening arrived quietly, like a secret too heavy for the moon to carry.

Rain pressed softly against the tall windows of the lobby, each droplet sliding down the glass like tears that didn’t dare make a sound. The city lights blurred into golden smudges behind thick blinds, trembling in the distance, while inside the room there was only the dim glow of a lamp and the quiet warmth of Dunk curled beside Joong on the couch.

Dunk’s head rested against Joong’s shoulder, his fingers absentmindedly tracing invisible flowers across Joong’s palm. It was a habit he had when he was thinking too much—drawing petals that only he could see.

Joong noticed.

Joong always noticed.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against Dunk’s hair, voice soft but serious.

“Dunk… can I ask you something?”

Dunk hummed, distracted. “Mmm?”

Joong’s arm tightened around him, protective without thinking. “Everyone here… every single person connected to this mess with the chairman… they all wronged him. Or he wronged them. It’s like he collects enemies like trophies.”

He paused, voice lowering.

“But you… you’re too kind to hurt anyone. So tell me honestly… did he hurt you?”

Dunk’s fingers stopped moving.

Just like that.

The invisible flowers wilted.

For a long moment he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, like glass about to crack.

Joong pulled back slightly to look at him. Dunk’s eyes were lowered, lashes trembling, lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. His shoulders curled inward, small… scared.

Joong’s heart dropped into his stomach. He easily scooped up Dunk by his waist and held him up.

“Dunk…” he whispered, panic creeping into his voice. “Hey… hey, look at me. Did he hurt you?”

Dunk shook his head quickly—too quickly. “It’s… it’s nothing. Just stupid things. I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Joong said softly, cupping his cheek. “Don’t protect assholes from your justice. Talk to me.”

Dunk’s breath trembled. He looked like a child standing at the edge of a storm, unsure if it was safe to move.

And then, very quietly… he began.

“…One night,” Dunk whispered, voice barely louder than the rain, “he asked me to deliver flowers.”

Joong frowned. “Flowers?”

Dunk nodded slowly. “Red roses. He said it was for a special guest. He called the shop personally, asked for me by name. Said he trusted my arrangements more than anyone’s.”

Joong’s jaw tightened.

Dunk swallowed. “It was late… maybe eleven? I didn’t think anything of it. He’s the chairman after all and rich people order flowers at strange times. So I went to his house.”

His fingers clutched Joong’s shirt.

“When I got there… he was… so kind. Smiling. Laughing. He said the roses were perfect. He insisted I come inside for tea because it was raining.” Dunk’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

Joong’s breathing slowed… slowed… like a predator trying not to scare prey.

“What happened next?” he asked, gently.

Dunk’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“He kept talking… asking about my life. My family. If I had a boyfriend. He said I was talented. That my hands were beautiful… that I smelled like jasmine…” Dunk shivered. “I thought he was just… being nice.”

Joong’s hand curled into a fist.

Dunk continued, voice smaller. “He gave me tea. It tasted strange. Bitter. I felt dizzy. My legs wouldn’t stand straight… my head was spinning.”

Joong went very still.

“And then…” Dunk’s voice broke into a sob he tried to hide. “He touched me.”

Joong’s entire body froze.

“He said he’d been watching me for months. Ever since I became the florist for Archen Industries. He said I was… pure. Soft. That he wanted to ruin me.” Dunk’s shoulders shook. “He tried to kiss me. Tried to ra—”

The words stuck in his throat.

Joong’s eyes darkened.

Not anger.

Something colder.

Something dangerous.

Dunk whispered, “I pushed him. I ran. I fell down the stairs. I don’t even remember how I got outside. I just… ran until I couldn’t breathe.”

The rain outside grew louder, like the sky was screaming for him.

Joong didn’t speak.

Dunk wiped his tears. “I wanted to report him. I went to a lawyer. But they said… who would believe me? He owns half the country. I’m just a florist. They told me it would ruin my life.”

His voice shrank to a whisper.

“So… I stayed quiet.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Terrible.

Joong’s hands trembled in his lap.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded… wrong.

“Did he… hurt you?”

Dunk shook his head quickly. “No. I escaped before he could… but…”

“But?”

Dunk’s tears fell freely now. “But I still feel dirty sometimes. I still hear his voice in my nightmares.”

Something snapped inside Joong.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was quiet.

Deadly.

His head lifted slowly, eyes burning like black fire. The warmth he always carried—the teasing softness, the playful love—was gone. In its place was something terrifyingly calm.

“You need justice,” Joong whispered.

Dunk flinched. “Joong… don’t.”

“You. Need. Justice.”

Dunk grabbed his face with both hands. “No. Please. I don’t want you to get hurt. Don’t do anything that harms you.”

Joong laughed softly.

A sound with no humor.

“He already hurt the person I love most,” Joong said quietly. “There’s nothing left he can threaten me with.”

Dunk’s eyes widened. “Joong… please…”

But Joong wasn’t listening.

His chest rose and fell slowly, rage dripping from him like poison. His hands shook—not from fear, but from the effort of holding himself back.

Dunk felt it.

That terrifying shift.

And for the first time, he was scared of Joong.

“Joong…” he whispered, voice trembling. “Listen to me.”

Joong didn’t.

“Joong!” Dunk cried, grabbing his face.

Joong’s gaze snapped to him.

Dark.

Wild.

Broken.

Dunk cupped his cheeks gently, fearful of what could happen next. “Listen to me. Destiny will punish him. Not you. Not now. Don’t ruin yourself for someone like that.”

Joong’s lips parted, breath shaky. “He touched you.”

Dunk nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Joong whispered, voice cracking, “And I wasn’t there.”

Dunk’s heart broke.

He wrapped his arms around Joong tightly. “You didn’t know me then.”

“I should have,” Joong said hoarsely. “I should have protected you before I even met you.”

Dunk laughed softly through tears. “Silly Romeo… you can’t fight battles you haven’t seen yet.”

Joong’s hands gripped his waist like he was afraid Dunk might disappear.

“I hate him,” Joong whispered. “I hate him so much I can’t breathe.”

Dunk kissed his cheek gently. “I know.”

“And I hate myself,” Joong continued, voice shaking. “Because that man… he’s my grandfather.”

Dunk froze.

Joong suddenly pulled away… and dropped to his knees.

Right there on the floor.

His head bowed low.

“I’m sorry,” Joong whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so ashamed. I carry his blood. His name. His power. And he used it to hurt you.”

Dunk gasped softly. “Joong… don’t do this—”

But Joong didn’t move.

“I can’t undo what he did,” Joong continued, tears falling freely now. “But I swear to you… I swear on everything I am… I will never let anyone touch you without your consent again. Not him. Not anyone. Not me. Not even death.”

Dunk’s heart burst.

He dropped to his knees too, grabbing Joong’s face desperately. “Please look at me.”

Joong hesitated.

Then he did.

And Dunk saw something he had never seen before—pure, aching devotion mixed with burning fury.

Dunk wiped his tears gently. “You are not him. Do you hear me? You are not his sins.”

Joong whispered, “But I’m his legacy.”

“You’re my Joong,” Dunk replied softly. “That matters more.”

Joong stared at him, stunned.

Dunk smiled through tears, touching his forehead to Joong’s. “You saved me in ways you don’t even know. You gave me safety again. You gave me warmth. You gave me courage.”

His voice trembled. “That night… I thought I’d never trust anyone again. But then I met you.”

Joong choked on a sob.

Dunk kissed his trembling lips gently, whispering, “So don’t become a monster trying to avenge me. Just… stay with me. That’s all I need.”

Joong pulled him into a crushing hug.

