The keypad blinked red and held. Saint punched the numbers again, faster this time, muttering under his breath as though rhythm might trick the system into sympathy. Nothing. He leaned into the panel, shoulder pressed to steel, exhaling frustration. The metal stayed cool, stubborn. Tawan stood a step back, bag strap hooked around his fingers, gaze fixed more on Saint's hands than the keypad itself. Imel waited by the rail, posture straight, hands sunk in his pockets, eyes angled down the lane as though already measuring other options. Dan took the far edge of the steps, arms folded across his chest, one foot tapping lightly against concrete in time with his irritation.
"Not camping out here," Saint said, trying for levity, the corners of his mouth stretched thin. He tapped again, too sharp. The panel hummed in protest, no green, only red.
"Food," Imel said, voice even, chin tilting toward the market road.
Tawan nodded once, quiet but agreeing.
"The keypad will be the same in the morning," Dan said. "Management opens at eight. I'll handle it." His tone was clipped, final, as if he'd already filed the complaint and logged a case number in his head.
"Spreadsheets," Saint muttered, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to dodge direct challenge. He stepped away from the panel, shaking out his hands, and set his pace quick, almost skipping. Imel fell naturally to the left. Tawan drifted close enough beside him that their arms almost brushed but didn't. Saint stayed to the inner lane, energy jagged. Dan lingered at the curb, shoes clicking hard, creating space that didn't need to exist but did.
Behind them, the keypad kept its glow, a red eye refusing to close. Ahead, the night market burned bright.
The first stretch of stalls breathed heat and chatter. Oil hissed in wide pans. Skewers turned on wire racks, brushed with lacquered sauce. A woman counted change in one hand and fanned smoke with the other. Saint slipped ahead, already leaning on a counter, trading quips with a vendor, his grin too large for the weight behind it. He handed over coins like the act itself could loosen something tight in his chest.
Dan didn't pause. His eyes skimmed menus, but his feet kept moving, deliberate, precise, as though loitering was an indulgence.
Tawan stayed close to Imel, letting him cut paths in the crowd, quiet in his trailing but alert. He wasn't searching for words, wasn't avoiding them either.
Saint appeared again with two skewers, grinning. He aimed one toward Dan. "Does the rulebook allow chewing while walking?"
Dan's glance was short, dismissive. He didn't answer.
Saint laughed anyway, too loud for the remark. "I'll file a variance," he said, taking a bite from both skewers like victory was his alone.
Imel pressed through a gap, his shoulders squared. He never glanced back, but Tawan noticed the small care in his pace—making space for him to follow without being jostled.
"Later for noodles," a vendor shouted. Saint promised later, already forgetting, his voice bright and reckless, like he owed something to everyone he passed.
Tawan's hand drifted into his pocket, thumb brushing over the chain he always carried. Cool, steady, real. He held it there until the crowd shifted and revealed someone he hadn't expected to see.
Korn wore the residence polo, sleeves rolled, lanyard clipped at his chest, its edges worn soft. His hair was tied back neatly. A faint arc of ink peeked above the collar of his shirt. His voice when he spoke sat low, settled, unhurried.
"Sawasdee Krub,"[1] he said, and the first pair of eyes he found were Saint's. His mouth tilted, not into warmth, not quite into distance—just recognition.
"This is Korn," Saint announced, broad as ever. "Staff. Also my ex." He said it like weather: obvious, unembarrassed.
Korn's hand shot out, a light slap to Saint's shoulder. "You keep using that introduction, I'll start charging rent for the memory."
"Invoice me," Saint said, his grin stretching.
Korn's gaze moved to Tawan and Imel, offering each a short, clean nod. When his eyes met Dan's, there was no nod, only a measured glance. Dan's jaw flexed once, tight, then steadied into stillness.
"What brings all four of you out?" Korn asked, voice calm.
"Door's dead," Saint replied, with a flick of his wrist. "The whole place is falling apart."
"The whole place needs funding," Korn said. "I'll log it when I'm back." He didn't overpromise. He didn't understate either.
