The morning after never looked as cinematic as the movies promised.
Anurak sat at the edge of his bed, shirtless, spine straight, watching the rain drip slowly down the balcony door. Beside him, Phupha stirred beneath the sheets, half-asleep and fully naked.
The silence was fragile, like glass.
“You regret it?” Phupha asked, voice low and rough.
“I don’t have the luxury.”
Phupha sat up, sheet pooled around his waist. “That’s not a no.”
Anurak stood and walked to the window. “There’s someone out there killing in my name. If last night compromised that—”
“It didn’t,” Phupha cut in. “I’m not a distraction. I’m an ally.”
Anurak’s gaze flicked back. “Let’s hope you don’t become a casualty instead.”
---
Elsewhere in Bangkok, Kamon entered the cyber forensics unit on the sixth floor of the Bhumibol Crime Center. The tech officer, Peeraphat—nicknamed “Ping”—greeted him with a can of energy drink and a tired grin.
“Got something,” Ping said. “The scrubbed footage? We ran facial recognition on the figure from Supat’s death.”
Kamon leaned in. “And?”
“Not in our system. But… check this.” Ping pulled up a grainy still. “That sign she held? Printed on hospital-grade paper. Top-left corner, faint watermark—Sri Racha Oncology Ward.”
“That’s not even in Bangkok.”
“Exactly.”
Kamon cursed under his breath.
“She’s been moving,” Ping said. “And planning for a while.”
---
Back at the condo, Phupha and Anurak reviewed their own investigation. They sat at the kitchen island, sipping strong black coffee and going over digital files, security logs, handwritten notes. A name kept reappearing, subtle like a watermark:
Dr. Nattanicha Wanarak.
“She was one of your residents two years ago,” Phupha said.
“She was brilliant,” Anurak replied. “Obsessively so. But she challenged everything—especially my ethics.”
“She filed complaints?”
“Unofficially. Whisper campaigns, anonymous evaluations, psychological barbs.”
“And then?”
“She transferred to Sri Racha for specialization in oncology.”
Phupha leaned back. “And now she’s killing people.”
Anurak hesitated. “If it’s her.”
“Do you believe in coincidence?”
“No.”
“Then believe in patterns.”
---
At headquarters, Kamon paced his office, heart racing. He hadn’t told the others everything. Not yet.
Last night, someone had sent him an email. No subject. No body. Just an attachment—a video.
He clicked play again.
It showed Phupha.
Standing in front of the hospital’s records room.
Entering Anurak’s access code.
He froze the frame.
It couldn’t be. It looked like Phupha, but something was off.
The timestamp was wrong. Manipulated?
Or was he being played?
Again.
He dialed Anurak.
“Detective?” came the voice.
It wasn’t Anurak.
It was her.
“You’re looking the wrong way,” she said. “Your little journalist is better at hiding things than showing them.”
Then the line went dead.
---
That night, Phupha went missing.
He’d told Anurak he was meeting a source in Siam Square. He never showed. His phone was off. Socials silent.
By midnight, Kamon was driving through Bangkok like a man possessed, checking safehouses, coffee shops, even an old LGBTQ+ shelter where Phupha once volunteered.
At 3:24 a.m., Anurak received a text from an unknown number.
“Your boy likes pain? Let’s see how much he can take before he calls for mercy.”
Attached: a photo.
Phupha.
Bound. Gagged. Bruised. A syringe glinting in the foreground.
Anurak didn’t scream. Didn’t panic. He simply whispered, “She took him.”
Kamon arrived five minutes later.
Anurak opened the door, face like stone. “We end this. Tonight.”
---
They traced the signal from the photo metadata—somehow, she’d slipped and left GPS data intact. It pointed to an old surgical theatre in a shuttered hospital near Ayutthaya. Abandoned. Off-grid.
They drove without lights, without sirens.
Kamon brought his gun.
Anurak brought something colder: resolve.
Inside, the place smelled of rot and sterilized ghosts.
They found Phupha strapped to a gurney, eyes wide, blood at the corner of his mouth.
She stood over him—Dr. Nattanicha.
Pale. Composed. In a bloodstained coat.
“You never understood it, did you?” she said, turning to Anurak. “Mercy without consequence is just narcissism.”
“Nattanicha,” he said, voice even. “Let him go.”
She shook her head. “He clouded you. Made you soft. That’s how people die.”
Kamon raised his gun. “It’s over.”
“No, Detective,” she smiled. “It’s only just beginning.”
She stabbed herself in the neck with a loaded syringe—collapsing as Kamon lunged.
---
They saved Phupha.
Barely.
Nattanicha died in the ambulance. No confession. No closure.
Only riddles scrawled in her notebook.
And a final, haunting message on her voice recorder:
“You can end lives with drugs or with love. I just chose both.”
---
Later, in Anurak’s home, Phupha lay in bed, hooked to an IV. Kamon sat in the armchair, bruised and exhausted.
“I don’t know what hurts more,” Phupha said, eyes closed, “the drugs or the fact that she thought I was the weak link.”
Anurak stroked his hair gently. “You’re not.”
Kamon stood, heading to the door.
“Where are you going?” Anurak asked.
“Back to the living,” Kamon said. “I’m done chasing the dead.”
---
But outside, Kamon found another envelope taped to his windshield.
Inside: a photo of a different patient.
Different hospital.
Same signature lipstick.
And the note:
“One was a test. More are coming.”
---
TO BE CONTINUED...
***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***
Updated 6 Episodes
Download
Like this story? Download the app to keep your reading history.
Comments