CHAPTER 10
“I saw him, Thirawat,” Kawin whispered, his knuckles white against the cool edge of the table. His voice was a thin, raw thread, barely audible above the low hum of the laptop. “It was him. My Noi.”
Thirawat Mekprasert, a picture of controlled tension, glanced at Tawan Prapanakul. Tawan sat in the corner, almost like a ghost in the room, illuminated by the pale, blue glow of his screen. Cords, thick and black, snaked from his laptop like exposed nerves, a digital circulatory system.
Tawan’s features, sharp and intelligent behind his glasses, remained unreadable, calm.
They had heard this many times from Kawin, this strong belief, this desperate hope.
But doubt, a persistent, annoying feeling, lingered in their minds.
How could such an innocent, gentle boy, a creature of light and laughter, have found himself at such a dangerous party, a snake pit of the city’s rich and evil?
“You’re sure?” Thirawat asked quietly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room, trying to make Kawin feel more steady.
“I saw the damn plushie in his arms,” Kawin hissed, the memory a fresh cut, bleeding anew.
His eyes, wide and haunted, reflected a terror only he could truly feel.
“He was trying to run to me when—” His voice cracked, breaking like fragile glass.
“When he took him.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken pain.
Tawan, seemingly unaffected by the strong emotions in the room, clicked a few keys, the soft thud of plastic on plastic a sharp contrast to Kawin’s anguish.
Thermal blueprints of the Thanawanich estate appeared across his screen, a skeletal outline of a fortress.
“We’ll get him back,” he said simply, his voice flat, without emotion, a cold statement of fact.
“But it has to be perfect. One mistake and you’re dead before you take a step inside. ”
Kawin swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “He’s still alive. That means Inthorn is keeping him for a reason.” A flicker of hope, fragile but strong, lit up in his eyes.
“Possession,” Thirawat muttered, his gaze fixed on the digital fortress on the screen. “Thanawanich collects pretty things. Breaks them. Kills them.” His words were a sharp, brutal truth, like an icy bucket of water poured on Kawin’s faint hope.
Tawan nodded, a subtle, almost invisible movement. “I’ve been inside their network. The security grid is military-grade, very strong. But…” A faint, almost invisible smirk touched his lips, a flicker of dark amusement. “I can write malware that’ll blind their cameras for five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” Kawin repeated, the words a lifeline, a ticking clock, so little time.
“Five minutes,” Tawan confirmed, his gaze steady. “You and Thirawat go in through the north wall. I’ll trigger the power flux from here. But if you’re not out with Noi in five—” He left the sentence hanging, the unspoken consequence a chilling shadow in the room.
“We will be.” Kawin’s voice, though still strained, was filled with a fierce, strong determination.
They leaned over the blueprints again, a huddle of grim resolve.
Point by point, they carefully studied the digital map: motion detectors, guard rotations, hidden sensors, escape routes.
And behind it all, a silent thought, the driving force behind their desperate plan, pulsed through Kawin’s mind: “My baby brother… I’m coming. ”
_____
Meanwhile – At the Safehouse...
Sarut Thanawanich lay sprawled on silk sheets, a lazy, dangerous figure.
His mouth, curved cruelly, was pressed against the throbbing pulse at the throat of his husband, Thanit.
The candlelight, a trembling flame, cast shifting shadows over their bare skin, showing a dark red bite, already blooming like a sinister flower, on Thanit’s collarbone.
Sarut giggled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across cracked earth, chilling and unpleasant. “I want that boy,” he purred, his voice a low, rough whisper, his lips brushing Thanit’s ear.
Thanit, a mirror of his husband’s evil, smirked. “Inthorn’s doll?”
“Mmhmm…” Sarut’s tongue flicked down Thanit’s chest, a snake-like touch. “The one with the bunny. He looks soft. Like vanilla pudding.”
“You want to taste him?” Thanit teased, his hips grinding against Sarut’s, a twisted, ugly imitation of intimacy. “So do I. I missed my bite of Inthorn’s mother. Maybe his little toy will do.”
They both laughed, a chilling, synchronized sound. Like hyenas circling something already bleeding, their hunger a real, festering thing in the air, a desire for pain.
_____
Thanawanich Estate – Midday...
Noi stirred, a soft rustle of silk. The sheets, still warm from a night of restless sleep, clung to him as he sat up, blinking slowly toward the soft, filtered light streaming through his curtains.
Bunbun, his beloved plushie, was curled in his arms, his ears matted with sleep and the lingering, sweet, yet disturbing scent of last night’s encounter.