"Log two," Saint shot back. "One for the door, one for my empty stomach."
"Hunger's not maintenance," Korn said, eyes scanning the row of stalls without shifting his posture. "Solve that before you file complaints."
He began walking. Saint slid in beside him instinctively, their steps falling in rhythm. Imel and Tawan trailed quieter, a steady pair. Dan kept the distance, posture rigid, eyes tracking only what wasn't them.
"How are shifts?" Korn asked.
"Existing," Saint said, quick. He skipped whatever mattered. Korn didn't push.
"New security guard sleeps standing," Korn added, voice dry. "Might outlive us all."
Saint barked a laugh that turned heads without needing volume.
A vendor pulled bottles from ice. Korn bought two, pressed one into Saint's hand. Saint raised it like a dare, drank too fast, coughed once.
"Breathe," Korn said. "Air before pride."
"Third stall rules," Saint coughed out.
Dan looked away sharply, eyes fixed on a random stall sign. The distance between Saint and Korn pulled tight, loosened, pulled again. He said nothing, but his silence filled the space like smoke.
They stopped by a table of charms. Strings of colours hung in loose rows. Purple caught the lamplight strongest, woven cords with edges smoothed by hands. Imel turned one over between his fingers. He didn't read its meaning aloud. He didn't need to. He weighed it, measured, then held it out.
Tawan took it. The violet thread lay across his palm, metal pendant warm from the bulb. He slid it into his pocket alongside the chain. No questions, no explanations.
The vendor nodded, as if he'd witnessed an exchange that required no words.
Saint had been about to speak, but stopped. His mouth opened, then closed, sound caught somewhere behind his throat. Korn's eyes caught the hesitation, but he said nothing about it.
"I need to file that ticket," Korn murmured finally, his gaze shifting back toward the direction of the residence. He gave Saint a look that meant more than it seemed. "Pretend it's urgent."
"If it were fire," Saint replied, "I'd be first at the blaze."
"That's the problem," Korn said, tone steady, without malice. "Learn to step back."
Saint didn't argue. His grin faltered but didn't vanish. He just shifted slightly, as though the words had touched something he preferred hidden.
Korn brushed his lanyard with two fingers, like tipping a hat. "Eat. Don't waste the night."
Then he moved on, his pace unhurried, his back already swallowed by stalls and crowd.
The five found a small place tucked behind the main row, low tables, plastic stools, steam fogging the air above bowls. They slid in, uneven in posture but aligned by circumstance.
Dishes arrived: grilled chicken, spicy soup, a platter of skewers, rice bowls slick with oil.
Beer bottles clinked against glasses, condensation dripping.
Saint dug in first, filling his mouth faster than he could swallow. "See? Heaven. I should've been a food critic."
"You'd write reviews in emojis," Korn said, deadpan.
Saint laughed through his mouthful, nearly choking. "That's a skill!"
Imel picked steadily at rice, movements precise. Tawan mirrored with smaller motions, slower, letting the heat and spice work through him.
Dan sipped only water, his fork balanced between fingers.
"So what's everyone's deal?" Saint asked, mouth already full again. He pointed his chopsticks like an interviewer's mic. "We've got spreadsheets Dan, mystery man Imel, and
Sunshine over there—come on, give me something."
"No interviews," Dan said, cold.
"You're no fun," Saint muttered, rolling his eyes. He turned on Imel instead. "Cafe guy, right? You've got that vibe."
Imel didn't answer directly. He set his fork down and said, "Food matters more than vibe."
Tawan glanced at him, just once. "Agree," he said, low, before looking away again.
Saint blinked, then grinned. "Sunshine speaks. Mark the date."
Korn smirked into his beer. "Don't scare him off, Saint."
"You're still protective?" Saint shot back.
"I'm practical," Korn replied, voice level.
The conversation looped around food, city gossip, half-formed jokes. Dan stayed tight, but he listened—small shifts in his brow gave him away. Tawan said little, but when he did, the words were blunt and honest. Imel's sentences came short, clear, and final. Saint filled every silence he could, Korn counterbalanced with dry remarks that cut the noise without cruelty.
