Chapter Text
♰
“Disconnect from the world. You must not feel anything. You are a machine. Empty your mind and reach a state of perfect calm before you act. No emotions. No distractions. Absolute inner peace. Only then do you hold your breath… and pull the trigger.”
Hold your breath and pull the trigger —
those were the two rules Norawit lived by every time he carried out a job.
His mentor’s words echoed in his head before every final step.
He’d learned to shut off his emotions as easily as flipping a switch inside himself. Years of brutal training had taught him that. Whether he should be grateful for it was another matter entirely.
He glanced at his wristwatch, mentally counting down the minutes until the target appeared. Then he returned to the scope, adjusted his position, and chewed his gum slowly.
He’d prepared this job longer than usual — and not because it was difficult. Nothing was difficult for him. He always completed his assignments cleanly and decisively.
Except this one.
For the first time in his career, he couldn’t bring himself to go through with it right away. He had reasons — more than one.
Titicharoenrak tugged his baseball cap lower to shield his eyes from the sun and adjusted his leather gloves. Another look at the time. A quiet sigh.
Ten seconds.
If his calculations were right, the target would appear in ten seconds.
Norawit started the countdown in his head, finger resting lightly on the rifle’s trigger. He blew a perfect bubble with his gum, let it pop softly, then closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting every unnecessary emotion slip away.
Just pull the inner levers to their limit — and silence would fill him completely.
The front doors of the building across the street opened at last. The target stepped out — a young man with dark hair, wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He hurried down the steps with a folder of documents in hand, passing them to a waiting officer.
Norawit aimed.
Held his breath.
Fired.
A suppressed shot rang out. The bullet hit its mark.
He grabbed his phone, dialed a familiar number.
“I’m listening, Thirteen,” a flat, robotic female voice answered.
“The job’s done. But we have a problem.”
“Is the target alive?”
“Yes.”
“You know the protocol, Thirteen,” the voice ordered.
“Self-termination,” Norawit replied calmly, ending the call.
Normally he would flee the scene — fast — but not today.
He disassembled the rifle with practiced efficiency, packed it into his backpack, and moved to the edge of the rooftop. He climbed over the railing and jumped effortlessly to the adjacent building. There he stashed his gear among piles of construction debris before returning to the original roof.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, lit one, and held it between his fingers.
Walking to the edge of the building, he looked down. Chaos had erupted near the entrance. Several people spotted him and pointed up in alarm.
He smirked, exhaling a stream of white smoke through his nose.
Fast response. Good boys.
He took in the noise of the city from above, inhaling deeply.
From here it looked like a massive anthill — hundreds of people rushing in every direction, skyscrapers jutting upward like cold concrete boxes.
A few minutes later, the sound of a door slamming open behind him broke the moment. Rapid footsteps followed.
“Hands behind your head!” a familiar voice barked. “Raise them and turn around. Slowly. Now!”
Norawit took one last drag, holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, then flicked it over the edge. He lifted his arms lazily, palms open, and turned around.
Then he raised his head, just slightly.
Shrugged.
Offered a guilty half-smile.
A pair of brown eyes locked onto him — shocked, speechless — and then the agent lowered his weapon. Confusion twisted his features as the realization hit him like a blow to the chest.
He knew that face beneath the brim of the baseball cap.
“What the hell… what are you doing here?” the agent demanded.
“You know him?” another cop asked, keeping Norawit in his sights.
“A little,” Nattawat said coldly, piecing everything together in his mind.
“Hi, Fourth,” Titicharoenrak said with a faint smile — just before officers grabbed his arms and snapped cold handcuffs around his wrists.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, counsel will be provided to you. Do you understand your rights?” someone recited, gripping his elbow to drag him forward.
“Yes,” Norawit said, eyes never leaving Nattawat.
“You are under arrest for suspicion of involvement in a series of contract killings,” another officer added, escorting him toward the exit.
He walked between two federal agents, gaze fixed on Nattawat — on the man who now stood frozen, processing the impossible truth.
The man he’d spent countless nights with.
The man he trusted in his own bed.
The man he had been searching for all these months.
His killer.
Nattawat stared after him until the door swallowed him from sight. Then he looked around the rooftop, confused and shaken. No weapon. No equipment. Nothing left behind.
But the shot had come from here — they knew that. They’d known their “elusive hitman” would fire today.
Had they been wrong?
And if they weren’t… what the hell just happened?
Titicharoenrak was taken to the central bureau and led into an interrogation room. He flexed his wrists, easing the stiffness from the cuffs, and examined the space with mild amusement.
It looked exactly like the dumb federal dramas on TV: empty gray walls, a wide one-way mirror, a single lamp, a camera in the corner, a metal table with two chairs facing each other.
No exits. No escape routes.
Though, if he really tried, he could break out of here too.
Norawit could leave even the heart of the federal agency if he wanted.
But he didn’t.
He was good at many things — too many — thanks to Divine.
But he was tired of running.
The young man stopped, his gaze fixed on Nattawat, who looked ready to scorch him with a ferocious stare, arms folded tight across his chest. He knew every expression that face could wear; he’d seen the man’s emotions in every shade. This was rage. Predictable—he hated him and wanted to tear him apart on the spot. He had every right to feel that way. Norawit hadn’t told him the truth, and now Nattawat had figured it out without a word. Explanations weren’t likely to help—Nattawat had already drawn his own conclusions. Titicharoenrak was the contract killer they’d been hunting for six months, and this arrest could make or break Nattawat’s career. The sting of it all was that Agent Jirochtikul had been closer to him than anyone until that very morning.
“You do understand what you’re being charged with?” Pond snapped, jabbing an accusing finger toward the detained man.
