MERCY AND MURDER

The rain hammered down on Bangkok like a grudge that wouldn't die. Neon lights blurred behind rivulets running down Dr. Anurak Thanawan’s windshield as his car idled in the hospital parking lot. He stared out at the darkness, knuckles white on the steering wheel, heartbeat just a little too fast for a man who claimed to feel nothing.

He was always calm. Always calculated. But tonight, something was off.

In the passenger seat lay a leather folder—inside it, the file of his most recent patient: Preecha Donsakul, 62, stage four pancreatic cancer. Unbearable pain. No hope. No family. And now… dead.

Anurak had been the last one in the room. Again.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the rain and the distant thrum of life pulsing through the city. His voice recorder was still in his coat pocket. The conversation with Preecha had been recorded. Consent had been given. The cocktail had been administered. Legal gray areas danced between the shadows, but he had always been careful.

Until now.

His phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

He frowned, hesitated, then answered.

“Doctor Thanawan,” said a voice—distorted, genderless, as cold as a morgue drawer. “How many more must you kill before someone stops you?”

The call cut off.

Anurak stared at the phone, his breath caught in his chest like a confession.

---

Across the city, in a dimly lit office above a steaming street of hawker stalls and motorbike chaos, Detective Kamon Suriyapornchai leaned over a corkboard littered with names, photos, and red strings. He rubbed his temples with nicotine-stained fingers, the ash from his third cigarette falling on his shirt. The air was thick with humidity and frustration.

Seven deaths. All within six months. All terminal patients. All under the same palliative care team.

Kam's eyes settled on a black-and-white photo of Dr. Anurak Thanawan.

"Too clean," he muttered. "Too fucking clean."

A knock on the glass door interrupted his thoughts.

It was his rookie partner, Mali, her expression tight. “Sir, a journalist’s here. Says he got a call you’ll want to hear.”

---

Phupha Rojanaphruk sat in the station’s stale waiting area, scrolling through his voice memo app. The 28-year-old wore a denim jacket with a rainbow flag patch and black nail polish chipped at the edges. His eyes were bright but restless—like a man who danced too close to flames for a living.

Kamon sat opposite him, eyes narrowed. “You're the activist who live-streamed that protest outside the Ministry of Health last month.”

“You watched?” Phupha smiled, sharp and easy. “Flattered.”

“Don't be. What do you have?”

Phupha clicked play. The voice was the same—distorted, mechanical.

“You want a story? Try this: A doctor is killing people and calling it mercy. One of them was never dying. Find him before I do.”

Kamon sat back, jaw tight.

“You recognize the voice?” Phupha asked.

“No. But I recognize a challenge when I hear one.”

Phupha leaned forward. “So do I.”

---

Two nights later, Anurak stood on the edge of a rooftop garden—his sanctuary atop a luxury apartment building in Thonglor. The city lights below blinked like dying stars. A cigarette burned between his fingers, forgotten. He hadn't smoked in years, but something about the call cracked open an old craving.

His doorbell rang. He frowned. No one visited unannounced.

He opened the door to a tall man in a wrinkled shirt and cynical eyes. Kamon flashed his badge.

“Dr. Anurak Thanawan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Kamon Suriyapornchai. I’d like to ask you a few questions. About your patients.”

“I have many.”

Kamon stepped inside without waiting. “I’m interested in the dead ones.”

---

The interview was formal, but the tension was not. Kamon asked about ethics, consent, paperwork. Anurak answered with the calm precision of a scalpel. But beneath it all, Kamon saw something in his eyes—pain, maybe. Or guilt.

“You think I killed them,” Anurak said finally.

“I think something doesn’t add up.”

Silence.

Then Anurak said, “Do you believe in mercy, Detective?”

“I believe in justice.”

“They’re not always the same thing.”

Kamon looked at him for a long moment. “Tell that to the family of Supat Wongchai.”

Anurak froze.

“Supat?” he said quietly.

“He was your patient. Supposedly dying. But the autopsy says otherwise.”

A beat passed.

Anurak whispered, “That’s not possible.”

Kamon’s phone buzzed. Another anonymous tip.

The voice again:

“Tick tock. One of you is lying. One of you is next.”

---

Later that night, Phupha stood outside a bar in Silom, watching the rain trace lines across his camera lens. He was filming something—anything—to distract from the dread crawling up his spine.

His phone rang. Same blocked number.

“Curiosity is a dangerous thing,” the voice said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the one cleaning up what people like Anurak start. Want to see real mercy? I’ll show you.”

Click.

The camera slipped from his hand.

Across the city, a nurse was found dead in her apartment. Her body staged, a photo in her hand.

It was of Dr. Anurak.

With the words “He lets them die. I make sure they do.” scrawled across her chest in red lipstick.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...

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