Santichai stood staring into the small closet beside his bed. The selection was meager: six T-shirts, five pairs of jeans, and a single white dress shirt hanging neatly over a pair of dark gray trousers—the only outfit he saved for "special occasions" like job interviews. Below them sat two pairs of worn sneakers and a single pair of black dress shoes.
He pushed the hangers aside, pulled out the dress clothes, and laid them carefully across his twin-sized bed. Staring at them, a wave of sadness washed over him. In a decade, he had accumulated so little.
Just as he bent down to retrieve his shoes, his phone buzzed. "Hello?"
"Santichai, I'm going to pick you up a little earlier," KK's voice came through, warm and steady. "The weather forecast says there might be light rain this afternoon. I don't want us to get caught in traffic."
"Okay. I'll be ready. Bye."
Santichai hung up, grabbed the clothes and walked out of the room into the living room. As he placed the clothes on the ironing board, he knew the kind of people who attended these events—they would be draped in silk and designer labels, flashing their wealth like armor. No matter how neatly he pressed his shirt, he knew he would look more like a butler serving drinks than a guest.
He looked at the clothes, and the clothes hit him like a physical blow. He suddenly remembered the day this suit was bought. Asnee had picked it out for Santichai's very first job interview.
Their decade-long relationship had been defined by more storms than sunshine, but it was those tiny, fleeting, sweet moments—like buying this suit—that had kept Santichai trapped. He had spent years hoping those moments would grow, that he could somehow change Asnee through sheer devotion. Eventually, he had learned the hard truth: no matter how much he changed himself to fit Asnee's demands, Asnee would always remain the same.
The steam rose from the iron, dampening the air in the small room. Santichai worked with meticulous care, pressing the same trousers he had worn to every major event of his life—events where he had usually stood in the shadows.
When the knock came, he opened the door to find KK looking like a masterpiece in a slim blue tuxedo. The surgeon's presence seemed to make the small apartment feel even smaller, yet strangely more elegant.
"Take your time," KK had said, his voice a calm anchor. "I'm two hours early."
When Santichai finally emerged from his bedroom, dressed in the white shirt and gray slacks Asnee had bought him years ago, he felt a wave of insecurity. He looked like a sommelier, or perhaps a high-end waiter.
"I'm ready," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
KK stood up, his eyes bright with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fever from the night before. "Wow," he chuckled lightly. "I didn't expect you to look so good in that suit."
"Thank you," Santichai replied, looking at his own shoes. "This is the best I can do. I just hope I don't embarrass you."
"Not at all," KK promised, leading him down to the parking lot.
The yellow Ferrari F12 was a streak of lightning against the drab concrete of the apartment complex. As Santichai settled into the passenger seat, the scent of sea breeze filled his lungs—a clean, open scent that made his memory feel a thousand miles away.
"This car... it's not the one you drive to the clinic," Santichai noted, his hands resting nervously on his lap.
KK shifted into gear, the engine letting out a low, confident thrum. "I don't usually drive this car," he admitted, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Actually... you're the very first passenger I've ever had in this seat."
Once they left the city limits, the road opened up alongside the coast. The night was moonless, leaving the sea a vast, ink-black expanse that stretched into infinity. Santichai stared out the window, feeling a hollow resonance with the water. His life had been a series of silent tragedies; for years, he felt as if he were drowning. He had learned that the more he struggled, the faster he sank, so he had eventually stopped fighting, allowing the cold currents of fate to carry him wherever they pleased.
In the dim glow of the dashboard, KK caught the shimmer of unshed tears in Santichai's eyes. He saw the tight set of the younger man's jaw—the desperate effort to keep his grief contained.
Seeking to break the spell of the dark ocean, KK spoke up. "Have you spent much time at the sea before, Santichai?"
"Only once, a long time ago," Santichai replied, his voice distant. "During my freshman year. It was a trip for the college volleyball team."
"Were you a player?"
"No," Santichai said with a faint, sad smile. "I just volunteered to handle the food and water for the team."
"Did you have a good time?"
"The first day was fine. On the second, I was hit in the face by a spiked ball. It knocked me unconscious. When I woke up in the hospital, half my face was purple." He paused, his gaze softening. "But that injury brought me a good friend. So, in the end... it was worth it."
KK chuckled, a warm sound that filled the small cabin. "And what were you doing when you got hit?"
"Just watching from the sidelines," Santichai said, noticing the amusement on KK's face. "And you? I assume you were the star athlete in college?"
"I played everything—volleyball, basketball, tennis, football," KK admitted. "I even swam, though I wasn't on the official teams."
"Why not?"
"I didn't pass the selection process," KK quipped, glancing at him with a wink. "So, I decided to play for fun. What about you? What sport did you actually like?"
"I didn't have much time for sports," Santichai said, the light tone fading. "I dropped out after my first year."
"Did you fail your finals?" KK asked jokingly, trying to keep the mood light.
Santichai looked at him and gave a small, honest smile. "No. I just ran out of money."
"What were you studying?"
"Accounting."
KK scoffed playfully. "So, I should be careful with my wallet around you? I imagine you're quite good with numbers."