He climbed out of bed with a small wince, a faint ache still stitched into his body like a grim reminder. “Inthorn…?” he whispered, his voice a tentative question in the vast, silent room.
Silence. Only the faint hum of the mansion, a living, breathing entity, answered him.
Noi padded out into the hallway, passing the quiet, almost invisible maids, dusting unseen motes from gleaming vases and intricate floral arrangements. The mansion, with its silent, watchful presence, always felt like it was watching him, its many eyes following his every move.
In the main hallway, he found the head maid, Saowalak, a figure of stiff calmness.
“Where is Inthorn?” he asked quietly, his voice a little stronger now, like a fragile reed bending in the wind.
The woman bowed, her movements precise and practiced. “Out on business, young master. He will return tonight.”
Noi’s mouth pressed into a thin line, a tiny crease of worry appearing between his brows. “Can I… walk outside?”
The head maid turned to the butler, a stoic, elderly man whose face held the stillness of ancient stone. He gave a slight nod.
“Yes, but stay near the garden. Some guards will follow you.”
Noi nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes.
Bunbun clutched in his hand, he slipped outside, drawn by the promise of fresh air and a brief escape from the mansion’s stifling embrace.
_____
The Secret Garden...
It was quiet behind the estate, a hushed calmness that was a stark contrast to the mansion’s contained energy.
The main courtyard curved toward the east, where tall, carefully shaped hedges lined the edge of the vast property.
But behind them—hidden through a narrow, almost invisible stone passage—Noi found something else.
A gate, heavy and ornate, stood half-covered in a shroud of clinging ivy, almost swallowed by the overgrown plants. He pushed it open, the ancient hinges groaning softly in protest.
Beyond was a garden—not like the neat, vibrant one he’d walked before. This one was wild and still, a place where nature had taken over. The trees were tall and twisted, their gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards the sky.
Orchids, exotic and beautiful, bloomed in neat, unsettlingly uniform rows, all facing toward a dark, roughly carved altar at the very center of the space. Strange windchimes clicked in the gentle breeze—made, he realized with a sickening jolt, of bone.
Beneath each orchid, an ivory plaque gleamed, pristine white against the dark earth. Noi tilted his head, a childish curiosity still clinging to him. He stepped closer to the first one, his heart still light with the freedom of the outdoors.
It read: Jirada Thanawanich – Loved too loudly.
Another: Namphon – Failed to beg properly.
He kept walking, each step drawing him deeper into the chilling revelation.
Benny.
Lalana.
Song.
Each name. Each flower. Each grave.
Then—
He saw it.
Freshly dug earth. The soil was dark, disturbed, a stark patch of raw reality against the serene green of the garden.
The plaque was already placed.
Noi Thanawanich – Pending.
Noi’s blood froze in his veins, turning to ice.
The world tilted, the vibrant colors of the orchids bleeding into a hazy, nightmarish blur.
His knees trembled, threatening to give way beneath him.
His plushie, Bunbun, a silent witness to his terror, slipped from his arms and fell to the dark earth, forgotten.
He backed away, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency.
Then he ran. Through the hedges, the thorns catching at his clothes.
Down the echoing halls of the mansion, past the startled, gossiping maids whose whispers suddenly seemed to be mocking him.
Up the grand, sweeping stairs, two at a time.
Into his room, his sanctuary, now a cage.
And he locked the door, the click of the tumblers a final, definitive sound.
He didn’t even cry. The tears were frozen, trapped in his throat. He just shook, a tremor that wracked his entire body, the image of the garden, the names, the empty plaque, burned into his mind.
_____
Downtown Bangkok – Thanawanich Front Meeting...
Inthorn sat at the head of the polished obsidian table, a picture of quiet power. A single glass of dark wine, its surface reflecting the flickering light, rested in his hand.
Around him, the lower-caste gangsters and regional smugglers shifted nervously in their seats, their faces showing a mixture of fear and exaggerated politeness.
The grand chandelier above, its crystal facets shimmering, flickered faintly under the generator power, a testament to the city’s unreliable electricity.
The meeting had just begun, the air thick with unspoken tensions, when one of them, a man whose shirt was half-unbuttoned, gold chains tangling at his throat, laughed. A coarse, crude sound.
“I heard you got a new pet, Mr. Thanawanich,” the man said, a leering grin on his face. “Cute thing. You planning to share?”
The room fell dead silent, the previous murmurs and shuffling abruptly stopping. The air became thick, heavy, like before a storm, filled with unspoken danger.
Inthorn smiled. Slowly. Deliberately. A predatory showing of teeth.
He stood, his movements fluid and unhurried. He walked around the table—quietly, deliberately—until he stood directly behind the man.
