CHAPTER 6
The long hallways of the Thanawanich estate were silent as Inthorn walked down them, his footsteps echoing.
Soft classical music played from hidden speakers, a gentle sound that almost covered the quiet chirping of insects from the jungle outside.
His polished boots clicked against the black marble floor, the sound echoing across the grand staircase that twisted downwards like a giant serpent to the main floor.
Paintings of royal executions, framed in heavy gold, stared down at him with cold, lifeless eyes. None of them bothered him; he had grown up with their dead gazes, used to the violence they showed.
At the bottom of the steps, the head maid, Saowalak, waited, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron, her posture stiff.
“Bring me my Noi,” he said simply, not even glancing at her, his voice a quiet command.
She bowed immediately, a quick, silent movement, and disappeared into the eastern wing like a shadow escaping the sun, moving with practiced speed.
Inthorn walked to the tall mirror near the entrance, calmly adjusting the cuffs of his black silk shirt, which fit perfectly.
He straightened the demon mask he held loosely in one hand—a dark, menacing face with golden tusks.
His other fingers brushed against the special invitation tucked into his inner coat pocket—it was specially made, sealed with fine gold thread, a sign of its importance.
He barely looked up when soft footsteps returned, signaling Noi’s arrival.
Then he saw him.
Noi was coming down the stairs, led by the maid.
He was dressed in a suit of black velvet, beautifully embroidered with silver thread that shimmered faintly.
The porcelain rabbit mask rested gently on his face, tilted slightly from his walk, hiding his true expression.
His bare arms shimmered softly in the dim lighting, and even now, in this fancy outfit, he clutched his bunny plushie tightly to his chest, his only comfort.
Inthorn stopped breathing for a moment, captivated. The sight was too perfect. Too cruel. Too much his, utterly belonging to him.
His hand reached out by instinct, a silent command for Noi to approach.
Noi hesitated for only a second, a tiny flicker of fear showing through his movements, before stepping closer, drawn by Inthorn’s presence.
Their fingers touched—Inthorn’s hand was cold, powerful, while Noi’s was warm and trembling, a strange mix of control and innocence. Inthorn laced his hand tightly around the boy’s, a possessive grip that left no doubt of ownership.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if it were a secret meant only for the walls to hear, not for public ears.
Then he led Noi forward, the boy’s small hand held firmly in his.
The mansion doors creaked open slowly, revealing the night outside. Two rows of staff and armed guards bowed at the same time on either side of the hallway, their movements perfectly synchronized. They were
silent, respectful, their faces grim.
The air seemed to taste of power, heavy and commanding. Noi clutched his plushie even tighter, the bunny’s long ears dragging along the polished tile floor as they walked between the lines of bowing servants, a tiny, vulnerable figure amidst the grandeur.
Outside, a sleek, matte-black imported car waited, gleaming under the moonlight like a piece of dark, smooth obsidian.
Dae Kittisak stood at the back of the car, wearing gloves, and bowed slightly before pulling the door open. “Master,” he said, his voice flat with respect.
Inthorn nodded. He guided Noi into the back seat, letting him sit first, always putting the boy’s comfort above his own, a strange gesture of care. Then he followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
The vehicle was completely soundproofed, its interior padded in black velvet and secretly lined with small, hidden weapons just under the seats, ready for any trouble.
Dae climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, pulling smoothly away from the mansion.
As they pulled onto the private road, Inthorn turned to Noi, his mask still in his hand, his eyes piercing.
“Listen closely,” he said, his voice like velvet-wrapped steel, smooth but unbreakable, a clear warning. “You will stay right beside me the entire night. You do not speak unless I allow it. If anyone touches you—anyone—”
He leaned closer, his lips brushing lightly against the delicate rabbit ear of Noi’s mask, a chilling intimacy. “I’ll rip their hands off and make them eat their own fingers. Understand?”