"I only finished one year. I'm not that good."
"Do you ever think about going back?" KK asked, his voice turning serious.
"No. I have no purpose to go back now." Santichai shifted in the leather seat, turning the conversation to the question that had been haunting him. "Mr. KK... about what you said yesterday. About meeting at the Bell Rose Café. I thought about it all night, and I still don't remember you."
"I'm not surprised," KK said, his hands steady on the Ferrari's wheel. "It was my birthday last year. My family and I were celebrating on the second-floor balcony of the café. I looked down and saw you sitting at a table below us. You sat there for a very long time, Santichai. At first, I thought you were waiting for a girlfriend. But the hours passed, and everyone else left. You stayed until the waiters started stacking the chairs and told you they were closing. It was only then I realized... you had been stood up."
The memory hit Santichai like a physical wave. He remembered that night vividly now—the cold coffee, the ache in his chest, and the humiliation of waiting for an Asnee who never showed up. He just hadn't known the name of the place until now.
The projector in Santichai's mind began to spin, the images flickering to life with a clarity that made his heart ache.
It was his twenty-fourth birthday. He had been so hopeful when the text from Asnee arrived: 'Chai, be at this address by 6:30. My meeting ends then. I'll be there by 7:00 to treat you to a birthday dinner.'
Santichai had arrived on time, feeling out of place in the upscale café. He sat by the window, watching the streetlights, his heart fluttering every time the door opened. At 7:00, a text: 'Running late. Still in the meeting.' That was the last word he received. By 8:30, his calls went to voicemail. By 9:30, his texts were no longer being read.
He had sat there for nearly five hours, a ghost at a reserved table, until the waiter finally approached. "Sir, we close in five minutes."
It was only then, at 10:55 PM, that his phone finally rang.
"Asnee? Where are you?" Santichai had answered instantly, but his heart sank at the sound of thumping bass and drunken laughter in the background.
"Chai, don't wait for me," Asnee's voice was slurred, careless. "Go home after you eat."
"Asnee, you promised... do you even know what day it is?" Santichai's voice broke, tears finally spilling over.
"We'll go next year. The company signed a massive contract today. I had to take the senior staff out to celebrate."
"It's my birthday," Santichai whispered, biting his trembling lip so hard he tasted blood. "Have you really forgotten?"
"Birthdays happen every year, Chai. Business like this is rare," Asnee snapped, his patience thin. Suddenly, a woman's giggling voice drifted through the line: "You lost the bet, Nee! Drink up!"
"Coming, baby," Asnee called out to her, then back to the phone: "Chai, I have to go."
"Asnee, wait—" The line went dead.
Blinded by tears, Santichai had grabbed his things and bolted for the exit. He didn't see the man coming up the stairs until it was too late. He had collided into a broad chest, watching in horror as red wine bloomed across a dark, expensive suit. He hadn't even looked up to see the man's face. He had only sobbed an apology and ran out into the night, feeling utterly disposable.
In the present, the hum of the Ferrari seemed to quiet as the memory settled. Santichai turned his head slowly to look at the man in the driver's seat.
"The man on the stairs," Santichai whispered, his eyes wide with realization. "The one with the wine... that was you, right?"
KK looked at Santichai, a playful smirk dancing on his lips even as his eyes remained focused on the dark, winding coastal road. "Yes, that was me. And you... you ran off without paying the bill for your table, or the cleaning fee for my suit."
Santichai felt a hot prickle of shame, the old habit of wanting to fix his mistakes rising up. "I can pay you back. I have some savings. Can you tell me how much I owe?"
KK let out a soft, melodic laugh. "I've long since forgotten the price of the dry cleaning, Santichai. Let's just say... you owe me a favor. We'll settle it when the time is right."
"Okay," Santichai whispered, his fingers subconsciously twisting the thread bracelet on his wrist. "And what about the Secret Palace? What happened there?"
KK didn't answer immediately. He began to slow the Ferrari, the powerful engine downshifting into a low, predatory purr. He turned the steering wheel, and suddenly the darkness of the coast was shattered by a wall of golden light and the flash of cameras.
"We're here," KK said, his voice dropping into a formal, protective tone.
The Ferrari glided onto a sweeping semicircular driveway of a massive white estate. The "light rain" had arrived, turning the pavement into a black mirror that reflected the shimmering lights of the chandeliers inside. Valets in white gloves scurried toward them, umbrellas held high like shields.
Santichai's breath hitched. He looked out the window and saw a line of luxury cars—Mercedes, Rolls Royces, and Porsches—but the yellow Ferrari was drawing every eye.
A valet opened the passenger door, holding a large black umbrella. Santichai stepped out, his "one last time" suit feeling small and insignificant against the backdrop of such immense wealth. He felt like an imposter, a ghost trying to walk among the living.
Then, the driver's side door opened. KK stepped out, his blue tuxedo vibrant against the gray rain. He didn't wait for the valet. He walked around the hood of the car and offered his arm to Santichai.
"Stay close to me," KK murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd near the entrance. "You don't owe the past anything tonight, Santichai. You only owe me that favor."