The warehouse office smelled of motor oil and old cigarettes.

Krit leaned against a metal desk, arms crossed, the dim bulb overhead carving harsh shadows across his scarred cheek. He was Peter's voice when Peter didn't speak himself—cold, efficient, never one for small talk.

Fadel stood just inside the door, rain still dripping from his jacket onto the concrete.

"New contract," Krit said without preamble. "The detective heading that murder case. The one digging into things that aren't his business. Boss wants him gone. Quiet. Soon."

Fadel waited.

"No name. No photo. File's sealed tighter than a vault. You'll have to hunt him down yourself."

A thin envelope landed on the desk between them. Cash. Half now.

"Triple on completion if it's clean and fast," Krit added, eyes flat. "Don't make boss wait."

Fadel picked up the envelope, felt the weight. Nodded once.

Krit tilted his head. "Any questions?"

"None."

"Good. Don't fuck it up."

Fadel turned, pushed through the door into the downpour.

Rain hit his face like needles. He lit a cigarette under the overhang, flame steady despite the wind.

A target without a face. A job without mercy.

The city was full of detectives. Only one mattered.

Fadel exhaled smoke into the night.

He'd find him.

Chapter 1 - Order

Gunfire cracked through the night.

Kamin rolled behind an overturned table just as bullets shredded the wall above where his head had been seconds ago. Dust rained down. Glass shattered. Somewhere in the chaos, someone screamed.

"Police!" a voice yelled behind him. "Drop your weapon!"

The suspect didn't listen.

They never did.

Kamin exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His grip tightened around the gun, fingers calm, precise—like this was routine.

Because it was.

He leaned out, fired once.

Clean shot.

The man's gun clattered to the floor as he collapsed, clutching his shoulder, screaming in pain. Kamin was already moving before the echo faded, boots hitting the concrete floor as he crossed the room in seconds.

He kicked the weapon away, pressed his knee into the man's back, and twisted his arm just enough to make the point clear.

"Attempted murder," Kamin said calmly, snapping cuffs onto the man's wrists. "You failed. Twice, actually. That must sting."

The man cursed, breath ragged. "You don't know who you're messing with."

Kamin smirked faintly. "Funny. That's exactly what people say when they do know—and they're scared."

Sirens wailed in the distance as backup finally arrived. Kamin stood, rolling his shoulder once, scanning the scene with sharp, assessing eyes. One suspect down. One case tied up.

But the weight in his chest didn't lift.

Because this wasn't the case that mattered.

...

Kamin's car came to a smooth stop at the curb.

He stepped out without haste.

Black waistcoat fitted perfectly over a crisp shirt, sleeves tight enough to outline the strength in his arms. A narrow tie sat neatly against his collar, untouched, disciplined. The shoulder holster—crossed straps hugging his frame—rested naturally beneath the fabric, the weight of the gun something he barely registered anymore.

A group of women walking past slowed unconsciously. One of them glanced up, then nudged her friend, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. Another smiled outright, bold enough to test the waters.

Kamin noticed—he always did.

He offered a brief, courteous nod. Not flirtation. Not invitation. Just acknowledgment.

It was enough to make hearts stutter anyway.

He moved forward, long strides unhurried, posture straight, presence unmistakable. People stepped aside instinctively—not out of fear, but awareness. There was something about him that suggested authority without ever demanding it.

Inside the building, the fluorescent lights hummed softly.

"Good evening, Inspector Kamin," the receptionist said, a little too quickly.

"Evening," he replied, voice calm, even, carrying the faint edge of an accent he hadn't bothered to lose after coming back from the States.

American training showed in the way he walked.

In the way his eyes scanned corners.

In the way his hands never strayed far from where his weapon rested.

He headed down the corridor, expression composed, mind already shifting gears.

The case was waiting.

Three murders.

One invisible executioner.

No face. No name. No mistakes.

Kamin pushed open the briefing room door.

The lights were dim, the projector already on, crime scene photographs waiting across the board. The room fell silent as he entered—not because he demanded it, but because he was expected.

Kamin walked to the table and took his seat, back straight, hands resting calmly in front of him. The shoulder holster settled naturally against his frame. His expression remained composed, unreadable.

"As we expected," the superior said, breaking the silence, "you caught the culprit in a day."

Kamin inclined his head slightly. "He made mistakes."

A pause. Not disbelief—acknowledgment.

The projector clicked. Another image appeared. A body.

"These murders are connected," the superior said. "And we believe Peter is behind them."

Kamin's gaze stayed on the screen. "This isn't his usual work."