Norawit looked at him slowly and silently, then lifted one eyebrow in a bold, almost mocking question. Seriously?
“Twenty-seven contract killings. Twenty-seven,” the officer repeated, exhaling heavily as he rifled through the case file—now marred by a bullet hole. “And that’s only the ones we can link to you so far. Are you sure refusing a lawyer is the right move? You could be looking at life.”
“First prove I did them,” Norawit answered indifferently, rolling his neck to ease the stiffness.
“And you refuse to testify?” Pond pressed.
“Judging by the way you speak to me, officer, you already know everything,” Norawit said. “You even worked with Interpol to find me—so why waste your time asking me questions?”
“We chased you for five years,” Pond shot back. “And yet we know nothing. All the records about you in official databases are falsified. Who the hell are you? What’s your real name? Cooperate with the investigation—it’s in your interest.”
Norawit threw his head back and laughed, loud and clear. The cop was bluffing; they had nothing on him, and he knew it. Everything they “knew” had been given to them—by him.
“What would that gain me? One year or ten—what’s the difference if you’re saying it’s life anyway?” he shrugged.
“What’s your name? Who do you work for? You can’t be alone—who finds assignments for you? Who protects you? Who tampers with official records—who has the hacking skills to break Interpol security and forge fingerprints?” the federal agent demanded.
“My personal secretary,” Norawit smirked.
“Who do you work for, for God’s sake?!” Pond slammed his palm on the table, his voice rising.
“Whoa, intimidating,” Titicharoenrak drawled, licking his lips in a slow, sardonic smile. “Bad cop? I like bad boys,” he whispered, glancing at Nattawat.
“Answer my questions,” the man warned.
“I’ll speak only with him,” Norawit nodded toward Nattawat’s colleague standing by the door.
“With him?” Pond blinked. “What difference does it make who you talk to? Answer my questions—we’re working with him.”
“Either him, or you won’t get another word from me,” Norawit replied.
“Fine,” the cop said, glancing between Titicharoenrak and his partner. “Agent Jirochtikul—he’s your man.” With that he left the room, the door slamming behind him.
They were alone, but Nattawat didn’t hurry forward to bridge the distance or to speak. He held Norawit with a steady, burning stare; Norawit returned the gaze, chin lifted. That tense spark between them ignited again like a match, even in the midst of this dead end.
“Maybe you should ask something already?” Titicharoenrak prompted, arching a brow. “You know me. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“I don’t know a damn thing about you, as it turns out. I’m not even sure your name is real,” Nattawat replied, pacing slowly across the office.
“Norawit Titicharoenrak is my real name,” the man answered simply.
“Well, at least you didn’t lie about that,” the cop scoffed.
“I haven’t lied to you once,” Norawit said.
“I’m curious—did you know from the start I was the agent hunting you?” Nattawat asked.
Norawit glanced briefly at the surveillance camera in the corner, then back at him. Nattawat took a deep breath and rolled his eyes, understanding where Norawit was going with this. He walked to the mirror and tapped on it in a specific rhythm, sending a signal. A few minutes later the tiny red light on the camera went out—the feed cut.
“Answer me now,” Nattawat barked.
“Babyy, it’s complicated,” Titicharoenrak said, running a hand through his hair.
“Don’t call me that. And speak straight—no tricks. I won’t fall for your charm and that pretty face anymore. You knew?” Nattawat demanded.
“Yes,” Norawit answered with a heavy sigh.
“All of that—was it to get me to cover for you? You seriously thought sleeping with me would make me hide your crimes?” Nattawat sneered, disgust clear on his face.
“Fourth,” Norawit sighed, shaking his head, “don’t be so shallow. You’re deeper than that—smart, perceptive. It wasn’t like that. I knew you were federal. I knew you were looking for me, but I didn’t plan on getting close. It happened. I hadn’t intended to use you.”
“But you did,” Nattawat said.
“In some ways, yes,” Titicharoenrak conceded. “But not for the reason you think.”
“Why should I believe you? You’ve been living a double life.”
“I don’t know. Do you believe me?” he shot back, arching his brow.
“No, Norawit. I don’t,” Nattawat said. “I have evidence against you that the others don’t know about. If it gets into the wrong hands, you’re finished.”
“This case is a sham,” Norawit nodded toward the files and gave a bitter laugh. “You have nothing on me—both of us know that. But if I testify, you can pin at least twenty-seven murders around the world on me and wash your hands. I’ll disappear, but I’ll take with me everyone involved. That was my plan.”
“Your stunt today—I’m pretty sure you staged it. You didn’t kill anyone, you shot the papers. No weapon, no murder. You were just on the roof at the wrong time. We can hold you for forty-eight hours while we investigate, but if we don’t find evidence, we have to release you. So why this display?” Nattawat demanded.
“I needed your help. I had a hit to carry out today, and if I failed, I’d get a bullet in the forehead. So, I’m here and I’m telling you—only you—everything. You understand I couldn’t turn in the people I work for. They’d kill my loved ones. They watch my every move. Right now, they’ll think I messed up and the feds got me,” Norawit explained, staring at his gloved hands locked in the cuffs.
“You framed yourself,” Nattawat guessed, frowning.
“Yes. You didn’t catch me—I let you,” Titicharoenrak said.
“For what?”
“I need your help,” the man shrugged.
“What help the hell could you possibly need?” Nattawat snorted.
“You really don’t think I’m the big bad here, do you? You need a bigger fish than me. I’m just a hired hand, baby. I’ll give you the names—catch these people and you won’t just get a promotion, you’ll own Interpol,” Norawit said with a smile.
“Go on. Who do you work for?” Nattawat asked.