Plates thinned. Drinks emptied. Korn reached for his wallet. "I'll cover this."
The server shook her head, pointing discreetly. Imel had already paid.
Korn paused, looked at him. "Always quick?"
"Always," Imel said simply.
Korn rose then, stretching his shoulders. "I'll check the keypad before morning crew. Don't wait on miracles."
Saint tilted his glass. "See you at the next fire."
"Stay out of them," Korn said, and left.
They lingered. Another round of drinks arrived, no food this time. Imel covered it again, no announcement, no fuss.
Saint leaned back, looser now, one hand gesturing wildly mid-story. "I once got locked out of a bar I was working—whole place still open, me outside like a stray cat. I swear, customers thought I was the entertainment."
Tawan smirked faintly, not looking up from his glass.
"See, even Sunshine finds me funny," Saint said, delighted.
"Not funny," Tawan said, voice level. "Ridiculous."
The table laughed, except Dan, who kept his eyes on condensation running down his bottle.
"What about you, Dan?" Saint asked suddenly. "Any disasters?"
Dan's reply was flat. "No."
Saint sighed, tossing his hands up. "One day I'll drag a laugh out of you."
Imel added, quiet but pointed: "Don't force."
It landed sharper than volume ever could.
Saint blinked, then nodded, swallowing another sip. "Right. Noted."
The noise of the market softened as stalls began packing up. They stood, chairs scraping back.
On the walk back, Saint's phone buzzed. He glanced, thumbed a quick reply, then lifted his voice. "Korn says he tried the panel—no good. Maintenance comes first thing."
Dan's jaw tightened. "I'll arrange the follow-up." He didn't wait for response. He turned down the road, steps clipped, decisive.
"Goodnight to you too," Saint muttered, half-smiling.
The three kept walking until the residence loomed, still glowing red at the entrance. Saint lingered, leaning against the rail, eyes moving between Tawan and Imel.
"You two are way too quiet," he said, attempting cheer. "Alright, I'm finding a couch in town before I turn into a statue. Try not to miss me."
"Won't," Imel said dryly.
Saint laughed, even if it stung. "Sunshine?" he asked.
Tawan shook his head. "Find air," he said.
"Air it is." Saint pushed off the rail, gave a wave, and wandered down the street, shoulders stiff despite his grin.
Silence held as Imel and Tawan stood by the steps. The keypad hummed, useless. The night pressed in cooler than before.
"You got places?" Tawan asked finally, voice rough from smoke.
"Too far," Imel said. "Too far to make it a plan."
"I'm staying," Tawan murmured.
"Then I'll stay," Imel said, with no hesitation.
They settled onto the steps. Tawan pulled his vape, mist curling. Imel drew a cigarette, tapping it once against his finger. He reached for his pocket, but paused when Tawan flicked open his lighter. Instead of taking it, Imel leaned in once again, closing the space between them until only the flame bridged it.
Their hands brushed as the cigarette lit. Neither pulled away.
Imel inhaled, steady. Tawan exhaled vapour, slow. They stayed like that, not speaking, the night splitting itself evenly between them.
The building kept its red glow. The city kept its hum. They kept their place on the steps, unhurried, unsolved.
[1] In this chapter, you’ll see Thai greetings like “sawasdee ka” (สวัสดีค่ะ) and “sawasdee krub” (สวัสดีครับ), which are common ways to say hello in Thai. Sawasdee can mean hello, goodbye, or good day. Ka (used by women) and krub (used by men) are polite endings. They don’t change the meaning of the sentence, but they do change the tone — making it sound respectful, natural, and culturally correct. You might also notice that characters sometimes switch or leave these endings out. That’s on purpose. It reflects how close they are, how formal the moment is, or what they’re feeling emotionally at the time. All Thai is written in romanised form for accessibility, but the way it’s used always follows real Thai language and social habits.