Chapter Text
Sky Wongravee's life was loud.
Not metaphorically—physically loud. Music thumping through walls that were too expensive to shake, laughter spilling from balconies three floors up, glasses clinking, someone shouting his name like it meant something.
"Sky! Over here!"
He lifted his glass without looking, already smiling, already halfway drunk on attention. The club lights flashed blue, then red, then something violent and neon that made everyone look better than they really were.
Money did that.
So did night.
Sky never checked prices. He didn't need to. Drinks appeared when his glass was empty. Tables were cleared before things got messy. Doors opened when he walked toward them.
He'd learned early that people liked him best when he didn't ask questions.
So he didn't.
He danced like tomorrow wasn't real. Like sleep was optional. Like consequences were something that happened to other people—people without fathers who owned half the skyline.
Someone tugged him into a photo. Someone kissed his cheek. Someone laughed too loudly at something he didn't remember saying.
Friends. Everywhere.
That's what he told himself.
He went home at sunrise, shoes in his hands, jacket missing, phone buzzing nonstop with unread messages. He collapsed onto his bed and slept until late afternoon, waking to sunlight and the dull ache behind his eyes.
Rinse. Repeat.
It wasn't that Sky didn't know his life was hollow.
It was that emptiness felt better when it was full of noise.
His father had stopped commenting years ago. Or maybe Sky had stopped listening. Either way, the money kept coming, and Sky kept spending it like proof that he mattered.
He didn't work.
Didn't need to.
He told himself he was free.
The night everything broke felt exactly like all the others—until it didn't.
The party was at someone's condo. Sky couldn't remember whose. That should've been his first warning.
Music too loud. Too many people. Someone passing something around that smelled sharp and chemical.
"Not my thing," Sky said lazily, waving it off when it came his way.
"Relax," someone laughed. "It's nothing."
Sky didn't care enough to argue. He didn't touch it. Didn't even look twice.
Then the music cut.
Lights snapped on.
"Police! Nobody move!"
Chaos erupted instantly—screams, bodies scrambling, someone knocking over a table. Sky froze, heart slamming against his ribs.
This isn't real, he thought. This doesn't happen to me.
Hands grabbed his arms. Someone shoved him against the wall.
"Hey—wait—I didn't—"
"Save it."
Cold metal clicked around his wrists.
Sky looked wildly around the room, searching for familiar faces. Friends. People who knew him.
Eyes slid away.
Someone he'd shared drinks with ten minutes ago stepped back, hands raised. Someone else whispered something urgently to the police.
The bag appeared like a magic trick gone wrong.
"This yours?" an officer asked.
Sky stared at it.
"What? No. I've never—"
"Found it in your jacket."
His jacket.
The room tilted.
"That's not—someone must've—"
"Tell it to your lawyer."
Sky laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "You don't understand. My father—"
The officer's expression hardened. "All the more reason."
They led him out while phones came up, flashes lighting his face like a stage.
Sky didn't sleep that night.
Or the next.
The interrogation room smelled like disinfectant and disbelief.
"I didn't touch it," he said hoarsely. "Test me. Check everything."
They did.
Nothing.
Still, the looks didn't change.
It wasn't about proof.
It was about perception.
By morning, his name was already online.
By afternoon, his father had arrived.
He didn't look angry at first.
He looked tired.
"What were you thinking?" his father asked quietly.
"I wasn't," Sky said. "That's the point. I didn't do it."
His father stared at him like he was trying to remember when this version of his son had appeared.
"They found drugs on you."
"Not mine."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Yes!" Sky snapped. "For once—yes!"
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then the slap came.
Sky tasted blood instantly.
"Enough," his father said, voice shaking—not with rage, but disappointment. "Enough embarrassment. Enough excuses."
Another hit. Harder.
Sky staggered back, stunned—not by the pain, but by the certainty in his father's eyes.
He wasn't innocent here.
He was inconvenient.
"You think your name protects you?" his father continued. "It doesn't. It stains us."
Sky laughed weakly. "So that's it? You don't even ask who set me up?"
His father's jaw clenched. "You set yourself up the moment you chose that life."
The words didn't echo.
They landed.
Sky stood here a second too long, waiting-maybe for his father to look unsure. To soften. To ask again.
He didn't.
The room felt suddenly smaller. Not because of the walls. Because there was no space left for him in it.
Sky wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
"Right." he said quietly. "Of course."
His father didn't stop him when he walked out.
That night, Sky sat alone in his apartment, ice pressed to his cheek.