“I’ll protect you,” he whispered fiercely. “Even from fate itself.”

Dunk laughed softly, snuggling into his chest. “You already do.”

Outside, the rain slowed.

Inside, Joong held Dunk like something sacred, something fragile, something worth burning kingdoms for.

And in the quiet of that dim room, love fought against rage… and won, just for the evening.

____________________________________________

The clock struck 5:30 pm with a hollow, metallic chime that echoed through the office like a warning bell rung at a funeral.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

By the sixth chime, Joong’s hand was already tightening around Dunk’s fingers.

By the last… they were both running.

The sound came from upstairs—shouting, furniture scraping, glass shattering—and the entire hallway trembled with the violence of it. Dunk’s heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear himself breathe, the memory of Pod’s lifeless body still burned into his eyes like a ghost that refused to fade.

They burst into the upstairs lounge and froze.

Peem and Puth stood face-to-face with Ekk, the three of them trembling with fury like animals trapped in a cage too small for their rage.

Pod’s body lay on the carpet between them.

Cold.

Still.

Accusing.

Ekk kicked the corpse lightly with the toe of his shoe, disgust curling his lip.

“Move it,” he snapped. “I’m not sitting in the same room as this… trash.”

Peem’s eyes flashed. “You move him yourself.”

Ekk laughed cruelly. “Excuse me? Do I look like a servant to you?”

Puth crossed his arms. “You look like an asshole. That’s what you look like.”

Ekk’s face twisted instantly. “Careful. I might forget who you are and start treating you like the nobody you’ve always been.”

Dunk gasped softly.

The air thickened with hatred.

Peem stepped forward, chest heaving. “You think you’re better than us because your father bought you a title? Without Joong you and your father be begging on the street.”

Ekk sneered. “Without the chairman you’d be dead years ago.”

Joong watched silently.

Eyes unreadable.

Hands still.

“Move Pod’s body,” Ekk barked. “I don’t want to see his face when I’m alive.”

Puth shook his head slowly. “We’re not your servants.”

Ekk’s voice dropped into something sharp and venomous. “You’re lucky I don’t make you lick the floor clean too.”

And then—

The punch landed.

Peem swung first, knuckles cracking against Ekk’s jaw with a sound so loud Dunk was wide eyed. Ekk staggered back, then lunged forward like a rabid animal, grabbing Peem by the collar and slamming him into the wall.

Puth tackled Ekk from the side.

All three men crashed into a glass table.

Shards exploded across the floor like ice.

They rolled, clawing, punching, choking, screaming insults so ugly Dunk covered his ears.

Joong didn’t move.

He simply walked over to Pod’s body.

Calm.

Detached.

Careful.

He bent down, slid his arms beneath the lifeless weight, and lifted Pod as if carrying a sleeping child. His face remained expressionless, but Dunk could see the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, the quiet storm behind his eyes.

Without a word, Joong carried Pod down the hallway… to the conference room.

Where the others lay.

Waiting.

Dunk turned back just in time to see Puth shove Ekk’s head into the bookshelf. Books fell everywhere. Ekk grabbed a broken bottle and swung wildly.

“Stop!” Dunk gasped, rushing forward. “Please stop! You’re going to kill each other!”

He grabbed Peem’s arm, pulling him back. “Please… please, we have to stay together. We’re dying one by one already!”

But adrenaline blinded them.

Someone shoved him.

Hard.

Dunk stumbled backward, slipping on shattered glass. His heel twisted, his body bent wrong, and a sharp bolt of pain shot through his waist like lightning.

He hit the floor with a cry.

Everything went white.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe.

Joong returned at that moment.

And when he saw Dunk on the ground…

Something inside him shifted into place.

Not rage.

Not panic.

Control.

He walked straight into the chaos, grabbed Peem by the collar with one hand, Puth by the shoulder with the other, and shoved them apart like they weighed nothing. His quiet strength stunned them into stillness.

“Enough,” Joong said softly.

The room froze.

Even Ekk hesitated.

Dunk tried to stand, clutching his waist. “Joong… it hurts…”

Joong’s eyes flicked to him instantly, concern flashing like lightning.

Ekk noticed.

And smiled cruelly.

“Oh look,” Ekk mocked, wiping blood from his lip. “The spare heir playing hero.”

Joong ignored him.

He helped Dunk up gently. “Can you stand?”

Dunk nodded weakly. “I’m okay…”

Ekk laughed louder. “Of course he’s okay. That little pet always pretends he’s fragile so people pity him.”

Joong’s jaw tightened.

Ekk stepped closer, voice dripping with venom.

“Fuck off, Aydin. Mind your own business, you spare heir. Your a llegitimate dog of a mother that didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as this family.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Dunk’s heart stopped.

Ekk leaned closer, whispering poison into Joong’s face.

“Mess with me one more time… and I’ll send you to Pattaya where all the unwanted bastards belong.”

Joong’s hands loosened.

He stepped back.

He said nothing.

But Dunk saw the way his eyes darkened… the way his breathing slowed… the way his fingers trembled slightly.

That insult didn’t just hurt.

It carved into old wounds Joong never spoke about.

Dunk reached for him softly. “Joong…”

Joong shook his head faintly.

The fight ended.

Not with peace.

With hatred.

—

The clock struck 6:30 pm.

They sat in different corners of the mansion like strangers forced into the same nightmare. No one spoke. No one trusted anyone. Mina clung nervously to Ekk’s sleeve, her eyes darting toward every shadow.

Dunk sat beside Joong, leaning into him, his waist throbbing.

Joong’s hand never left his.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then suddenly—

Everything went black.

Someone screamed.

The darkness swallowed the room whole.

Footsteps.

A thud.

A muffled cry.

And then silence.

When the lights snapped back on at 7:15 pm, the world looked different.

Worse.

Puth lay face-down on the floor, blood trickling slowly from his nose.

Peem collapsed beside him, eyes wide open, skin pale and waxy.

Tiny syringe marks dotted their necks.

Mina screamed.

Ekk stumbled backward, face drained of color. “No… no, no, no…”

Joong stepped forward slowly, checking their pulses.

Nothing.

“They’re dead,” he said quietly.

The word hung in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Mina grabbed Ekk’s arm desperately, clinging to him like a drowning person to driftwood. “Don’t leave me… please don’t leave me…”

Ekk didn’t push her away.

Because now…

Only four remained.

Joong.

Dunk.

Ekk.

Mina.

And somewhere in the office…

The killer watched.

Waiting.

Smiling.

Joong pulled Dunk closer protectively, his voice low and steady despite the storm inside him. “Stay with me. No matter what happens, stay beside me.”

Dunk nodded, trembling.

Because tonight had given them a reminder—

This wasn’t a game.

This wasn’t revenge.

This was survival.

But love alone wouldn’t save them from what was coming next.

____________________________________________

The office did not breathe anymore.

It only listened.

Every hallway seemed to stretch longer than before, every chandelier hung heavier than before, every shadow clung to the marble floors like it was waiting for another scream to stain the air. The silence was not peaceful, it was suffocating, thick and damp, pressing against their lungs as if the walls themselves were alive and savoring their fear.

Only four remained.

Four trembling souls in a graveyard of polished floors and shattered lives.

Ekk paced like a caged predator, shoes scraping loudly against marble, his fingers digging into his scalp as he muttered curses and prayers in the same broken breath. Sweat clung to his temples, eyes darting wildly toward staircases, doorways, curtains, corners, any place where death might be hiding and watching him with patient hunger.