"No," came the reply. "Which tells us he's hired someone else."

A hitman.

"We don't have a name," the superior went on. "No face. No background. Just precision."

Silence settled again.

"We're pulling you off the visible investigation," the superior said. "Effective immediately."

Kamin looked up. "You want me undercover."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Bangkok. Close to Peter's network."

Kamin nodded once. No hesitation.

"And my objective?"

"Find the hitman."

That was it.

No warnings. No praise beyond what had already been said.

Kamin stood, adjusting his cuffs with quiet efficiency.

"Inspector," the superior added.

Kamin paused.

"This man is dangerous. Be careful."

Chapter 2 - A Hand in the Chaos

The bass hit before the lights did.

Drink Me pulsed like a living thing—music thudding through the floor, neon bleeding into shadows, bodies pressed together in careless motion. Laughter, sweat, alcohol. A perfect place to disappear.

Fadel slipped inside without drawing attention.

Leather jacket. Dark shirt. Nothing flashy. Nothing memorable.

People still noticed.

A woman brushed past him deliberately, fingers lingering a second too long on his arm.

Fadel didn't slow. Didn't look.

Another voice followed—male this time, amused, bold. "Buy you a drink?"

Ignored.

Fadel moved through the crowd like smoke, eyes scanning reflections more than faces. Corners. Exits. Balconies. The upper level where Peter sat behind tinted glass, Krit already in position nearby.

From here, Fadel's job was simple.

Watch.

Protect.

Disappear.

He slid onto a barstool, ordered a drink he wouldn't finish, and leaned back just enough to observe the floor. His gaze stayed sharp even as the music blurred everything else.

Peter had arrived.

The deal would start soon.

And then—

Someone else walked in. Kamin. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... present.

Casual clothes this time. Dark jeans, fitted shirt, that familiar jacket he always wore—unzipped, relaxed, almost deceptive. He smiled as he stepped inside, exchanging a few easy words with the bouncer, slipping into the crowd like he belonged there.

The music surged. And then—

Gunshots.

The first blast shattered the rhythm. Screams replaced laughter as glass exploded and bodies dropped. Panic spread instantly—people running, crawling, knocking into each other as gunmen stormed in, firing wildly.

Fadel reacted on instinct.

He slid off the barstool, moving toward cover, eyes already tracking angles—

"Don't," Krit's voice cut in through the earpiece.

Fadel froze.

"Boss expected this," Krit said tightly. "We were told to observe only. Do not engage."

Fadel nodded once.

That's when he saw him.

Kamin—crouched awkwardly behind a sofa, seemed like he was clearly unsure where to move, flinching as bullets struck nearby. He wasn't trained. Wasn't armed. Just unlucky.

Tch, Fadel thought, irritation flickering.

Stupid place to hesitate.

A shot hit the wall inches from Kamin's head.

Fadel didn't think further.

He moved fast, grabbed the man's arm, and yanked him back.

Kamin startled violently, twisting on instinct, arm coming up defensively—

Then he stopped.

The grip wasn't aggressive. Just firm. Urgent.

"Move," Fadel snapped.

Kamin didn't argue. He let himself be pulled, staying low as the stranger guided him through the chaos.

Fadel pulled him low, shielding him as they ran, guiding him between overturned tables and panicking bodies. He kicked open a side exit, shoved Kamin through, and followed, slamming it shut behind them.

The gunfire dulled.

Outside, the night air hit hard.

They stood there for a second, breathing heavy, sirens already approaching in the distance.

Fadel let go of Kamin's arm.

Annoyance crept back in.

"What were you doing?" he said coldly, eyebrows furrowed. "You could've died in there."

Kamin swallowed, heart still racing. "...Thank you."

Across the street, Krit was already signaling.

Fadel gave Kamin one last look—not curious, not suspicious. Just checking he was intact.

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Kamin watched him go. He was close, very close, but he couldn't blame a stranger's kindness.

His phone buzzed.

"Did you find a clue?" the voice asked.

Kamin looked back at the club, police lights already washing the street in red and blue.

"No," he replied calmly. "Not yet. I'll inform you when I do."

The call ended.

Kamin stood there a moment longer, eyes thoughtful, irritation fading into focus.

Fadel didn't look back at the club.

The noise, the chaos, the flashing lights—all of it faded the moment he slipped into the narrow alley behind Drink Me. The back entrance was dim, smelling of damp concrete and cigarette smoke.

Krit was already there. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim brown envelope, holding it out.

"Here," he said. "Boss wants you to hit this man."