“You saw him?” he asked, his voice a silky whisper, smooth and dangerous as a coiled snake, barely heard.
The man, unaware of the immediate danger, laughed again, a braying sound. “Of course. At the masquerade. The one with the bunny.”
Inthorn nodded thoughtfully, a flicker of something dark and ancient in his eyes. He then looked at Dae, his silent, ever-present shadow.
Dae, without a word, pulled a blade from his jacket and handed it to his master, the metal glinting ominously in the dim light.
Inthorn gripped the man by the back of the head, his fingers strong and unyielding. With a sickening crack, he slammed the man’s skull down onto the polished obsidian table.
Blood spurted, a dark crimson stain blooming across the gleaming surface. The man screamed, a raw, primal sound of agony.
Before anyone could move, before anyone could even fully understand the horror unfolding before them, Inthorn held the man’s head still—and drove the knife into his eye socket.
The scream turned into a garbled howl, choked and wet. The blade twisted, a sickening, grinding sound as it dug deeper.
One eyeball popped out—wet and red and trailing optic nerves like jellyfish tendrils, dangling obscenely. Inthorn placed it calmly in a pristine porcelain dish, a macabre offering, a gruesome gift.
Then he took the other.
Squelch.
Pop.
Another scream, this one weaker, fading into a whimpering gurgle.
Blood streamed down the table, a river of horror.
Inthorn turned to Dae, his face impassive, as though he had merely completed a simple task. “Put these in a jar. Label them ‘First Warning.’”
Dae nodded, his face betraying no emotion, and left with the dish.
Inthorn turned to the room, his gaze sweeping over the horrified, frozen faces of the other men.
“If any of you so much as look at my Noi again,” he said, his voice now laced with pure, unadulterated poison, a venomous hiss, “I will remove your eyes, your tongues, and your entire fucking bloodline.”
Silence. A profound, suffocating silence. Every man in the room nodded frantically, their faces pale, their eyes wide with terror, utterly cowed.
“Dismissed.”
_____
Drive Back to the Estate...
The car door opened, a silent whisper in the humid Bangkok night. Inthorn slid into the back seat, removing his gloves, now stained in a dark, rusty red.
Dae closed the door behind him with a soft click and started the car, the engine purring to life.
Inthorn leaned his head back against the plush leather seat, his eyes dark and strangely amused, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips.
“I feel better,” he said, his voice a low, contented murmur.
Dae didn’t respond. He knew better than to speak during one of Inthorn’s high moods.
_____
Meanwhile – The Forest Safehouse...
Pramote Thanawanich sipped his soup in silence, the gentle clink of his spoon against the bowl the only sound in the tense room.
Wimondevi adjusted her pearl necklace, her movements precise and deliberate, while Thanaboon, a predatory gleam in his eyes, played with his knife, scraping it against the rough wood of the table, a low, grating sound.
Kannika and Suthida were whispering in a corner, their voices low and conspiratorial, a private eddy in the swirling currents of the room.
Sarut, oblivious or uncaring of the underlying tension, kicked his feet up onto the table, a dreamy, unsettling smile gracing his lips. “The toy from the party,” he said, his voice a soft, almost childish purr. “He looked like he’d scream nicely. When can we eat him.”
Thanit, ever entwined with Sarut, ran a hand along his thigh, a possessive, intimate gesture. “We’ll taste him together.”
Thanit pouted, a fleeting expression of childish displeasure. “I didn’t get to eat Inthorn’s mother, darling.”
Sarut grinned, a wide, malevolent smile. “But we’ll eat his love. That’s fair.”
They both laughed, a chilling, shared sound that echoed in the silent room. The others didn’t stop them, their faces impassive.
“Don’t worry, You’ll get to taste him soon.” Wimondevi finally spoke, her voice smooth and unsettlingly calm, her eyes glinting with a dark satisfaction.
It was Thanawanich tradition. The one Wimondevi started.
_____
Noi’s Bedroom...
Noi curled beneath the blanket, a small, trembling huddle, Bunbun pressed tight against his chest, the soft fur a faint comfort against the terror.
He stared at the locked door, as if it could magically transform into a protective shield, keeping the monsters out.
He tried not to think about the graves, a chilling tableau burned into his mind. Or the plaque, the words etched into his very soul. Or what would happen when Inthorn came home. The thought was a cold knot in his stomach.
But still—despite it all—a strange, perverse ache settled in his heart at the thought of the man not returning. A confusing, terrifying sense of attachment to his captor, a twisted love.
He closed his eyes, desperate for escape from his thoughts.
And dreamed of orchids dripping in blood, their vibrant petals stained a grotesque crimson.