“I’m next,” he whispered hoarsely, again and again, as if the repetition could soften the truth. “I know it. I’m next. It has to be me… it has to be…”

Mina clung to his arm, trembling violently, her voice thin and fragile as cracked glass while she tried to soothe him. “Stop saying that… please stop… we’re still alive… we’re still together… we just have to stay close… please…”

Her words sounded like lies even to her own ears, her hands shaking so badly that she could barely hold onto his sleeve.

Ekk laughed sharply, a brittle sound full of madness. “Together? Look around you. Bodies everywhere. Blood everywhere. Friends dead. Lovers dead. Family dead. And we still don’t know who is killing us!”

He kicked a chair violently, sending it crashing across the lobby. “We’re waiting for our turn like animals!”

Across the hall, in a dim corner away from their hysteria, Joong sat beside Dunk.

He looked calm.

Composed.

Silent.

His posture straight, his hands steady, his breathing slow like stone resting under water.

But inside, his mind was screaming.

He could feel danger circling Dunk like wolves.

He could feel time slipping through his fingers like sand.

He could feel something dark tightening in his chest, whispering terrible promises and desperate prayers.

Still, he smiled softly when Dunk leaned against him, trembling like a leaf in winter.

Dunk’s fingers clutched Joong’s Tshirt so tightly that the fabric wrinkled beneath his grip, his breathing uneven, eyes red and glassy from too many horrors witnessed in too few hours.

His lips trembled, his shoulders shook, his heart beat so loudly that Joong could feel it through their touch.

Joong brushed his thumb gently across Dunk’s knuckles, grounding him, steadying him.

“I’m here,” he whispered softly. “You’re safe with me.”

Dunk nodded, though he did not truly believe safety existed anymore. Still, he trusted Joong. Trusted the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his voice, the quiet promise in his gaze that said I will stand between you and the world if I have to.

And that trust, innocent and absolute, tightened something dangerous and tender inside Joong’s chest.

Then—

The lights in the long corridor flickered.

A single blink.

Then another.

Then a rapid stuttering dance, like a dying heart trying to keep beating.

Dunk’s head lifted slowly, eyes drawn toward the hallway as dread crept into his bones.

He swallowed hard.

He knew he should not go.

Every scream in his memory begged him to stay.

But curiosity, fear, and something fragile inside him pushed his feet forward.

“I… I’ll just check,” Dunk whispered, voice small.

Joong caught his wrist instantly, fingers tightening. “Don’t go alone.”

Dunk forced a tiny smile, trying to look brave even though his legs felt like paper. “I’ll just look… I’ll come back in a second.”

Joong hesitated.

Just one breath too long.

And Dunk slipped away.

—

The corridor stretched endlessly before him, lights flickering overhead, shadows sliding along the walls like whispering ghosts. Each step echoed louder than it should, each breath sounded too sharp, too fragile, too alive in a place that smelled of death.

At the end stood the elevator.

Its doors closed.

Its lights flickering madly.

Waiting.

Dunk’s hand shook as he pressed the button.

A soft chime answered him.

The doors slid open.

And Dunk gasped.

Inside lay a body.

An old man crumpled unnaturally on the elevator floor, suit stained dark, limbs twisted stiffly as if death had taken him mid-plea. His skin was grey, bloated with decay, his hands curled into claws.

And his face—

Gone.

Burned black and melted, flesh charred beyond recognition, teeth barely visible through ruined skin.

The smell hit Dunk next.

Rotting meat.

Burned flesh.

Thirty hours of death sealed in a metal box.

He gagged violently, stumbling back, tears streaming down his face, vision blurring.

But then he saw the rings.

Heavy gold rings gleaming faintly under the elevator light.

Rings he had seen countless times.

The chairman.

Dunk’s knees buckled.

His scream tore through the office like a dying spirit.

And Joong was there in seconds.

He caught Dunk before he fell, arms wrapping tightly around him, pulling him close, grounding him against his chest. “Dunk… hey… look at me. Breathe. Just breathe.”

Dunk clung to him desperately, sobbing into his shoulder. “It’s him… Joong… it’s him… he’s… he’s…”

Joong’s heart clenched painfully.

He stepped forward slowly, shielding Dunk behind him.

Ekk and Mina arrived moments later.

Mina saw the body and collapsed instantly, fainting in horror.

Ekk caught her, staring at the elevator in disbelief. “What… what did they do to him… what the hell…”

Joong covered his nose against the stench, crouching beside the body with steady hands, searching carefully.

Inside the chairman’s pocket, he found a folded letter.

He opened it.

Read silently.

And froze.

“For all the times you burned me with wax and I cried. You told me a man doesn’t cry. Yet when it was your turn, you begged, you screamed and you cried as well.

— P.”

Joong’s breath hitched.

Memories struck like lightning.

Pattaya’s screams.

Wax dripping onto skin.

Punishment disguised as discipline.

Cruelty disguised as love.

His hands trembled.

Ekk snatched the letter, read it, and exploded into hysterical laughter. “Pattaya? Pattaya?! He’s dead! So what now, ghosts are killing us?! Or one of you is pretending to be him?!”

Dunk buried his face into Joong’s chest, whispering shakily, “Joong… I’m scared…”

Joong held him tighter, voice steady despite the storm inside him. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not while I’m alive.”

The clock ticked.

7:20 pm.

They dragged the chairman’s corpse away.

They sat in silence.

They listened to the office creak.

Every flicker of light made Mina gasp.

Every shadow made Ekk shout.

Every whisper of wind made Dunk flinch and grab Joong’s hand.

And Joong let him.

Let him cling.

Let him tremble.

Let him hide against his shoulder while Joong stroked his hair gently, whispering quiet reassurances, pressing soft promises into Dunk’s ear like fragile prayers.

Hours passed.

No one slept.

No one spoke.

By 10:56 pm, the truth settled into their bones.

The kingpin had fallen.

But his sins were alive.

Walking.

Watching.

Waiting.

And somewhere in that cursed office, death was smiling patiently… ready to take the next breath from someone Joong loved.

____________________________________________

The lobby of Archen Industries no longer resembled the proud headquarters of a corporate empire.

It looked like a courtroom abandoned by God.

The chandeliers above flickered faintly, their golden glow too weak to warm the marble floors now stained with streaks of dragged blood. The once-polished reception desk was cracked at one corner, papers scattered like fallen feathers. Outside the tall glass panels, the night pressed close and heavy, covered by the density of the blinds that acted as another cage.

It was 11:07 pm.

Only four remained.

Joong and Dunk sat on one side of the vast lobby, close enough that their shoulders touched, close enough that Dunk’s trembling hands could stay wrapped inside Joong’s steady ones.

Across from them, Ekk paced.

He hadn’t stopped pacing for nearly fifteen minutes.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Like a pendulum counting down to insanity.

Mina sat curled on the leather couch beside him, hugging her knees, whispering useless reassurances that even she didn’t believe anymore.

“We’re going to die,” Ekk muttered. “We’re going to die in this cursed place and no one will even find our bodies.”

“Stop it,” Mina whispered weakly. “Please stop saying that.”

Ekk let out a hysterical laugh. “Why? You want me to pretend we’re fine? You want me to pretend this bastard office isn’t swallowing us one by one?”

His eyes flicked sharply to Joong.

And lingered.

Joong remained seated.

Calm.

Composed.

Hands folded loosely in his lap.

He looked almost detached from the hysteria—like a man watching a storm from behind glass instead of standing in its center.

But Dunk could feel the tension coiled beneath that stillness.

Joong wasn’t fearless.

He was holding himself together.

For him.

Dunk’s fingers tightened around Joong’s hand unconsciously.

Joong squeezed back gently.