Fadel took the envelope without opening it.

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow night."

Nothing else followed. No explanation. No justification. There never was.

Fadel gave a short nod.

Krit turned to leave, walked away, footsteps fading into the distance.

Fadel stayed where he was for a moment longer.

Then he opened the envelope.

One photograph.

One name.

One address.

Clean. Simple.

Fadel slid everything back inside, tucked the envelope into his jacket, and stepped out of the alley.

A few days later, Bangkok moved at a slower pace.

Traffic hummed around them as the car rolled through familiar streets, sunlight filtering through the windshield. Kamin sat in the passenger seat, posture relaxed but attentive.

Bell drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to music playing low on the radio. She looked cheerful in an effortless way—comfortable, unguarded.

"Uncle told me you're new here," she said casually, eyes still on the road. "Don't worry. I'll help you find a job. You can earn enough from there."

Kamin turned slightly toward her, offering a polite smile. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Bell glanced at him, smiling wider. "You're very calm for someone who just moved cities."

"I don't mind change," Kamin replied evenly. It wasn't entirely a lie.

There was a short pause, then Bell tilted her head. "By the way—what did you do before?"

Kamin didn't hesitate. He had rehearsed this.

"I worked in a library," he said smoothly. "It closed down. So I needed to find something else."

Bell nodded, absorbing it without suspicion. "Oh. I see." She smiled again. "It's alright. I'll help as much as I can."

The car slowed as they turned onto a quieter street.

Kamin's gaze drifted outside, cataloguing storefronts automatically—cafés, laundromats, small businesses packed tightly together. Normal. Safe. Perfect for blending in.

Then Bell hit the brakes.

"We're here."

Kamin stepped out of the car and followed her onto the sidewalk. The smell hit him first—oil, grilled meat, something warm.

He looked up.

Heart Burger.

The sign hung proudly above the entrance, bold and unmistakable.

Chapter 3 - A helping hand

The kitchen was quiet except for the steady sound of running water.

Fadel stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, black gloves on, movements precise as he scrubbed down the metal surface. No rush. No wasted motion. His attention was entirely on his work.

The door creaked open behind him.

"How are you, Mr. Chef?" Bell asked, smiling as always.

Fadel didn't respond.

The only sign he'd heard her was the brief pause of his hands in the sink—just a second—before he continued cleaning as if nothing had been said. He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge her presence.

Bell sighed, then shifted her weight and looked over her shoulder.

"I brought you a helping hand. Would you not mind even glancing?" she said, then looked back at Fadel.

This time, he stopped.

Slowly, Fadel turned.

"Did I ask for one?"

And then he saw him.

The man standing a step behind Bell—tall, composed, hands relaxed at his sides. Calm eyes. Familiar face.

Kamin saw him at the same time.

Their eyes met, and the memory landed quietly between them.

Drink Me Club.

Gunshots.

Chaos.

Bell smiled, oblivious.

"But Bison isn't around," she said lightly. "How will you manage everything until he's back?"

Fadel looked away first.

He reached up, pulled off his black gloves, and tied the garbage bag shut.

"I can manage alone," he said flatly.

He picked up the bag and walked outside.

Bell groaned and followed after him, pausing only to gesture at Kai.

"Come on."

Outside, Bell tried again.

"Let him help," she said. "This is Kai. He worked in a library before—it closed down, and now he needs work somewhere." She tilted her head, softening her voice. "Think of our days in uni together? For the sake of our friendship, huh?"

Fadel didn't turn back.

"I never asked for it."

Bell frowned, clearly annoyed now.

"Yeah yeah, whatever!" she snapped.

Kamin remained quiet through it all, watching Fadel's back, his expression calm—but thoughtful.

Bell tried everything.

Every excuse. Every smile. Every half-joking, half-pleading line she could think of.

Fadel didn't respond to a single one.

He didn't look at her.

Didn't argue.

Didn't refuse again.

He only gave her that same cold glance—brief, sharp, unreadable—before reaching past her and shutting the restaurant door.

Right in her face. She stared at the closed door for a second. Then she scoffed.

"Unbelievable." But she wasn't the type to give up.

The next day, they were back.

Bell walked in first, confident as ever. Kamin followed quietly, posture relaxed. The bell above the door rang softly.

Heart Burger was already open.

Fadel was behind the counter, moving with practiced efficiency. Grill sizzling. Orders being called. Plates sliding across the counter. He handled everything alone—cooking, serving, cleaning—without missing a beat.

He didn't glance at the front table.