“You’re asking the wrong question. Ask: ‘Who taught me to work like this?’” Norawit replied.
Six months earlier…
The usually quiet bar was packed tonight — Friday nights always drew a crowd. Nattawat knew this place well; he and his old friend had been coming here for years. The small, dimly lit room buzzed with voices, soft music hummed beneath the chaos, and the air was thick with the familiar mix of alcohol and cigarette smoke.
“So, what did your boss say?” Satang asked, signaling the bartender for another round before turning back to him.
“I’m getting a promotion,” Nattawat said, voice already heavy with drunken warmth as he propped his head on his hand.
“Oh? Really?” Satang lifted a shot glass filled with something clear and lethal. “See? And here you were saying you’d never get it.”
“No. No, I’m not drinking anymore.” Nattawat grimaced.
“Drink. Come on. We’re celebrating.”
“It’s not that simple,” he sighed, tossing the shot back anyway and wiping his mouth with his fist. The burn hit instantly — throat, stomach, everything. “I have to solve a completely unsolvable case.”
“He dumped it on you on purpose?” Satang laughed.
“Seriously, who does that?” Nattawat muttered, the room tilting dangerously as he blinked hard. “Kiernan is such an asshole. Maybe he just hates me. For years he’s been blocking every chance I have to move up and nitpicking everything I do.”
“And what’s the case?” Satang slid him another drink.
“That,” Nattawat said, grinning lopsidedly as his vision swayed, “is classified, my friend.”
“Hey,” Satang protested, “I’m your oldest friend. You can tell me.”
“The ‘Phantom Killer.’ Five years on the run. No mistakes, no trail, no leads. Completely untraceable. No photo, no name, nothing. And my career depends on catching him.” He let out a bitter laugh.
“Hey, don’t be discouraged,” Satang said, patting his shoulder. “You’re a top-tier agent. Smart. Brave. I believe in you.”
“I wish I believed in myself like that,” Nattawat snorted.
“Then let’s have another drink. Confidence boost.”
“It’ll just give me a hangover.”
“That’s a problem for tomorrow,” Satang said, smiling.
An hour later — and several shots deeper — the walls were starting to spin, and they finally decided to head home. Satang ordered a taxi and begged Nattawat to get in with him, but Nattawat chose to walk. Some fresh air would help. And for a while, it did. Two blocks in, the night breeze cleared his head just enough.
He walked slowly, swaying a bit, humming some love ballad under his breath as the city lights blurred around him. Nights like this were always fun — until the morning migraine hit — but the relief was worth it. Being a federal agent wasn’t exactly a relaxing job. Endless crime scenes, gruesome files, never home, no real personal life. His dream was to work for Interpol — same field, but calmer. Safer. And now, for the first time, he actually had a shot at it.
All he had to do was catch a ghost.
He turned into a dark alley, taking a few steps before spotting several men ahead — the kind he knew far too well from work. Nighttime scavengers. Thugs who preyed on whoever was unlucky enough to cross their path.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, exhaling deeply.
He straightened his posture and walked past them, hoping they’d let it go. Of course, they didn’t. Footsteps followed him as he stepped out onto a poorly lit street.
“Hey, you got the time?” one called.
“Guys, you picked the wrong person,” Nattawat said calmly. “Do yourselves a favor and pretend you never saw me.”
“I don’t think so,” the same voice replied — and a hand clamped down on Nattawat’s shoulder, spinning him around.
Nattawat reacted instantly, landing a solid punch to the guy’s face. The others jumped in right away. He handled them well — sober, he would’ve wiped the floor with them — but tonight his coordination lagged. He still knocked two down, but the other two were built like brick walls. One jumped on his back, locking an arm around his throat, while another punched him hard in the jaw. The world went black for a split second.
He shook his head, trying to clear it — just in time to see a stranger take down one of the attackers with a single, clean hit. The guy dropped instantly. The stranger then easily threw the brute off Nattawat and knocked him out too.
Nattawat blinked at him, eyebrows lifting. The stranger was smaller than the thugs but moved like he’d been trained since birth.
“Wow,” Nattawat breathed, wiping blood from his lip.
“Don’t mention it,” the man said, running a hand through his hair and adjusting the collar of his black jacket.
“I could’ve handled it myself,” Nattawat grumbled.
“Uh-huh,” the guy smirked. “Gratitude isn’t your strong suit, huh?”
“Thanks,” Nattawat said, wobbling slightly.
“Better.”
“What are you even doing out here? At this hour?”
“Heading home,” the stranger said with a shrug.
“What’s your name?” Nattawat asked.
“What’s yours?” The man raised a brow, chin tilted in challenge.
“Who answers a question with a question?” Nattawat frowned.
“You. Just now,” the stranger shot back, walking out of the alley.
Nattawat laughed under his breath and followed, eyes drifting over the man’s dark undercut, broad shoulders, slim waist, and — okay — ridiculously nice ass. Leather jacket, black jeans, heavy boots. A sliver of a tattoo peeked out from beneath the collar at his neck.
Classic bad boy. The type that populated Nattawat’s high school halls and ruined GPAs.
“Hey, what’s your name, smartass?” he called.
The stranger turned, looking him over with equal boldness. Nattawat took him in fully — dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes deep and unreadable, and lips so stupidly pretty he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or reality.
The stranger clicked his tongue, smirking.
“Like what you see?”
“What?” Nattawat blinked.
“Did you check me out?” he repeated.
“…Yeah.”
“And?” the stranger asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Not bad. Solid six out of ten,” Nattawat said. “Or maybe I’m too drunk. Or it’s too dark.”
“Could be,” the man shrugged, smiling — then offered his hand. “Name?”
