CHAPTER 2
The air outside the auction house was thick with the smells of cold rain and gasoline.
Bangkok’s late-night stickiness felt like a second skin, heavy and always there.
Streetlights flickered far away, making broken circles of light on the wet ground.
The distant rumble of cars was quieter under the bright glow of neon signs and the soft quiet of the shadows.
But where Inthorn Thanawanich walked, the shadows seemed to bow down and obey him. Even the wind seemed to stop moving.
He didn't say anything as he pulled the boy—his new possession, his prize—through the back hallway of the auction house.
His hand was wrapped tightly around the boy's thin, shaking wrist, skin against skin like a collar without a chain.
Every time the boy stumbled, Inthorn pulled him forward without stopping.
Not in a mean way, but with a clear purpose.
It was as if he wasn't pulling a person, but leading a lamb to a fancy, deadly place.
Thanonchai—or what was left of him, feeling like only a part of himself remained—walked like someone caught in a bad dream.
His bunny plushie hung from his arm, gently bouncing against his leg with each uneven step.
His feet hurt badly. His body moved in sudden, disconnected ways, like he wasn't in control.
The bright lights hurt his eyes. The air burned his lungs.
Everything was too much for him to handle.
He tried not to cry. He tried to remember how to breathe normally. But all he could do was follow, pulled along by the powerful man.
When the door opened, the cold air hit him hard. The smell of wet ground, petrol, and distant jasmine flowers filled his lungs. Rain hadn't started yet, but the dark clouds promised it would soon. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, a low warning sound.
A long, shiny limousine stood parked in the alley, like a hidden beast waiting silently.
Its surface shone like black glass under the security lights, its windows tinted darker than night, hiding any secrets inside.
The engine was already humming softly—as if it had been waiting for this exact moment. For him.
As they got closer, the back door opened from the inside with a soft click.
A man stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered, with scars.
Dressed completely in black, with long hair tied low at the back of his neck and a face that looked like it had been shaped by war and deep wisdom.
His eyes—sharp, cold, and watchful—glanced quickly at the boy, then turned to his master with quiet respect.
This was Phuwadol Kittisak. People called him Dae.
He was Inthorn Thanawanich's most trusted helper, loyal even more than death itself. He was feared in every hidden part of Bangkok’s criminal underworld.
He said nothing. He just bowed his head slightly and held the door open.
Inthorn didn't hesitate. He pushed the boy, now called Noi, inside first—one hand pushing the boy forward into the velvet-lined car, the other following with calm purpose.
Thanonchai fell into the dark space of the car.
Then Inthorn followed, stepping in with the relaxed grace of a tiger returning to its den. The door shut with a final, echoing thump, sealing them inside.
The world outside disappeared completely.
And in that dark, velvet silence, Inthorn pulled Noi straight onto his lap—like luggage, like something just unwrapped from its packaging. The boy made a soft sound. A gasp. A whimper. His body stiffened, shaking, as he clutched the bunny tighter to his chest, his only comfort.
Dae walked around and slid into the driver’s seat without a word.
The engine started humming, and the car began to move forward.
Inside, it was completely silent. A very small, enclosed space.
Lit only by soft golden lights running along the floor and ceiling.
Everything else was shadows and the faint, calming smell of sandalwood.
Noi didn't move. His breaths came in quick, shallow gasps. He was too afraid to look directly at the man holding him. Too afraid to cry properly, loudly. He didn’t understand this new world, this terrifying silence, this hungry look in Inthorn’s eyes.
All he knew was that his life had changed forever, and he wasn't sure he would live through the night.
“Inhale,” Inthorn whispered, his voice deep and close, right next to Noi's ear.
The boy flinched, startled.
“Exhale,” the man continued, his mouth gently touching the curve of Noi's ear.
“Slow. Like that. Good.”
Noi obeyed, or tried to, forcing himself to breathe as told.
But the tears came anyway. Quiet tears.
Helpless tears. Sliding down his cheeks like shame, hot and painful.
Inthorn’s hand moved again, gripping the boy’s chin with a gentleness that felt more terrifying than any violence. He turned Noi's face toward him.
“What’s your name?” he asked, not in a mean way, but not in a kind way either. Just a statement.
Noi’s voice broke as he answered, small and shaky. “M-My name is Thanonchai… but… but everyone calls me Noi.”
A short pause followed.
Then, slowly, the man’s lips curved into a smile.
“Noi,” he repeated, enjoying the sound as if it were a fine wine, tasting it.
He leaned closer—his nose brushing the soft skin of the boy’s throat—and inhaled deeply, taking in Noi's scent.
“I like it.”
He licked his lips slowly.
“My Noi.”
The words were whispered like a magic spell. Like a promise of ownership, of never letting go.
Noi gasped as Inthorn pressed his mouth to his neck—soft at first. A kiss that stayed just a little too long. Then his lips parted. His teeth gently bit.
Then he bit harder.
A whimper escaped Noi, a small sound of pain and fear.
Inthorn’s tongue traced over the mark.
Then another mark, lower, bruising the skin, sucking gently.
As if he was tasting a fruit no one else had ever touched, a forbidden and delicious treat.
The plush bunny almost slipped from the boy’s arms, but he gripped it tighter—his knuckles white, holding on as if it was the only thing keeping him from drowning in this overwhelming new reality.