“We’ll be okay,” Joong said softly, his voice level and controlled. “If we stay together. If we think clearly. Panic will only make it worse.”

Ekk stopped pacing.

Slowly.

He turned toward Joong.

“Think clearly?” Ekk repeated, his tone dangerously low. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Thinking clearly while everyone dies?”

Joong didn’t react.

“We need to—”

“Oh shut up,” Ekk snapped.

Mina flinched.

Dunk stiffened.

Joong’s face remained unreadable.

Ekk took a step forward. “You sit there acting like some calm little God, like you’re above all of this. But let me remind you of something, Aydin.”

His voice sharpened.

“You’re not above anyone.”

Silence.

The air tightened.

“You think because grandfather died you suddenly have authority?” Ekk sneered. “You think sitting quietly makes you look noble? It just makes you look pathetic.”

Dunk winced. “Ekk, stop—”

“No!” Ekk barked. “You want honesty? I’ll give you honesty.”

He stepped closer, eyes blazing.

“Pattaya was illegitimate.”

The word echoed like a gunshot.

Joong’s fingers stiffened slightly.

Ekk continued, his voice rising with cruelty.

“And that means you are too! Your mother was a whore and your father was nothing but a product of an affair! You’ve always been beneath me. Beneath this family. Beneath this name.”

Dunk gasped. “Don’t you dare—”

“You’re my shadow, Aydin!” Ekk shouted. “Always behind me. Always second. Always below.”

Something snapped.

It was subtle.

Invisible.

But real.

Joong stood.

Slowly.

For years, he had been silent.

For years, he had endured.

For years, he had swallowed insults, humiliation, dismissal, cruelty.

For years, he had bowed his head and carried the weight.

But tonight—

Tonight there were bodies everywhere. Tonight Dunk was shaking beside him.  Tonight Pattaya’s name had been dragged through blood. Joong’s fist moved before his mind did.

The punch landed square against Ekk’s jaw.

The crack of bone meeting bone echoed violently through the lobby.

Ekk staggered back in shock.

For half a second, silence.

Then chaos erupted.

Ekk lunged forward with a roar, tackling Joong to the ground. They crashed against the marble, fists flying, knuckles splitting, curses pouring out like poison.

“You think you’re better than me?!” Ekk shouted, throwing another punch.

Joong blocked, elbowing him hard in the ribs. “I never said I was.”

“You don’t have to!” Ekk spat, swinging wildly.

They rolled across the floor, knocking over a chair, shattering a side table.

Punches.

Kicks.

Grunts.

Blood.

Dunk rushed forward desperately. “Stop it! Stop it both of you!”

But Mina moved too.

Her fear had twisted into something feral.

“Stay out of it!” she snapped, shoving Dunk backward.

Dunk stumbled.

Mina grabbed his arm harshly. “You’re always with him! Always protecting him! Why?! Are you his bitch?!”

“Let me go!” Dunk cried.

In the chaos, Mina’s hand collided with a glass bottle on the table.

It rolled.

She grabbed it.

Her eyes were wild now.

“If he dies maybe this stops!” she screamed.

She lifted the bottle high—

And aimed it at Dunk.

Time slowed.

Dunk froze.

Joong saw.

And something in his eyes changed.

Just for a flicker.

Just for a heartbeat.

A shadow passed through them.

Something cold. Something fiery.

Familiar.

Almost—

Pattaya.

But it vanished as quickly as it came.

Joong shoved Ekk off him violently and lunged forward.

He grabbed Dunk by the waist—his slim waist—and pulled him down beneath him.

The bottle came down.

It shattered against Joong’s neck and upper back.

Glass exploded.

Blood splattered instantly, soaking through his black compression shirt like ink bleeding into water.

Dunk screamed.

“JOONG!”

Joong didn’t cry out.

He didn’t flinch.

He hovered protectively above Dunk, shielding him completely, his body taking the blow without hesitation.

Blood dripped down his collarbone.

Down his spine.

Warm.

Thick.

Dunk’s hands shook violently as he grabbed at Joong’s shoulders. “You’re bleeding—oh my god—you’re bleeding so much—”

“I’m fine,” Joong whispered hoarsely.

He wasn’t.

Blood pooled against the marble.

Dunk scrambled, ripping off his own cardigan, pressing it desperately against Joong’s back. His hands were slick, trembling, frantic.

“Hold still—please hold still—don’t close your eyes—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joong murmured.

Ekk stared.

Breathing hard.

Something broken flickered across his face.

Mina dropped the remaining glass from her hand, horror dawning.

The clock ticked louder.

11:30 pm.

The lights began to dim.

Not abruptly.

Slowly.

Like a curtain falling.

Mina’s breathing quickened. “No… no no no—”

Darkness swallowed them.

And then—

A scream.

High.

Piercing.

Mina’s.

It cut through the black like a blade.

Something thudded against the floor.

Silence.

11:40 pm.

The lights flickered back on.

Mina lay sprawled across the marble.

Dead.

The broken glass bottle—what remained of it—was buried deep in her stomach.

Blood spread beneath her like a dark halo.

Her eyes were wide.

Frozen in terror.

Ekk stared.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Then something shattered inside him.

He let out a sound that wasn’t human.

Not a scream.

Not a sob.

Something raw and animalistic.

He dropped to his knees beside her body, shaking violently, clutching her shoulders. “No—no no no—Mina—get up—get up!”

Blood smeared across his hands.

His sanity fractured visibly.

“She was right here!” he screamed. “She was right here! You were all here!”

His eyes lifted slowly.

Wild.

Broken.

Accusing.

Only three remained now.

And years of oppression, humiliation, rivalry, and buried hatred had finally exploded into something irreversible.

The office hummed silently.

And somewhere in the flicker of Joong’s darkened gaze…

Something old and wounded stirred.

____________________________________________

The lobby of Archen Industries no longer looked like a place built for power. It looked like something abandoned by it. The chandeliers hung crooked from earlier chaos, their light uneven and sickly, casting long fractured shadows over marble floors streaked with drying blood. Mina’s body lay several feet away, the shattered glass lodged deep in her abdomen reflecting a dull crimson glow under the trembling light.

The silence that followed her death was not quiet. It was swollen. Pressurized. Ready to rupture.

Ekk knelt beside her at first, hands hovering uselessly over her body as if unsure whether to touch her or shake her awake. His breathing grew louder with every passing second, until it became an uneven rasp clawing its way out of his throat. He stared at the blood soaking through his palms, stared at the way her eyes remained open, stared at the reality that would not rearrange itself to spare him.

Something inside him fractured completely.

He rose too fast, stumbling backward, chest heaving. His gaze landed on Joong. On the blood trailing down Joong’s temple. On Dunk lying weakly against him.

“I don’t deserve to die,” Ekk whispered at first, voice thin and distant, like it belonged to someone else.

Then louder.

“I don’t deserve this! Do you hear me? I don’t deserve this!”

His eyes were no longer rational. They were frantic, darting, cornered. He looked around wildly, searching for something—someone—to blame. His hand landed on a wooden chair near the reception desk. The heavy oak legs scraped harshly against marble as he dragged it free.

“You brought this,” Ekk snarled, lifting the chair above his head with shaking arms. “You brought death into this family the day you were born, Aydin!”

Dunk’s breath caught. “Ekk, what—”

The chair came down before the plea could finish.

The crack against Joong’s back was sharp and violent. Wood splintered instantly, shards flying across the floor. Blood burst from the point of impact, warm and immediate, sliding down Joong’s face in thick lines that followed the curve of his jaw and neck.

Joong staggered back a step.

But he did not fall.