“Fourth. I mean—” Nattawat stumbled, scratching his neck. “Nattawat. And you?”
“Nice to meet you, Fourth,” the stranger said, shaking his hand with a warm grip. “Next time I won’t step in, since you can ‘handle it’ on your own.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“For your sake, I hope not. I won’t be there to save your very cute ass again,” he said, and walked off.
“Hey! You still didn’t tell me your name!” Nattawat called after him.
The stranger didn’t even look back.
Nattawat stared after him, shaking his head with a faint smile.
“What an asshole,” he muttered — but he was still smiling.
♰
After the morning briefing, the boss asked Nattawat to stay behind so he could review the materials for a new case. Kiernan Evans paced slowly across his office, flipping through a stack of documents. He was fairly young for his position — barely thirty, yet already the head of the bureau. They’d transferred him here from another country a few years ago, promoting him for what everyone called “remarkable merit.” Strict, uncompromising, principled. All good qualities for a leader, though he was still an insufferable jerk at times. He nitpicked constantly, and his management style often clashed with Nattawat’s idea of how things should be done. But despite everything, he wasn’t the worst boss Nattawat had ever worked under.
Kiernan’s secretary dimmed the lights, and images of several people appeared one by one on the large white screen — unpleasant faces they had crossed paths with more than once.
“So, Agent Jirochtikul,” Evans began, setting the papers aside as he took a seat at his desk, “this case is complicated. But if you manage it successfully, the promotion I promised will be waiting for you. Interpol has taken an interest in you — your supervisor’s recommendations impressed them. Your record did, too. But if you fail this assignment, I’ll have no choice but to demote you or transfer you.”
“For what?” Nattawat asked, spreading his hands in disbelief.
“I need special agents to close high-level cases, not small ones any federal rookie could handle. And for the last two months, you haven’t given me any positive results.”
Nattawat bit back a curse. Unbelievable. So, the fact that he had recently cracked a major case that had remained unsolved for three years meant nothing — because the last two months had been uneventful. And whose fault was that? Evans himself had sent him on a pointless assignment to Miami while his partner investigated a major financial scheme in Downtown.
“You want to work for Interpol? Then you’ll have to earn it,” Kiernan said, nodding at the screen. “These are the individuals we suspect may be connected to our assassin. Some of them have already been questioned — naturally, none of them said a thing. They may be his clients, assuming he works independently. Or they might simply know something, considering the victims were their enemies and competitors. You understand what has to be done?”
He would have to interrogate every one of them — but not empty-handed. He needed leverage.
“Of course,” Nattawat replied with a nod.
“Good.” Evans flipped through the file. “This is likely the weapon our shooter uses. Familiar?”
“Remington XM2010,” Nattawat confirmed. “Quick-detach suppressor, manual bolt action, folding stock. Easy to carry, easy to store. A very solid choice for someone who needs to disappear fast after taking a shot.”
“Correct. To date, we know of twenty murders committed at specific intervals. We believe they’re all connected to one person — this assassin.”
“Any proof?”
“Not exactly,” Evans admitted. “But every kill was made with a single, perfectly placed shot to the forehead, all using the same caliber. And the bullets all carry an almost invisible factory marking — ‘D13,’ found by the lab. We don’t know what it means yet. Could be his personal mark, or the mark of the organization he works for — a way to ensure that if they ever turn against him, all his crimes could be traced back and leaked to the FBI. A form of blackmail. Pretty common for shady groups like these.”
He tapped the remote.
“If you track the pattern of his movements, this is what you get.”
The slide changed, revealing a world map dotted with scattered points. At first glance, completely random — but worth deeper analysis.
“Once, thanks to airport surveillance that matched this travel pattern, we almost identified him. All we had was a blurry photo of a guy in a black baseball cap at the Hong Kong airport check-in desk. We weren’t fully sure, but at least the killer finally had something resembling a face. Except we celebrated too soon — all the records were wiped. Every single one, including the camera footage.”
“From the FBI database?” Nattawat asked, stunned.
“Try higher — Interpol,” Evans smirked. “After that, they made him a priority target. They call him the Uncatchable Killer. He’s become quite an obsession of theirs — and not just theirs. Rumor has it that in the criminal world, the price on his head is about half the cost of a nuclear warhead.”
Nattawat let out a low whistle.
“Looks like he’s pissed off a lot of people. But how does someone even break into Interpol’s database?”
“A hacker,” Evans replied. “We suspect he’s working with an extremely skilled one — either that, or he has powerful bosses shielding him.”
“I’ll need to look into that too. Find the hacker, if he exists,” Nattawat said.
“Exactly. That activity is criminal as well. Now, these are some of his victims.”
The slide changed again. Photos of men — alive, then dead on the crime scene.
“He works quickly and precisely,” Evans said. “All men. The youngest was twenty-nine — the troublesome son of a drug lord. The oldest was sixty-five — founder of a chain of underground clubs dealing in weapons and women. No connection between them except one — they all worked in the dark. Crime ties them together. Possibly, the assassin is simply taking contracts against their competitors. And that’s what you’ll have to uncover.”
Kiernan dropped a case file onto the desk and slid it toward him just as the office lights flicked on. Nattawat opened it and began flipping through the pages, taking his time. There wasn’t much information, but there was enough to start with — at least enough to try and push this investigation forward, even a little.
“We don’t have any real information about the killer himself,” Kiernan said, settling back in his chair. “If you manage to dig up anything worthwhile, I want you in my office immediately with a report. For everything else, go to Pond. Don’t bother me over small things — I have too much on my plate. He’ll give you access to whatever databases you don’t already have clearance for.”
“Understood,” Nattawat said, taking the folder and heading for the door. “How much time do I have?”