Noi’s breath caught in his throat, a small gasp of terror. He nodded quickly, his whole body trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the threat. “Y-Yes…”
Inthorn smiled, a cruel, satisfied expression spreading across his face. “Good boy.”
_____
Kawin Siriprasert stood inside a dimly lit armory, pulling the last buckle tight on his tactical vest, the familiar weight a comfort.
Around him, his unit moved like shadows—checking silenced rifles, cleaning night-vision scopes, their own black masks hanging ready from their belts, preparing for the raid.
“Thirty minutes to go,” said the squad captain, his voice low and firm, a whisper of command. “Remember, no ID. No names. Mask on at entry. This is a ghost raid—we leave no trace.”
Kawin nodded, checking the small sidearm hidden securely under his coat, his hand familiar with its weight.
“Our target is the Thanawanich masquerade,” the captain continued, his voice grim.
“We have reports of human trafficking, sacrificial rituals, and high-level black market deals happening there. We go in masked, and no civilians will be spared if they fight back. The extraction window is twenty minutes after we breach—we hit hard and get out fast.”
The other agents responded with short, sharp affirmations, ready to obey.
Kawin’s hands clenched into tight fists, a knot of worry in his stomach. He didn’t know his brother would be there. Not yet.
_____
At the Estate Gates…
The guards straightened to attention, becoming rigid as the sleek black car approached, its engine a low purr.
They wore elaborate ceremonial armor—useless for actual fighting, but designed to look very intimidating and powerful.
One guard stepped forward and held up a hand, signaling the car to stop.
Inthorn rolled down the window, revealing the invitation card. A single word, bold and powerful, was written across the golden parchment, shining in the dim light: Thanawanich.
The guard instantly stepped back, his eyes lowered in respect, recognizing the name and the master. “Forgive us, Master Inthorn. You may enter.”
The massive iron gates parted slowly, groaning like ancient beasts, opening into the unknown.
The car continued along the torchlit driveway, which wound through thick trees before opening into a huge circular courtyard.
Other luxury vehicles were already parked in neat rows—long limousines, sleek matte sports cars, and even some limousines painted with the symbols of dangerous criminal cartels.
It was a gathering of monsters, all arriving for the same dark purpose.
Dae parked the car near the front of the grand manor and opened the door.
Inthorn stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand to Noi.
Noi stepped out carefully, holding Bunbun with one hand and Inthorn’s fingers with the other, his small body a picture of innocence beside the menacing man.
His rabbit mask gleamed under the sparkling chandeliers strung across the marble arches, a beacon of white in the darkness.
They walked forward into the towering manor, a place that belonged to Pramote Thanawanich himself—the Thanawanich family patriarch and a notorious war criminal.
As they entered the grand foyer, the air became thick with the overwhelming scents of expensive perfume, rich cigar smoke, and something more primal—the hidden smell of sweat, extreme wealth, and the silent, hungry anticipation of blood.
Inside, the masquerade had truly begun.
_____
Masked guests moved like predators in silken skins—laughing behind masks that looked like fangs of gold, drinking dark wine from elegant crystal glasses shaped like skulls.
Velvet drapes shimmered, embroidered with images of corpses from ancient Thai folklore, adding to the eerie atmosphere.
Some masks resembled fierce garudas, powerful mythical birds.
Others were grotesque rakshasas, terrifying demons.
Each guest seemed more unsettling than the last, hidden yet revealing their true nature through their chosen disguise.
Women wore tight latex gowns, some with mouths stitched shut, a disturbing fashion choice that hinted at silent submission. Men in robes covered in gold leaf kissed strangers’ knuckles while whispering about the sins they would commit later that night, their voices low and conspiring.
A low, ritualistic drum beat played in the background, steady and slow, like a heartbeat waiting to stop, adding to the unsettling rhythm of the party.
Inthorn held Noi close, his arm tight around the boy’s back, a possessive, protective gesture that kept Noi tucked securely against him.