He turned slightly, instinctively positioning his body so that Dunk remained shielded behind him. Even injured, even stunned, his first movement was protection.

Ekk swung again.

The broken leg of the chair struck Joong’s shoulder this time. Then again across his upper back. Then against his collarbone. Each blow carried desperation, fear, and years of festering resentment. Each impact echoed through the lobby with brutal clarity.

And Joong absorbed it.

He did not cry out. He did not curse. He did not retaliate.

Blood darkened his black compression shirt quickly, seeping into the fabric until it clung wetly to his skin, until it was soaked so much it began dripping. A thin stream trailed from his hairline down past his ear, dripping steadily onto the marble below.

Dunk saw it all.

He had endured the horrors of the day—bodies uncovered, faces ruined, screams silenced. He had forced himself to stay upright, to breathe, to believe that survival was possible.

But seeing Joong bleed like this, bleed because of him fractured something fragile inside his chest.

The world began to tilt. The chandeliers above seemed to spin. The edges of his vision blurred as if darkness were seeping inward from every direction. His grip on Joong’s sleeve loosened without him realizing.

“Joong…” he murmured faintly.

His knees gave out.

He fell backward slowly, body folding gracefully like a flower closing at dusk. It would have been an elegant collapse if not for the violence surrounding it.

But he never touched the ground.

Joong caught him mid-fall, arm circling firmly around his waist, pulling him against his chest despite the pain tearing through his own body. Dunk’s head rested against Joong’s shoulder, eyelashes trembling once before going completely still.

He had fainted.

The chaos seemed to dim for a moment as Joong looked down at him.

There was blood on Dunk’s top now—Joong’s blood. A patch across the soft white fabric that looked almost cruel in its contrast. Dunk’s face, pale and delicate, was eerily peaceful in unconsciousness, his lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow but steady.

For a brief, dangerous heartbeat, Joong’s expression softened into something almost reverent.

His fingers brushed gently along Dunk’s cheek, pushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Even with blood dripping down his own face, even with pain burning through his skull, his touch was careful.

“You’re safe,” he whispered quietly, though Dunk could not hear him. “As long as I’m standing, you’re safe.”

Behind him, Ekk’s hysteria spiraled further.

“I don’t deserve this!” he screamed again, voice cracking. “I’m the rightful heir! I built this company! I carried the chairman’s expectations! I’m not supposed to die like this!”

Joong rose slowly, Dunk still in his arms.

He moved with surprising steadiness despite the crimson trail marking his path. Each step left faint stains on the marble floor. He carried Dunk to the couch near the far wall and lowered him gently, adjusting the cushion beneath his head, ensuring his spine rested comfortably.

For a moment longer than necessary, Joong remained there, studying him.

Memorizing him.

The curve of his lashes. The soft line of his jaw. The quiet rise and fall of his chest.

Then he turned.

Ekk had backed himself against the reception desk, chest heaving violently, eyes darting toward the darkened corners of the lobby as if expecting something monstrous to emerge.

“You stay away from me,” Ekk stammered, voice trembling. “You’re cursed. You’ve always been cursed.”

Joong walked toward him without speaking.

The clock above the staircase ticked louder now, each second stretching thin and sharp in the heavy air.

11:55 pm.

The first chandelier flickered violently before going dark, plunging half the lobby into shadow. The hallway sconces followed, extinguishing one by one in a slow, deliberate sequence. The light above the staircase blinked twice, then died.

Ekk’s breathing turned erratic.

“No… no, not again… not again…”

Joong stopped directly in front of him.

Close enough that their shadows merged.

Close enough that Ekk could smell blood and metal and something colder beneath it.

The final overhead light flickered weakly, casting unstable illumination across Joong’s face. Blood streaked down from his temple, but his eyes remained unnervingly steady—deep, unreadable, almost detached.

He stepped closer still.

His hand lifted—not to strike, not to grab—but to rest briefly against Ekk’s shoulder in what could almost be mistaken for reassurance.

The last light trembled above them.

Joong leaned forward slightly, his lips near Ekk’s ear, his voice low and controlled, carrying neither anger nor mercy.

“You’ve worked hard.”

“W-what do you—“

The final bulb burst into darkness.

The lobby was swallowed whole.

Silence did not follow immediately. There was the sound of Ekk’s ragged breathing, the distant hum of the building’s dying electricity, the soft unconscious breath of Dunk on the couch.

And then—

Nothing.

Only darkness thick enough to feel.

Only the quiet certainty that something had shifted forever.

Somewhere within that blackened lobby, beneath the empire built on cruelty and inheritance, a shadow that had always lived beneath another finally stepped forward.

Above it.

____________________________________________

12:07 a.m.

The lights came back with a violent flicker, buzzing like a dying insect, flooding the room with a harsh white glare that made every drop of blood shine like lacquered rubies on the marble floor. The storm outside had quieted into a distant rumble, but inside the chairman’s lounge the silence was heavier than thunder—thick, suffocating, sticky with death.

Ekk lay twisted beside the shattered coffee table, eyes open, mouth parted in a question he would never finish asking. A dark stain spread beneath him like a shadow trying to escape his body.

And on the couch curled into himself, cheeks flushed, lashes trembling in fragile unconsciousness was Dunk.

Still breathing. Still alive.

Still his.

Joong stood in the middle of the wreckage like a statue carved from ice and cruelty. Blood soaked through his shirt. Bruises bloomed violet across his jaw. Cuts painted his arms like thorny vines. But his face… his face was calm.

Too calm.

There was no shaking. No panic. No horror at the body cooling behind him.

Just a slow inhale.

A slow exhale.

And then… a smile.

It was small. Barely there. But it was wrong. Crooked. Knowing.

Because Joong Archen Aydin wasn’t the same anymore.

Not in this instance.

—

He stepped over Ekk’s corpse without looking down, boots crunching softly against broken glass, and approached the couch. Dunk looked impossibly delicate under the brutal lights, hair messy against the cushions, lips parted in shallow breaths like he was whispering apologies even in sleep.

Joong crouched beside him.

For a moment his fingers hovered over Dunk’s cheek, trembling faintly, as if something inside him wanted to be gentle… wanted to cry… wanted to beg forgiveness.

But the moment passed.

His hand slid under Dunk’s knees and back, lifting him effortlessly into his arms. Dunk’s head fell against Joong’s shoulder, nose brushing the hollow of his throat. A faint whimper escaped him, and Joong’s eyes softened in something dangerously close to worship.

“You shouldn’t sleep here, Teerak,” he murmured to the unconscious boy. “You’ll become sick of this shit.”

His voice was velvet. Smooth. Loving.

But his eyes were wild.

—

He walked toward the chairman’s office, stepping through the broken door like he owned the world beyond it.

Because tonight… he did.

The office smelled of leather and old money. Mahogany shelves lined the walls. Awards glinted under crystal lamps. The massive desk stood like a throne waiting for its king.

And Joong walked straight to it.

On the desk lay the black file.

The one from earlier.

The one that locked away what was inevitable.

Joong placed Dunk carefully on the couch inside the office, tucking a coat around him like a blanket, brushing strands of hair from his forehead with eerie tenderness. Then he turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He pulled out the chairman’s chair.

And sat.

It creaked softly beneath him, as if protesting the audacity. As if the ghosts of every greedy employee and crooked advisor whispered outrage at the sight of a boy they’d dismissed now claiming their seat.

Joong leaned back, spreading his injured arms along the leather like a ruler surveying his kingdom.

He opened the file.

Page after page flipped by reports, signatures, financial trails, psychological evaluations, stamped warnings that had never reached the right hands.

Until he reached the last page.

And there it was.