“This one’s complicated, so I’m not giving you a deadline. Work it thoroughly. But remember — the sooner you crack it, the faster your career moves up.”
“Got it. Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck, Agent Jirochtikul,” Kiernan said with a small smile as Nattawat left.
He walked down the long hallway of the bureau toward his office, already deep in thought as he scanned through the file. There were no strong leads — barely even a starting point. He would have to approach this from the outside and begin with potential clients.
But the people mentioned in the report weren’t the kind you could simply knock on the door of. They would either tell him to go to hell… or shoot him without blinking. If any of them did know something, he’d need leverage — serious leverage. No one would confess to hiring a contract killer without pressure.
Which meant he needed help from someone who owed him — someone who never refused him.
Nattawat pulled out his phone as he entered his office and dialed the hacker’s number. The long, rhythmic beeps echoed in his head until a familiar voice finally answered.
“Well, well. Look who it is. Agent Jirochtikul — I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“Cut the sarcasm, Phu. I need your help.”
“Sorry, agent, but I don’t work with the FBI.”
“Oh, that’s how you want to play?” Nattawat chuckled. “Fine. Maybe I should remind my boss that someone once intentionally hid the identity of a hacker who broke into an entire banking system and stole millions.”
“I stole it and gave it to the poor,” Phuwin said, laughing.
“You’re a damn Robin Hood. That doesn’t make you a law-abiding citizen. You were facing serious time, and I covered your ass because we’re friends.”
“And now you’re blackmailing me, old man?”
“Is it working?” Nattawat asked, smiling.
“Not really. If you wanted to turn me in, you would’ve done it already. But fine. I’ll help — for old times’ sake.”
“I need dirt on a few people. The filthiest you can find. The worse it is, the better — I need real leverage to make them talk.”
“Oh, now that I like,” the hacker said with clear excitement. “The bad cop routine is back. You know bad cops are the hottest guys, right?”
“Go to hell. I don’t have another option — I need to close this case, and a lot depends on it. Will you help or not?”
“Hm… I don’t know,” Phu teased.
“You can do it in ten minutes. With your skill level and your connections.”
Phuwin clicked his tongue. “Alright. But only if you tell me what this case is about.”
“I’ll tell you in person. I’ll stop by your place after work,” Nattawat said.
♰
A beautiful brunette with a long hair was unloading grocery bags from the trunk of an old car parked in front of a small house. One story tall, beige, with narrow windows — it looked exactly the same as it had years ago, only more worn by time. The house sat in one of Pattaya’s quietest, most unremarkable neighborhoods.
Norawit had been watching the woman for nearly twenty minutes, hidden behind a broad oak tree across the street. He studied her—every gesture, every expression, the soft tone of her voice when she spoke to her son. He drank in her presence as if storing it inside himself, because she was the one who had brought him into this world.
He didn’t get to see her as often as he wished. Today was one of those rare moments. Every time he looked at her, something inside him stirred to life, giving him just enough strength to keep going. Only here, after all these years, could he remove his mask and remind himself that he still had feelings. He wasn’t a soulless creature—he had simply buried his emotions behind locked doors in the deepest corners of his heart and soul.
After the day he was taken to Divine, Tititcharoenrak had never spoken to her again. He hadn’t seen her, either. The last time he remembered his younger brother, the boy had been a toddler—now he towered over their mother by a head. His family was forbidden territory. He wasn’t allowed to approach them or make contact of any kind. The consequences would be severe.
All he had been granted, after years of obedience, was permission to watch them from afar. As if that could possibly ease anything. It only made the ache sharper, but at least he could see they were alive. Safe.
His life—and his family’s—had been destroyed when he was twelve. That was the year Norawit was kidnapped. No one understood why. His family didn’t have money for ransom. He wasn’t an heir or anyone important. Days passed, then weeks. No demands. No messages. They simply took him, stripped him of everything he had been and everything he might have become.
The case dragged on for years with no answers, until Divine finally presented his mother with what they claimed was his body, forcing the police to close the investigation. She was handed a mutilated corpse that wasn’t her son—but she was never told that.
Even though Titicharoenrak was now legally and emotionally dead to them, he still paid for his younger brother’s education, knowing their mother couldn’t afford it. He arranged everything so that the boy appeared to win his scholarship through an additional exam. His mother received monthly support payments through a fictional charity for families who had lost children. It wasn’t much, but it was something—anything—to ease their burden. They had no one else to rely on.
The brunette disappeared into the house with the groceries and returned a few minutes later.
And even though Norawit lived as if he had no emotions, his love for these people was the one thing Divine had never tried to remove from him—because they used it as leverage. His family was a weapon, a pressure point.
How he longed to walk up those steps and wrap his arms around her fragile shoulders. To tell her everything. To ease her grief. To cross the threshold and never go back to what he’d become. But to her, her eldest son was dead—and in a way, he truly was. The little boy she had loved no longer existed.
A vibration buzzed in his jacket pocket. Without taking his eyes off his mother, he answered.
“Listening.”
“Good afternoon, Thirteen. Confirm your current location,” an automated voice requested.
“You already know it. Or did the chip in my body malfunction?” he said with a dry laugh.
“Please confirm,” the assistant repeated.
“Thailand. Pattaya,” Norawit replied, eyes fixed on the small house.
“Are you visiting your family?”
“It’s not forbidden.”
“Correct, Thirteen. But do not forget the instructions. No contact. If you violate the rules, Divine will remove whatever distracts you from your duties. Any breach will be detected immediately.”
“I remember, Prim,” Norawit muttered, irritation slipping into his voice.
“I have a new message for you. Would you like to hear it?”
“As if I have a choice,” Titicharoenrak scoffed.