The skin there throbbed in time with his pulse—hot, swollen, unmistakable. His father's hand had left its mark, not just on his face but somewhere deeper, somewhere that wouldn't bruise purple and fade in a week.
He scrolled through his phone.
Messages that never came.
Group chats that were suddenly silent. Names he'd once thought permanent blinking uselessly on the screen.
Friends everywhere.
Not one asking if he was okay.
Not one saying I believe you.
He typed three different messages.
You guys know it wasn't mine, right?
Be honest - did you think I did it?
Anyone there?
He deleted all of them.
If they wanted to speak, they would.
The quiet pressed in too close.
Sky stood abruptly, grabbed his jacket, and left.
The bar was dim, familiar—the kind of place he went when his head got too loud. Low ceilings. Sticky floors. Music heavy enough to drown thought, not loud enough to demand dancing.
He slid onto a stool and ordered whiskey. Then another.
He didn't come to think.
He came to forget.
The bartender didn't ask questions. That was why Sky liked this place.
Halfway through his second glass, laughter cut through the music.
Too familiar.
Sky glanced sideways—and there they were.
Faces he recognized but couldn't immediately name. Party friends. Drink friends. The kind that showed up when the bill was already covered.
They hadn't noticed him yet.
"...crazy night, though," one of them said, already slurring. "I thought we were fucked."
Another laughed. "Please. With Sky there? We were never going down."
Sky's fingers tightened around his glass.
He told himself not to listen.
"Still," the first one continued, voice dropping conspiratorially, "thank god we put it on Sky."
The world seemed to slow.
"What do you mean?" someone asked.
The drunk one snorted. "I mean—look at him. Rich kid. Party boy. Cops see his name and think, yeah, makes sense."
A pause.
"See? He got out in one night."
Laughter.
Something inside Sky snapped cleanly in two.
He turned, standing so fast the stool scraped loudly against the floor.
"What did you just say?"
They looked at him then. Surprise flickered across their faces—followed quickly by something like annoyance.
"Relax, man," one said. "We're just talking."
"Talking about what?" Sky demanded. "Say it again."
The drunk one squinted at him, smirk crooked. "Don't be so dramatic. You're fine, aren't you? You always land on your feet."
Sky didn't remember deciding to punch him.
His fist connected with a jaw, the impact jolting painfully up his arm. Someone shouted. Someone grabbed him. Another swung back.
Glasses shattered. Chairs fell.
Sky moved on instinct—rage sharp, blinding. Every hit felt like punctuation. Every blow carried a word he'd swallowed since the arrest.
Traitors.
Cowards.
You used me.
Hands dragged him back. Someone tackled him sideways. The bouncer's voice cut through the chaos.
By the time the police arrived, Sky's knuckles were bleeding and his vision was swimming.
He didn't resist this time.
Didn't argue.
Didn't say his father's name.
He just held out his hands like he'd practiced.
Again.
He sat in the holding room, head tipped back against the wall, laughing softly to himself.
Of course this is where I end up.
When the lawyer arrived at the station, his suit was immaculate as always. Crisp. Controlled. Like this was a board meeting, not a second arrest.
He sat across from Sky, folding his hands on the metal table.
"This can't keep happening," he said. "Your father's made a decision."
Sky looked up, eyes hollow. "Let me guess. Rehab?"
"No."
"House arrest?"
The lawyer hesitated. "You're leaving the city."
Sky scoffed. "To where?"
"Baan Saan."
"Where the hell is that?"
"South," the lawyer replied. "Small coastal town."
Sky let out a humorless laugh. "So I'm being punished."
"You're being protected."
Sky stared at him for a long moment—then leaned back and closed his eyes.
"Funny," he muttered. "Doesn't feel like it."
The lawyer left him with paperwork and a final look that was almost sympathetic.
"The car will pick you up at nine." he said.
Sky nodded once.
He didn't speak again.
Later, back in his apartment, the silence felt louder than the club ever had.
His phone buzzed once.
A notification. Not a message.
He stared at it.
Then he threw the phone across the room, where it cracked against the wall and slid uselessly to the floor.
By the time he packed, the city felt different.
The streets were the same. The lights still burned bright. But the air felt thinner, sharper—like it was waiting for him to mess up again.
The noise had turned on him. And without it, he didn't know what was left.
As the car pulled away the next morning, Sky leaned back against the seat, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the window.
He didn't know who he was without the city.
He didn't know who he'd be without money cushioning every fall.
All he knew was this:
He had been betrayed.
He had not been believed.
And wherever Baan Saan was—
He didn't want it.