A single page. Crisp. Cold.

A diagnosis.

Joong’s smile deepened as he read.

—

Patient Name: Joong Archen Aydin

Age: 25

Condition: Dissociative Identity Disorder

The words were clinical but fearful. Almost paranoid. As if they were describing a person’s suicide note instead of a fractured soul.

Background: Patient experienced prolonged childhood abuse. Witnessed domestic violence repeatedly. Father’s suicide at age 18 triggered severe psychological collapse.

Joong’s finger traced the line slowly. The handwriting was messy, rushed and shaky.

His father’s death.

The rope.

The silence after.

The smell of whiskey and regret.

The note that said nothing but I’m sorry.

His smile widened.

Personality Structure:

Primary identity – Joong. Calm, reserved, resilient.

Secondary identity – Pattaya. Manifestation of paternal trauma. Exhibits violent protective tendencies, obsessive behavior, revenge fixation.

A soft laugh escaped Joong’s lips.

Low. Broken.

Beautifully insane.

Triggers:

Lack of sleep. Darkness. Emotional stress.

Observation: In prolonged darkness, patient’s hypothalamus fails to regulate melatonin production, worsening insomnia and dissociation. Secondary identity emerges with increased hostility toward perceived threats.

Joong leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“Perceived threats,” he whispered, amused. “How polite.”

His eyes flicked to Dunk, sleeping peacefully on the couch.

Untouched.

Protected.

His.

—

The report continued.

Warning: Without intervention, patient may begin executing revenge fantasies physically. High risk of homicide under secondary personality influence. Immediate treatment recommended.

Joong laughed again, louder this time, the sound echoing in the empty office like shattered glass.

At the bottom of the page was a signature.

Signed: Dr. King Siraphop, Psychiatric Consultant.

Joong tapped the ink with one finger, tilting his head.

“Unfortunately, Doctor…” he murmured softly, voice dripping honey and poison, “…you were a bit too late sending this to my family.”

He closed the file.

The click sounded like a gunshot.

—

For a moment, he just sat there, staring into nothing.

Memories flickered like broken film reels.

His father’s screaming.

His mother’s sobs.

The rope tightening.

The chair falling.

The silence after.

And then Dunk’s smile.

Dunk’s shy laughter.

Dunk’s trembling hands.

Dunk whispering his name like it was a prayer.

Joong’s breathing slowed. He remembered the white roses. The day the seed of obsession took place in his heart.

His eyes softened again, turning molten with something terrifyingly gentle.

He stood and walked to the couch.

Kneeling beside Dunk, he brushed a kiss against his temple, lingering there like a vow.

“He was going to hurt you,” he whispered. “Chairman touched you, he crossed a boundary only I could’ve and that makes me insane. He was going to make you cry again.”

His thumb traced Dunk’s lower lip.

“I can’t let that happen.”

His smile was bright.

Too bright.

“Aydin won’t let that happen Teerak.”

—

He lifted Dunk into his arms again, holding him closer this time, almost crushing him to his chest like a dragon guarding its treasure. Dunk’s fingers curled weakly into Joong’s shirt, clinging without knowing.

Outside, thunder cracked.

Inside, Joong walked past Ekk’s body without a glance, past the owls who were too terrified to  hoot at him, past the shattered lobby and blinking alarms.

Every step echoed with quiet authority.

Every shadow bowed.

Because something inside him had decided.

Something old. Broken. Furious.

Something that wore his father’s rage, but his devotion to Dunk.

—

The elevator ride was silent.

Joong watched the floor numbers rise, eyes reflected in the mirrored walls—dark, glittering, unreadable.

Two selves staring back.

Joong.

And Pattaya.

Joong loved Dunk with trembling devotion.

But Joong also loved and worshipped Dunk with a violent obsession. An obsession born from Pattaya’s vengeance and Joong’s desire.

But both agreed on one thing.

No one would ever touch him again.

—

The penthouse doors opened to a quiet, moonlit sanctuary. Glass walls overlooked the sleeping city. White marble gleamed like untouched snow.

Joong carried Dunk inside as gently as if he were made of glass, laying him on the bed, covering him with silk sheets, tucking the blanket under his chin.

He knelt beside him, watching his breathing.

Counting it.

Guarding it.

The madness in his eyes softened into something achingly tender.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Then his smile returned.

Sharp.

Unhinged.

“And anyone who tries to hurt you… I’ll kill them.”

—

The storm finally stopped.

But inside Joong Archen Aydin, the darkness had only just begun to bloom.

____________________________________________

He was twenty when the world handed him a name for the fracture inside his mind.

Dissociative Identity Disorder.

The psychiatrist’s office had smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender oil, a strange attempt at comfort. Outside the window, the city moved in bright daylight, cars flashing silver under the sun. Joong sat straight-backed in the chair, fingers loosely folded in his lap, listening to words that were meant to terrify him.

Split personality.

Trauma response.

Secondary identity.

Violent tendencies.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t protest.

He didn’t ask if he was broken.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly and asked only one question.

“Does it make me weaker?”

The doctor had hesitated.

“No,” he said carefully. “It makes you… complicated.”

Joong smiled then, small and polite, as if he had been complimented.

Complicated.

He could live with that.

—

That night, he didn’t cry.

He didn’t spiral into panic about losing control.

He lay awake in his dark bedroom, staring at the ceiling while insomnia curled around him like a familiar lover. The shadows stretched long across the walls, and he felt the shift—the subtle rearranging of thoughts, the colder pulse beneath his skin.

He began with research.

Quietly. Methodically.

On the surface, Joong remained what everyone expected, calm, empathetic, soft-spoken. The kind of man who listened more than he talked. The kind who bowed his head respectfully in meetings and offered measured advice.

They mistook silence for innocence.

That was their first mistake.

In the privacy of his penthouse office, under the glow of a single desk lamp, Joong built a different world.

Files stacked neatly.

Encrypted folders.

Financial records.

Security footage archives.

Illicit transfers hidden behind charitable foundations.

He gathered information like other men collected trophies.

The assistants who mocked his mother.

The advisors who profited off his father’s collapse.

The chairman who smiled too easily.

He mapped their weaknesses with surgical precision.

Who gambled excessively.

Who kept a mistress hidden in another city.

Who laundered money through offshore accounts.

Who feared scandal more than death.

Joong studied them the way a predator studies migration patterns.

Patient.

Detached.

Brilliant.

—

But there was one anomaly in his perfectly controlled existence.

A boy holding white roses.

He remembered it vividly.

It had been at a charity event with bright lights, expensive perfume, clinking champagne glasses. Joong had been twenty-one, already calculating futures behind unreadable eyes.

And then he saw him.

Dunk.

Standing near the balcony doors, white roses cradled in his arms like something sacred. He was speaking softly to an elderly woman, adjusting her shawl, smiling in a way that was so unguarded it hurt to look at.

He didn’t belong among predators.

He belonged somewhere warm.

Somewhere safe.

Joong had felt something shift that night.

Not the violent click of Pattaya’s emergence.

But something softer.

Something terrifyingly pure.

For the first time, revenge wasn’t the loudest voice in his mind.

Love was.

—

He fell slowly.

Painfully.

Observing Dunk from a distance at first, memorizing the way he tucked his hair behind his ear when nervous, the way he laughed with his whole body, the way he apologized even when he wasn’t wrong.

Dunk was kindness distilled into human form.

And Joong, who had grown up among cruelty, found himself starving for it.

The only people he had ever loved were his father… and the ghost of the mother he wished he’d had.

Dunk became the third and the last.

And the only one who was still breathing.