Dae Kittisak joined them after parking the car, his mask making him a silent, watchful presence. “Your siblings are here,” he said quietly into Inthorn’s ear, a warning.
Inthorn chuckled, a dark, amused sound that held no warmth. “Let the reunion begin.”
They didn’t get far before a man approached them.
He was tall, dressed in an expensive suit, and wore a bird-like porcelain mask, giving him a strange, predatory look.
He reached forward quickly, before Inthorn could even speak, his movements swift.
He touched Noi’s hand. Then—he kissed it, a slow, lingering gesture.
“What a delicate thing you are,” the man cooed, his voice thick with wine, his eyes lingering on Noi. “What’s a little rabbit like you doing in a place like this?”
Noi froze, his small body stiffening instantly, fear seizing him. He snatched his hand back, his eyes wide with fear behind the rabbit mask, a visible tremor shaking him.
Inthorn’s entire body went absolutely still, a terrifying stillness that spoke of coiled power.
Then slowly, deliberately, he turned and met Dae’s gaze.
A silent, understanding nod passed between them, a swift communication of deadly intent.
Dae nodded back, his face grim, acknowledging the command.
The man who had touched Noi would be taken to the basement before sunrise. No one touches what’s his.
_____
At the front of the hall…
A low, resonant bell rang, cutting through the chatter and music, silencing everyone.
All eyes turned as Pramote Thanawanich stepped onto the blackened stage at the far end of the ballroom, a grim spotlight illuminating him.
He was flanked by Wimondevi, who was dressed in ceremonial white with a crown of vibrant red orchids, looking like a priestess of a dark ritual.
“Welcome,” Pramote said, his voice amplified and low, filling the vast space, commanding attention. “Tonight, as always, we gather in the name of legacy… sacrifice… and blood.”
The guests applauded, a chilling, eager sound, hungry for what was to come.
Then, two masked guards dragged a man forward—his hands were bound tightly, his eyes blindfolded, and his shirt was torn, showing the marks of struggle.
He screamed as they dropped him roughly to his knees before Pramote.
Pramote drew a curved blade from an obsidian sheath, the dark metal glinting dangerously under the stage lights.
“We give this soul to the old spirits,” Pramote declared, his voice booming.
“So our empire remains untouched.” He paused, letting the silence build, his voice deepening into a sinister pronouncement. “And we’ll serve his meat to everyone.”
He raised the knife high above his head, ready to strike.
Wimondevi began chanting, a low, guttural sound that filled the air with an ancient, terrifying energy, urging on the dark ritual.
Then—
An explosion ripped through the silence, shattering the eerie calm.
Glass shattered everywhere, raining down in glittering, deadly shards.
Alarms screamed, a piercing, chaotic sound that tore through the air.
Gunfire erupted from all sides, a sudden, deafening roar.
Black-suited officers poured in through every entrance, moving with speed and precision.
Gas canisters rolled across the polished floors, releasing thick, choking clouds that spread rapidly.
Screams erupted as cartel heirs and warlords, who moments before had been poised for dark revelry, ran in every direction, their masked faces contorted in pure panic, their hidden identities now useless.
The lights died, plunging the ballroom into a sudden, terrifying darkness, broken only by muzzle flashes.
The chandeliers crashed to the floor, exploding into glittering shards with thunderous sounds.
The masquerade shattered into utter, horrifying chaos.
Kawin Siriprasert stormed into the ballroom, his rifle raised, his eyes scanning the swirling dust and panicked forms through his night-vision scope.
He kicked down the doors to the ballroom, forcing them open with a loud bang, and then froze in place as someone stumbled past him in the swirling chaos.
A flash of black velvet. A distinctive rabbit mask.
A plushie falling to the ground, soft and forgotten amidst the destruction, a tiny white beacon in the chaos.
He turned—his heart stopping in his chest as he recognized the familiar items.
“…Noi?” he whispered, his voice filled with shock and disbelief.