“Playing recorded message.”
A click sounded, followed by a long tone. Then Norawit heard a familiar, hateful voice:
“I have a new assignment for you. You’ll carry it out personally for me. I’m waiting at the office. You’ll receive all information and instructions when you arrive.”
“You’re expected at headquarters as soon as possible. Take a private jet. All costs will be covered by Divine,” Prim added.
“Got it. I’m on my way,” he said with a heavy exhale, and ended the call.
He allowed himself one last, aching look at his family before slipping into his car and driving away.
Several hours later, he arrived at the designated location.
The Divine complex stretched across a vast, hidden section of forest—far from the city and impossible to approach without authorization. A cluster of buildings rose behind high security fences: a training compound, medical center, stadium, shooting range, barracks, surveillance hub, and the main headquarters.
No one entered this place unless they had been trained within its walls and marked accordingly. No one left without permission.
Surrounded by armed guards, an electrified perimeter, surveillance cameras, biometric locks on every door—there was no chance of sabotage, no space for escape. Breaking in was nearly impossible. Breaking out was worse.
It was a fortress.
A graveyard of hope.
A prison soaked in the pain, tears, and blood of dozens of innocent boys who had been dragged here against their will.
For Norawit, this place had been — and always would be — a hell carved into earth.
The small two-story building with barred windows was painfully familiar to him. It was the barracks where the children of Divine lived while they were trained. Norawit had spent almost seven years here, surrounded by dozens of other kids until the day he finally “graduated” from these walls.
For the first year, they kept him isolated in a single holding cell. Later, when they finally broke his resistance, he was transferred to the shared dormitory. Everything about the training resembled military conditioning — brutal drills, merciless discipline, endless rules, punishments for the smallest mistakes.
But what terrified the trainees most was when they were taken away from the compound. Because that meant the next stage was beginning.
Eventually, each of them reached that point. Once their bodies were perfect enough for further training, the boss sent them away — each to a different master. Titicharoenrak had been shipped off to Japan, where he endured the harshest lessons of his life. They didn’t just teach him how to handle weapons or fight — they tore into his mind and soul, digging until he broke into the emotional shape they wanted. They rewired him. And destroyed more of him than he cared to admit.
Thanks to Divine, he could wield almost any weapon — blades, firearms — and he’d mastered nearly every form of martial arts. His mind worked in a way most people couldn’t understand, and that made him exceptional at the work they forced him to do.
If Divine had something like a school honor board, Norawit’s face would’ve hung at the top, year after year. The bosses loved his skills and the perfection of his execution, but they hated his attitude. He’d been punished for that more times than he could count.
Beside the barracks, in a much larger building, was the main office. That was where the boss summoned people to receive assignments. Titicharoenrak walked toward the entrance, passing security as they performed the usual checks.
Inside, the building opened into a long white hallway filled with people he recognized. He took the elevator up to the restricted floors — only upper management and mercenaries were allowed there.
He stepped out and approached the automated door at the end of the corridor. Holding his wrist to the scanner, he waited as the system read the tattoo under his skin. A sharp beep sounded.
“Confirm your identity, Thirteen,” a mechanical voice announced.
Norawit pressed his palm to the second scanner. Another beep. The heavy doors slid open.
The atmosphere inside was completely different — dark, metallic, cold. Empty. Not a single soul in the corridor. Norawit walked straight to the office he needed and entered without knocking.
At the far end of the room, a bald man in a tailored suit sat in a leather chair. Expensive watch, polished shoes, posture like he was carved out of stone. Norawit knew him better than he knew his own mother.
The boss always looked flawless, always composed, always three steps ahead of everyone else. He leaned back casually, taking a slow drag from his cigar, the air filling with thick, acrid smoke. The whole office felt suffocating — like walking straight into the devil’s den.
Norawit stopped at the door and gave a short nod.
“Gemini,” the boss said, smiling faintly. “Good to see you. Come in.”
Titicharoenrak stepped forward and sat in the chair opposite him, his gaze sharp. Every time he saw this man, he wished it could be the last. But he didn’t know how to escape this hell. And the longer he lived like this, the less he cared about saving himself.
Why would he? His family believed he was dead, and nothing else tied him to this world anymore. He had lost himself long ago. There was only one reason he kept going — the leverage Divine still had on him. The threat they could always use again.
“I heard you were in Pattaya,” the boss said.
“Yeah,” Norawit replied curtly.
“How’s your mother? And your brother?” the man asked, smiling with shameless amusement.
“You’re kidding, right?” Norawit scoffed.
“Suit yourself. I called you for a new job,” the boss said, sliding a folder across the desk. “Tony Brown.”
Titicharoenrak flipped through the photographs, memorizing the face instantly, then skimmed the short briefing. Nothing extraordinary. The same kind of dossier he always received — basic info, notes, threat level. Why the boss wanted a face-to-face meeting still wasn’t clear. Usually the files were sent to his laptop, and the assistant handled the explanations.
“You could’ve just had Prim send this,” Norawit said. “Why summon me?”
“Look at the location,” the boss replied.
“Hampton,” Norawit read, frowning. “There aren’t any high-rises there.”
“Exactly. You’ll have to handle this one differently.”
“Is that necessary? Why not wait until he shows up somewhere else? Getting close to the target is always a risk.”
“No chance. Tony hasn’t left his villa in two months. Parties every night, living like a king. And I want him dealt with now.”
“What did he do?” Titicharoenrak asked, flipping another page.
“That bastard sold a unique program that didn’t belong to him. He stole from me,” the boss said, his voice turning cold.
“Explain.”
“A hacker developed a program for me. Tony stole it and sold it to terrorists. He’s living off my money now. And just so you understand — the program can activate missile launches. I need you to find out where the program is and then kill him.”
