2

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.

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