Not once.

Bell and Kamin sat there, waiting. Watching.

Two days passed like that.

On the third, Bell sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"Khun Bell, you're trying your best," Kamin said gently. "Why not just give up? I'm already thankful for your efforts to help me. It's alright—I'll look for work somewhere else."

His tone was calm. Sincere.

Fadel passed by with a tray.

He heard every word.

He didn't react.

Or at least—that's what it looked like.

Bell frowned, irritation flashing across her face. She raised her voice deliberately, clear enough for the entire place to hear.

"I'll not give up."

Fadel didn't turn.

The next day was different.

Busier.

The restaurant filled faster than usual. Customers kept coming in—one after another, barely any empty seats left. The grill barely had time to cool. Orders stacked up.

Managing everything alone was harder today.

Fadel felt it.

He didn't show it.

Bell sat at the front table, phone pressed to her ear, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips.

"Keep sending more customers," she said quietly before ending the call.

Kamin glanced around the packed restaurant.

Then he smiled.

Just a little.

That calm, amused smile—one eyebrow lifting slightly, eyes soft but observant.

By afternoon, the pressure finally crept through.

Fadel placed a plate down at one table when another voice rose immediately.

"I ordered ages ago. Chef, can you hurry? I have work later."

Another customer chimed in, impatient.

"Right. I can't wait the whole day just to eat a burger."

Fadel paused.

Just for a fraction of a second.

His brows furrowed, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He nodded once—short, controlled.

"I'll bring it."

No apology. No irritation in his voice.

But the tension was there now, visible in the sharpness of his movements, the way his grip tightened around the tray as he turned back toward the kitchen.

From the front table, Kamin watched him closely.

Still calm.

Still composed.

Bell didn't wait any longer.

She leaned toward Kamin and whispered, "Come on. Go help him."

Then, with a satisfied little smile, she added, "This is the right time."

Kamin followed her gaze to the kitchen.

The pace had picked up. Orders were stacking. Plates lined the counter. Fadel moved fast, but even precision had limits.

Kamin nodded once.

Bell's smile widened—victory, quiet and certain.

Kamin stepped into the kitchen, reached for a finished plate, and lifted it carefully. Fadel noticed immediately. His head snapped up.

Their eyes met—briefly.

Fadel's gaze was cold. Sharp. Warning.

Kamin didn't stop.

And Fadel didn't tell him to.

He couldn't.

The orders kept coming.

Without a word, Kamin carried the plate out. He moved naturally, like someone who belonged there. When he returned, he picked up another. Then another.

Soon, he was taking orders.

"Two cheeseburgers, no onions."

"Yes, coming right up."

His voice was calm, polite. Professional. A faint, courteous smile rested on his face—not forced, not eager. Just enough.

Customers responded to it easily.

Fadel worked in silence.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Kamin move—steady hands, composed posture, no wasted motion. Efficient. Observant.

He didn't acknowledge him.

Didn't look at him directly.

It was as if, to Fadel, Kamin didn't exist at all.

Kamin noticed.

He didn't care.

He kept working.

He only needed this—somewhere quiet, unremarkable, safe enough to disappear into. A place to lay low. To hide his true identity.

And so far—

It was working.

By the time the last customer left, the sky outside had darkened.

The restaurant was quiet again.

Bell was gone. The chairs were back in place. The grill cooled, the last traces of heat fading into silence.

Only the kitchen lights remained on.

Fadel wiped down the counter, movements slower now but no less precise. Kamin stood nearby, finishing up, folding a cloth neatly before setting it aside.

"Thank you for today."

Fadel's voice was flat. Cold. An acknowledgment, nothing more.

Kamin looked up. "Just take it as my thank for saving me that day."

He smiled—just a little. That calm, gentle smile that softened his eyes, the kind that put people at ease without trying.

"You can go now," Fadel added after a nod, already turning away.

Kamin didn't argue.

He nodded once, removed the apron, then the cap, and set them down carefully. Without another word, he walked out through the back door.

Outside, the night air felt cooler.

Kamin exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if releasing a day's worth of tension. For a moment, he simply stood there—quiet, unseen.

Behind him, the sound of a garbage bag hitting the bin. The door shutting. The restaurant locking down for the night.

Kamin turned to leave.

His phone rang.

He paused, then answered.

"Hello."

There was a brief silence.

Kamin's expression shifted.

Not panic. Not disbelief.

Just a slight stillness—his jaw tightening, his eyes sharpening as the words sank in. The calm didn't leave him, but something underneath it woke up.