“Alright,” Norawit said with a sigh, closing the folder. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Be creative this time,” the man added. “I don’t just want him dead — I want an example made out of him. Tear him apart if you want. Just get the information and make sure he suffers before he dies.”
“Do you have the house layout?” Titicharoenrak asked.
“Yes. Everything you need is in the folder,” he said. “You’ll be paid the moment I receive confirmation of his death — and how exactly he died.”
“That all?”
“For now.”
Norawit stood and walked toward the door.
“Gemini,” the boss called after him.
“What?” Norawit turned slightly.
“You’re sure you haven’t contacted your family? You look… troubled. You know I’ll take action if I find out you’re lying.”
“You really think I didn’t understand you the first time?” Norawit raised an eyebrow.
“Hm.” The man smirked, exhaling smoke. “Our business requires harsh methods. Nothing personal.”
“Go to hell,” Norawit replied with disgust.
The boss chuckled and took another slow drag of his cigar.
“Go on. Be careful. Tony’s villa has guards and cameras.”
“I’m always careful. Thanks for the concern,” Norawit said coldly, and walked out.
♰
Going home wasn’t part of Nattawat’s plans tonight. He was supposed to stay late at work, but changed his mind. Driving down this deserted road on the far edge of the city wasn’t in the plan either — but he’d offered to drop a coworker off.
And getting stuck on an empty, badly lit stretch of road where no one drives at this hour?
Definitely not in the plans.
Something was seriously wrong with the car.
He tried to fix the issue, leaning over the open hood, but nothing worked. Pulling out his phone, he called Satang several times. No answer. Too late at night — the guy was either asleep or out partying somewhere.
“Shit,” Nattawat muttered, stuffing the phone back into his pocket.
He’d have to get out of here on his own.
He waited a few minutes, hoping a passing car might appear, but the road stayed silent. No headlights. No engines. Nothing.
No choice — he’d have to call a tow truck and wait.
He leaned over the engine again, checking wires he didn’t really understand, when the distant sound of a motorcycle echoed from the curve up ahead. He silently thanked the universe that someone — anyone — was on this miserable road tonight.
The rider slowed the moment he saw Nattawat, cutting the engine.
“Well, that’s a familiar ass. What is it — need saving again?” Titicharoenrak called out, eyes sliding down Nattawat’s black-jean-covered legs.
Nattawat lifted his head, straightened up, and exhaled sharply.
The black sports bike sat a few meters away, and on it — the stranger from the alley. Leather jacket, dark eyes, a face carved out of trouble. Seen sober, he looked even more dangerous. And way too sure of himself.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Nattawat muttered. “You again?”
“Nice to see you too, Fourth,” the guy replied with a charming smile.
“What are you doing here?”
“That’s all the excitement I get from you?” Norawit teased.
“Does anyone even drive on this road at this hour?”
“You’re full of questions again,” Titicharoenrak laughed. “Looks like you’ve got a problem?” He nodded at the car.
“I’m stuck here for a while.”
“Maybe we should stop meeting like this?”
“Like what?” Nattawat frowned.
“Like you being in trouble, and me having to rescue your very attractive ass. It’s becoming a habit. And I’m not exactly a noble guy. Helping people isn’t my thing.” He grimaced.
“I can manage without your help.”
“I’ve heard that before. What’s wrong with it?” he asked, stepping closer and peeking under the hood.
“Looks like the engine,” Nattawat sighed.
“That sucks. This won’t be a quick fix. Did you call someone? Anyone who can pick you up or help with the car?”
“It’s too late. My friend’s not answering. He’s probably asleep or out somewhere.”
“Then call roadside assistance.”
“What would I do without your wisdom?” Nattawat said dryly. “How did you end up here anyway?”
“Heading home,” Norawit shrugged.
“What an amazing coincidence. Again.”
“So, you don’t need my help?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. Good luck then,” he said, giving Nattawat a light slap on the ass before turning back toward his bike.
“Hey — what the hell?!” Nattawat snapped.
“What?” Norawit asked, smirking shamelessly as he swung a leg over his motorcycle.
“You slapped my ass,” Nattawat said flatly.
“I couldn’t resist. Call it… good-luck charm.” Norawit shrugged.
“Asshole,” Nattawat muttered, shaking his head.
“Come on,” Norawit said.
“What?”
“Ask me.”
“I don’t need help. I’m fine.”
Titicharoenrak checked his watch and shook his head.
Stubborn. Proud. And absolutely in need of help.
Why he even wanted to help, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the cop’s annoyingly pretty face.
“It’s 3:20 a.m. Your friend’s not picking up. Clearly no one’s coming for you. A tow truck will take two hours just to get here — and another two dragging you back. Sure, you could stay here alone until morning, waiting for a miracle car to pass. Sounds fun, right?” Norawit arched a brow. “Or you can ask me to take you home and get the car later — you know, if you swallow your pride and stop pretending you’re some tough guy.” He smirked. “So, what’s it gonna be, Fourth?”
Nattawat sighed heavily.
He was right. Staying here would be stupid — no one would drive by until daylight. It wasn’t safe, and he had to be at work soon. Less than three hours before his alarm. He couldn’t afford to screw up — not with Kiernan watching him like a hawk.
“As you wish,” Norawit said, starting the bike.
“I’m not getting on a motorcycle with someone whose name I don’t know,” Nattawat said. “You never told me last time.”
Titicharoenrak smirked, nodding a few times.
“Fair enough,” he said, turning toward him. “Norawit. My name is Norawit.”
“In that case… will you give me a ride, Norawit?” Nattawat asked.
“Let me think,” Norawit drawled, squinting playfully.