He had grown up in rooms where love was conditional and affection came with bruises. He knew manipulation. He knew fear. He knew survival.

He did not know purity.

Until that moment.

He watched Dunk laugh, and for the first time in years, the future he imagined was not painted solely in red.

It had white roses in it.

—

His love did not erupt violently. It unfolded in quiet observation.

He noticed how Dunk apologized too often. How he avoided confrontation even when he was right. How he tried to soften the edges of harsh men with patience instead of defiance.

Joong fell not because Dunk was beautiful—though he was—but because Dunk was kind in a world that punished kindness.

Other than his father, and the fragmented memory of a mother before despair hollowed him out, Joong had never loved anyone without calculation.

With Dunk, there was no strategy.

Only certainty.

—

Which is why he knew.

He knew about the chairman before a single word left Dunk’s mouth.

He saw the flinch when the chairman’s hand lingered too long at Dunk’s waist. He saw the way Dunk subtly positioned himself closer to walls, closer to exits. He saw the tension in his shoulders after closed-door meetings.

Joong did not confront him immediately. He waited until Dunk trusted him enough to tell his secret himself.

He did not explode.

He watched.

He confirmed.

He gathered proof.

And when confirmation settled into his bones like frost, something inside him hardened permanently.

If the world hurt him, he could endure it.

If the anyone touched Dunk—

They would meet their end.

____________________________________________

Morning arrived softly.

Not with thunder, not with alarms, not with blood on marble floors—but with filtered sunlight spilling through sheer curtains, painting the bedroom in warm gold. The sheets were silk beneath trembling fingers, the mattress far too plush to belong to anywhere Dunk had fallen asleep before.

For a few blissful seconds, he did not remember.

Then it rushed back.

The blackout.

The shouting.

The gunshot.

Joong’s body shielding his.

Dunk jolted upright in the unfamiliar bed, heart racing so violently it hurt. The room was vast—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, minimalist furniture in muted tones, art that probably cost more than his entire apartment.

This wasn’t home.

This was luxury wrapped in silence.

“Joong?” His voice came out small, fragile against the high ceilings.

Panic bloomed in his chest.

Had he been taken? Was this safe? Was Joong—

The bedroom door opened.

And all coherent thought dissolved.

Joong stepped inside slowly, barefoot against polished wood, sunlight catching against tan skin that looked sculpted rather than born. He was shirtless, hair slightly damp from a shower, droplets tracing lazy paths down the defined lines of his chest.

His shoulders were broad.

His abs sharp and unforgiving.

His biceps flexing subtly as he carried a glass of water.

And unfortunately—

Bruises bloomed violet across his ribs. Cuts streaked across his shoulder. A faint bandage wrapped around his side, barely hiding the evidence of violence inflicted only hours before.

Dunk’s breath caught in his throat.

Relief and horror tangled together.

And beneath both—

A flush that crept helplessly up his neck.

Joong noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary, dark eyes flickering with amusement before smoothing back into calm neutrality.

“You’re awake,” he said gently, as if nothing catastrophic had happened the night before. “You were exhausted.”

Dunk swallowed, trying very hard not to stare at the way sunlight traced every defined line of muscle across Joong’s torso.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered instead.

Joong shrugged one shoulder casually, as if bruises were minor inconveniences. “It looks worse than it is.”

He walked closer, placing the glass of water on the bedside table before sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Dunk’s gaze involuntarily followed the movement of his muscles.

Joong pretended not to see.

Pretended.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “That’s what matters.”

—

Dunk’s fingers hovered uncertainly before gently brushing against one of the bruises on Joong’s ribs. His touch was feather-light, as if he feared breaking him further.

“You fought him,” Dunk said quietly.

Joong’s jaw flexed almost imperceptibly.

“Yes.”

Silence settled between them for a moment—heavy, expectant.

Dunk looked up, eyes wide and still slightly glassy from sleep.

“Who was the killer, Joong?”

There it was.

The question that mattered.

Joong leaned back slightly, resting his palms against the bed behind him, gaze shifting toward the window as if recalling something unpleasant.

“It was Ekk,” he said smoothly. “He eliminated anyone standing between him and the inheritance. He thought chaos would make it easier to take control.”

The lie rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, every detail pre-constructed long before Dunk ever asked.

“He turned off the lights,” Joong continued calmly. “Used the confusion to start shooting. I confronted him. We fought.” His lips curved faintly. “He wasn’t expecting resistance.”

Dunk’s fingers tightened in the sheets.

“And… how did we get out?”

Joong turned back to him, eyes softening.

“When he was distracted, I picked you up and ran. Security arrived. The police caught him trying to escape through the back exit.” A pause. “He’s in prison now.”

It was perfect.

Clean.

Believable.

Almost entirely fabricated.

But woven within it was something else.

A thread of truth.

Joong’s gaze held Dunk’s a fraction too long.

“I did what I had to do,” he said quietly. “No one was going to hurt you.”

The words were simple.

But beneath them lingered something heavier.

An unspoken confession.

I would kill for you.

I did kill for you.

Dunk didn’t catch it.

Because instead of fear, instead of suspicion, Dunk’s expression crumbled into something heartbreakingly tender.

“You could have died,” he whispered.

He wasn’t afraid of the killer.

He was afraid of losing Joong.

And that… that did something dangerous to Joong’s heart.

—

Dunk suddenly leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Joong’s torso carefully, mindful of injuries. His cheek pressed against warm skin, breath fanning softly over bruised ribs.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Joong froze for half a second.

Then his arms came around Dunk slowly, securely, holding him closer than necessary.

“I won’t,” he replied.

Another lie.

Because if it meant keeping Dunk safe, he would do it again without hesitation.

Every time.

—

Weeks passed.

The investigation closed quickly. Evidence pointed cleanly toward Ekk. Motive established. Witnesses confirmed chaos. The narrative settled like dust over the incident.

And with it came something inevitable.

Legal succession.

Joong Archen Aydin inherited Archen Industries in full.

Board members who once underestimated him now watched in wary respect as he stepped into the CEO position with quiet authority. There was no arrogance. No dramatic power display.

Just competence.

He restructured departments. Cut corrupt contracts. Implemented transparent auditing systems. Stabilized declining investments with strategic precision that left even senior executives stunned.

He worked long hours.

Too long.

Dunk noticed.

—

It became a routine.

Around noon, the glass doors to the executive floor would slide open and Dunk would step inside, holding a neatly packed lunch bag with determined gentleness.

Secretaries smiled knowingly.

Assistants tried not to stare at how the CEO’s expression softened instantly upon seeing him.

Dunk would knock lightly before entering the office, pretending to carry professionalism.

“Mr. Aydin,” he’d tease softly, “your schedule includes eating.”

Joong would look up from stacks of paperwork, eyes tired but lighting up regardless.

“Is that so?”

Dunk would place containers on the desk—rice, vegetables, carefully prepared dishes that took far more time than he admitted. He’d sit across from Joong and watch until the first bite was taken.

“You forget,” Dunk would scold gently.

“I don’t forget,” Joong would counter, though they both knew he did. “I prioritize.”

Dunk would narrow his eyes.

“And I’m not a priority?”

Joong would stand, walk around the desk, crouch down so his eyes were at the same level as Dunk’s.

“You are the only priority.”

And he meant it.

—

Evenings were softer.

Balcony dinners overlooking the city. Quiet movie nights where Dunk would inevitably fall asleep halfway through, curled against Joong’s side. Lazy Sundays spent cooking together, flour dusting Dunk’s nose while Joong pretended not to notice until he leaned in to brush it away with his lips.

Dunk brought warmth into spaces Joong once filled only with strategy.