When Inthorn finally leaned back, he was smiling, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.
“Delicious,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth where a tiny bit of blood had almost appeared, a faint red stain.
Outside, Bangkok moved past the windows—hazy neon lights blurred by the rain, the distant whine of motorcycle engines. But inside the limousine, the world was quieter. Darker. Velvet and silk. A coffin designed like a king's throne, carrying a hidden, dark secret.
Dae didn’t speak from the driver’s seat. But he watched. Through the rearview mirror, his eyes often flicked to the backseat—observing, emotionless, but never missing anything.
Twenty minutes later, the car slowed down.
Thanonchai looked up, confused, not knowing where they were.
Ahead of them, enormous black iron gates creaked open like the mouth of something very old and waiting.
Beyond them stood a white stone estate—huge, silent, covered in moonlight.
The mansion loomed at the end of a winding driveway lined with old banyan trees and marble statues of angels.
Their faces were cracked and broken. Some seemed to cry. Others smiled, eerie in the dim light.
The limousine stopped.
Dae stepped out, opening the back door for his master.
Inthorn followed, but he didn’t let the boy walk on his own.
He lifted him. As if he weighed nothing at all.
Thanonchai yelped softly, a small sound of surprise, but the man said nothing—he just carried him up the white marble steps like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold, or a butcher carrying a lamb to its final destination.
The staff were already waiting. Rows of guards in black suits.
Maids in crisp white uniforms. Butler in perfectly ironed charcoal uniform.
They stood in perfect lines on either side of the grand entrance, their heads bowed in a strangely unified way, a silent, disciplined greeting.
“Welcome home, Master Inthorn,” they chanted in unison, their voices low and respectful.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at them, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
His boots echoed down the marble hallway like war drums, each step a declaration of power.
Through the large, gold-framed double doors, they entered a main hall lit by chandeliers the size of bedrooms. The boy squinted at the sudden bright light, his head resting against Inthorn’s chest as he tried desperately not to cry again.
Waiting at the center of the hall was an older woman. Sharp. Unbending. Dressed completely in black with her white hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Her eyes were impossible to read, showing no emotion.
This was Saowalak Kanchanawan. The head maid.
A person with a lot of tough experience, clearly in charge of the household staff.
Inthorn handed Noi over to her without any ceremony, like passing off a package.
“Clean him,” he said, his voice firm.
“Feed him. Make sure he doesn’t get any bruises.
”
A pause, heavy with meaning.
“He’s mine now. ”
Saowalak bowed her head. “As you wish, Master,” she replied.
Her voice was dry, like old paper, like something that hadn’t felt warmth in ten years.
Thanonchai clutched his bunny tighter as she laid a hand on his shoulder.
Her grip wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t soft either. It was firm, taking control.
“Come, child,” she said, her voice flat but kind.
He looked over his shoulder as he was led away, a final glance at the man who now owned him.
Inthorn was already walking in the opposite direction, Dae at his side, always present.
They disappeared down the western hallway, toward the hidden, most important part of the house.
The door to Inthorn’s study closed behind them with a soft click, sealing them inside.
The smell of leather, tobacco, and polished wood filled the room.
It was lined with dark books, old weapons, and paintings that made one feel uncomfortable—red oil on black canvas, bleeding into fancy gold frames.
There were no windows, only lamps and shadows, a place of secrets.
Inthorn dropped into a comfortable leather chair with a satisfied sigh. Dae remained standing, always ready. He handed over a thick black file.
“Everything on your Noi,” he said. “Name. Birth records. School. Medical. Family. Every scar, every history.”
Inthorn took the file but didn’t open it. Instead, he slid it into the drawer of his desk and locked it with a golden key, putting it away for later.
“I don’t want to know yet,” he said, a strange comment.
Dae nodded, understanding. He didn’t push the matter, knowing better than to question his master.
Moments later, there was a knock. Saowalak entered the study.
“He’s bathed. Fed. Settled,” she reported simply.
Inthorn looked at her, his dark eyes intense. “Good. Go.”
She left, and silence fell again, thick and heavy.
Dae was the one to break it this time.
“Your father,” he said. “Pramote Thanawanich. He’s hosting a masquerade. Invitation-only. In two nights.”
Inthorn laughed. A sharp, cruel laugh that bounced off the walls like gunshots, filling the room with a chilling sound.
“That old corpse is still dancing,” he said, contempt in his voice, “when he should be preparing for his funeral.”
He turned to the windowless wall, taking a sip of wine from his glass.
The wine was blood-red, a fitting color for the man.
“Another doll,” Dae said quietly, his voice low. “Another fragile thing.”
He didn’t say the rest of his thought, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air.
Inthorn smiled, a predatory look.
“I remember the last one,” he said, his voice almost nostalgic. “I remember how he screamed.”
He drained his glass and licked the rim, a hint of something dark in his eyes.
“I wonder if this one will scream too.”
Meanwhile, Thanonchai sat alone in a velvet-padded room, a silent prisoner.
Dressed in silky pajamas, his skin still smelled of soap, clean but vulnerable.
The bunny had been cleaned too; its torn ear now sewn back with delicate gold thread, a small attempt at mending a broken thing.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He just held it, clutching his only connection to a life that no longer existed.
Somewhere far away, the monster was drinking wine and wondering if his new toy would survive the night.