“Hey — don’t be an idiot,” Nattawat huffed, closing the hood and walking toward the bike. “You practically forced me to ask for help — now you’re going to ‘think’? Not a chance. You owe me a ride.”
Norawit laughed quietly, sweeping his dark hair back, and shifted forward to make space.
Nattawat climbed on, practically hugging the man with his thighs. The bike wasn’t built for someone his size, so he had to press in close, chest to Norawit’s back.
“Whoa, easy there, Fourth,” Norawit chuckled. “You keep pressing like that and I might get hard.”
“Oh my god, you’re such an idiot,” Nattawat said, giving his back a shove — but he couldn’t help the small smile.
“Okay, okay. Where to?” Norawit asked, revving the engine.
“The Bronx. East 21st.”
“Hold on tight.”
Nattawat gripped the rail behind him, but Norawit smirked — and launched forward with zero warning.
The black motorcycle shot down the road with a roar.
Nattawat jerked in surprise, adrenaline slamming through him, goosebumps racing across his skin, stomach flipping —
Then he exhaled.
And relaxed into the speed.
Titicharoenrak weaved through the road with practiced ease, handling the motorcycle as if it were an extension of himself. Before long, the city skyline rose ahead of them. Nattawat felt his body gradually relax; he closed his eyes and tilted his face into the wind while the bike sped down the long, straight highway.
A strange, intoxicating thrill spread through him — sharp, airy, electrifying. He had always thought motorcycles were reckless, something he’d never willingly trust. But in skilled hands, this machine felt less like danger and more like freedom. The wind wrapped around him, rushing under his clothes, filling his lungs with something almost euphoric, while the engine’s rumble stirred a deeper, wilder part of him.
He opened his eyes, watching skyscrapers blur overhead. As they turned onto the main street, Nattawat slipped his hands around the rider’s waist. His gaze drifted to a black tattoo peeking out from under the man’s jacket — feathers, maybe a wing, maybe a bird further down the design. The lines were clean and striking, the kind of ink that made you want to see the rest of it.
This guy was strange. Strange, but ridiculously intriguing.
And it was even stranger that they’d run into each other twice in a massive city — both times unexpectedly, both times with that same cocky smirk, both times with him coming to Nattawat’s rescue.
Well… he wasn’t a stranger anymore.
Norawit. A beautiful name for someone who wore it well.
The first time they met, Nattawat had been drunk enough that details blurred. But now, sober and pressed up against him on a motorcycle, he realized — yeah, this man was a full ten out of ten.
Titicharoenrak suddenly slowed, stopping at a red light. Nattawat lurched forward, his chest pressing against Norawit’s back. His hand grabbed the hem of Norawit’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as he nearly buried his face in his neck.
Norawit smirked. He liked the closeness — the warmth of the boy pressed against him, the scent of his dark hair, the hint of cocoa and cigarette smoke clinging to his skin. A delicious mixture — rich without being sweet, the bitterness softened by the trace of smoke.
They turned onto the right street, and minutes later, Norawit braked in front of the address he’d been given. Nattawat stayed seated for a moment, stilling himself before slowly climbing off the bike. He studied Norawit quietly, lips parted, eyes searching.
“Oh, don’t mention it,” Titicharoenrak said dramatically, flashing a sarcastic, charming grin. “Really. It was no trouble at all. No need to thank me so passionately.”
“You’re impossible,” Nattawat muttered, though he smiled.
“If you knew me better, you’d know just how impossible I can be.”
“Maybe I’ll find out — if we run into each other again by accident.”
“Maybe.” Norawit’s eyes gleamed. “So, how exactly do you plan to pay me back for this thrilling ride?”
“What? Are you serious?” Nattawat stared.
“Nothing in this world is free, Fourth. Especially good deeds.”
“Hey! You were supposed to say that before we left, not at the end,” Nattawat protested. “Who does that?”
“I play by my own rules,” Norawit shrugged.
“Fine. What do you want?”
“What can you offer?” Titicharoenrak asked, licking his lips playfully.
“I—” Nattawat blinked rapidly, utterly unprepared, and Norawit arched a smug eyebrow. “Um… I—”
Titicharoenrak burst out laughing, shaking his head. He’d caught him perfectly off guard, and the wide-eyed look Nattawat wore was unbearably cute. For a second, he really did look like Bambi — startled and precious.
“Relax, pretty boy. I’m not going to eat you. Not yet,” Norawit said, tapping his chin. “God, you should’ve seen your face.”
“Idiot,” Nattawat muttered, exhaling sharply in frustration.
“It was priceless,” Norawit continued, still laughing. “I just had to tease you. Honestly, a simple ‘thank you’ would’ve been enough. But I am curious — what exactly were you prepared to offer?”
Nattawat shoved his shoulder, cheeks warming. Why the hell did his mind go somewhere inappropriate?
“Thank you,” he said quickly.
“But if you do have other offers—”
“Get lost,” Nattawat shot back, heading toward the porch.
“Oh, come on, Fourth! You put me in a playful mood. Who was the one clinging to me, huh? I warned you!” Norawit shouted after him, laughing.
Nattawat shook his head, smiling despite himself. He opened the door, lifted a hand behind him, and flipped Norawit off.
Titicharoenrak laughed loudly, watching him disappear inside. When Nattawat shut the door, he heard the motorcycle roar to life and peel away.
His cheeks refused to stop burning. The embarrassment, the teasing, the closeness — it all made him feel like some clueless school kid getting toyed with by an older, cocky senior. Norawit had done it on purpose. He’d enjoyed watching him fluster.
“Definitely a damn bastard,” Nattawat muttered under his breath, taking a long, steadying breath.
♰