Laughter replaced silence.

White roses began appearing in vases around the penthouse, because Joong remembered.

He always remembered.

—

Sometimes, in the darkness, when insomnia crept in like it always did, Joong would sit at the edge of the bed and watch Dunk sleep.

The city lights cast soft shadows across his face.

Peaceful.

Unaware of the blood that paved their safety.

Joong would brush his thumb gently over Dunk’s knuckles and whisper words so soft they barely existed.

“You’re safe with me, teerak.”

And he meant it in every sense.

Safe from the world.

Safe from the past.

Safe from anyone who dared to threaten the fragile kindness that had made him fall in love in the first place.

Dunk never asked again about that night.

And Joong never corrected the story.

Because some truths were too heavy for gentle hands.

And as long as Dunk looked at him with trust instead of fear,

Joong would carry the darkness alone.

____________________________________________

The world healed slowly.

Not all at once, not cleanly, not without scars—but gently, like sunlight returning after a storm that had swallowed an entire sky. The memories of that night became whispers in headlines, speculation in magazines, rumours traded in boardrooms, and eventually, silence.

But for Joong and Dunk,

It became a promise.

A year passed.

And on a soft spring evening where the air smelled faintly of jasmine and champagne, the promise took shape beneath a cathedral of lights.

—

The wedding was spoken of before it even began.

Designers flew in from Paris, chefs arrived from Tokyo, musicians rehearsed for weeks, florists filled the ballroom with cascading white roses so thick the air itself seemed perfumed with devotion. The city’s elite gathered in silk and diamonds, reporters whispered outside velvet ropes, and inside, chandeliers glittered like constellations caught indoors.

It was called the wedding of the century.

But to Joong,

It was simply the day Dunk would walk toward him.

He stood at the aisle, tall and impossibly composed in a perfectly tailored suit, black velvet hugging his shoulders like it was stitched to his bones. Yet beneath the calm exterior, his pulse hammered wildly, hands trembling faintly as he waited.

Every second felt eternal.

Then the doors opened.

And the world fell silent.

Dunk stepped inside, wrapped in pastel blue that glowed under candlelight, delicate embroidery trailing down the fabric like whispered poetry. His hair was brushed back neatly, his eyes shining with nervous tears, his smile trembling but radiant enough to eclipse the chandeliers above.

For a moment, Joong forgot how to breathe.

Because Dunk wasn’t just beautiful.

He was home.

The music swelled, soft strings trembling through the hall, and Dunk began walking forward step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat until he reached the man who had stood through blood and darkness to reach this moment.

Joong’s hands shook as he took Dunk’s.

“I’ve waited my whole life,” he whispered.

Dunk laughed softly through tears. “It was only a year.”

“For you,” Joong murmured, voice breaking, “I would wait a thousand.”

They spoke vows not rehearsed, not polished, but honest words about survival, about forgiveness, about love found in the darkest room imaginable. When they kissed, the room erupted into applause, champagne glasses clinking, cameras flashing like falling stars.

But Joong didn’t see any of it.

He saw only Dunk.

Only the promise.

Only forever.

—

Four months later, forever knocked quietly on their bedroom door.

It was a quiet morning, rain tapping softly against the penthouse windows while Dunk stared at a thin white stick in disbelief. His hands trembled, breath hitching, eyes wide with something too fragile to name.

“Joong,” he called softly.

Joong arrived instantly, hair messy, tie half-done, worry already blooming across his face.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Dunk held out the test.

Two pink lines.

Joong blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then…

He lost his entire mind.

He laughed first, loud and bright, pulling Dunk into a spinning embrace that made them both dizzy. He kissed Dunk’s cheeks, forehead, hands, laughing between every breath like he couldn’t contain the joy bursting out of him.

“I want a baby girl,” he announced immediately.

“We don’t know that,” Dunk protested weakly, smiling helplessly.

“It’s a daughter,” Joong insisted with absolute certainty. “My daughter. She’s going to have your smile and my eyes and she’s going to love white roses and—”

“You’re insane,” Dunk giggled.

Joong spent the next week telling literally everyone.

Board members. Secretaries. Delivery drivers. Random strangers at cafes.

“I’m going to have a daughter,” he’d say proudly, chest puffed out like a child showing off a trophy.

Even before they knew.

Even before it was certain.

Because Joong believed with the kind of stubborn faith that moved mountains.

And maybe, somewhere, destiny smiled.

—

Nine months later, the hospital room filled with the sound of a newborn’s cry.

Small. Fierce. Alive.

Joong stood frozen beside the bed, eyes wide with awe as the nurse gently placed a tiny bundle into his trembling arms. The baby’s fingers curled instinctively around his thumb, impossibly small, impossibly warm.

He stared down at her like she was made of stars.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered.

Dunk laughed weakly, exhausted but glowing. “You were right.”

Joong’s throat tightened.

“She looks like you,” Dunk added softly.

Joong shook his head slowly, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. “She looks like hope.”

They named her Jiya Archen Aydin.

And she was everything.

—

The penthouse changed.

Toys appeared where property files once lay. Soft blankets draped over sleek furniture. Laughter echoed where silence used to sit like a permanent guest.

Joong, who once terrified boardrooms with cold precision, now spent evenings crawling on the carpet making ridiculous animal noises just to make Jiya giggle. He learned lullabies he couldn’t sing properly, read picture books with dramatic voices, and proudly carried diaper bags like medals of honour.

At work, photos of Jiya replaced charts on his desk.

When she smiled for the first time, Joong cancelled an entire executive meeting just to stare at her for an hour.

When she took her first step, he cried harder than Dunk.

And when she slept curled against his chest, tiny hand clutching his shirt, Joong would whisper softly into her hair,

“I’ll protect you forever.”

Just like he had promised Dunk.

—

Evenings became sacred.

Dunk would sit by the window feeding Jiya while Joong rested his head against Dunk’s shoulder, watching them with quiet wonder. Sometimes they’d laugh over nothing. Sometimes they’d sit in silence, letting peace fill spaces once soaked in fear.

Jiya’s eyes were sharp like Joong’s.

Her cheeks soft like Dunk’s.

Her stubbornness unmistakably inherited.

She adored white roses.

She adored her papa.

And she adored her dada most of all.

—

One night, as Jiya slept between them, tiny breaths steady and warm, Dunk turned to Joong and whispered,

“Do you think she’ll ever know everything we went through?”

Joong looked down at their daughter, fingers brushing gently over her hair.

“No,” he said softly. “She won’t need to.”

Because the darkness had ended.

Because love had survived.

Because in a quiet penthouse filled with laughter and white roses, Joong Archen Aydin finally had what he had always craved for.

A family untouched by fear.

A future untouched by revenge.

And a little girl who looked exactly like him, smiling in her sleep like she knew she was loved more than the world itself.

Forever had begun.

And it was beautiful.

The End.

But, did you ever wonder?

That night, long after Joong had fallen asleep, Dunk quietly opened the bottom drawer of his bedside table while swaying Jiya in his arms.

Inside rested thirteen printed email drafts.

One for every victim.

Including his own.

Then, almost absentmindedly, Dunk reached into the drawer beneath Jiya’s crib and pulled out an old silver lighter engraved with the initials of the late chairman.

The very same lighter that had mysteriously disappeared the night the murders began.

Dunk turned it once between his fingers before slipping it back into the drawer carefully, his expression unreadable in the darkness.

Dunk stared at the letters silently before gently tracing Joong’s name with his thumb, a small smile curling onto his lips.

Then he whispered into the darkness,

“You really did exactly what I wanted you to do Joong.”

The End.