The city never truly slept. Through the thin walls of their apartment, Aarohi could hear Bangkok's heartbeat—the distant rumble of early morning buses, the clatter of metal shutters being rolled up, the sing-song calls of vendors wheeling their carts through narrow alleys. At 6:30 AM, the air was already thick enough to swim through, carrying the mingled scents of jasmine from the shrine downstairs, diesel exhaust, and something deliciously unidentifiable that made her stomach growl.
She'd been lying awake for the past twenty minutes, watching golden light creep across the ceiling as the sun climbed higher. Her cotton nightshirt was already sticking to her skin, and she'd kicked off the thin sheet sometime during the night. The mysterious message from yesterday sat like a stone in her chest—she'd read it seventeen times before finally falling asleep, each time hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something less ominous.
"God, it's like sleeping in a greenhouse," came Rhea's voice from the other room, followed by the sound of feet hitting the floor with more force than necessary.
Aarohi smiled despite herself. "Welcome to tropical paradise," she called back, stretching until her joints popped. "Where your hair becomes its own weather system."
A dramatic groan echoed from the bathroom. "My curls have achieved sentience. They're planning a revolt."
By the time Aarohi padded to the kitchen, Rhea was already there, wrestling with their temperamental coffee maker while sporting what appeared to be a face mask made of green clay. She looked like she'd lost a fight with a garden.
"Don't say a word," Rhea warned, pointing a spatula in Aarohi's direction. "This is supposed to minimize pores. Though at this point, I'd settle for it minimizing my entire face."
"You look..." Aarohi paused, studying her best friend's green-tinted features. "Like you've been possessed by the spirit of an avocado."
"Beauty is suffering," Rhea declared, attempting to crack eggs without moving her facial muscles. "And suffering is apparently green and smells like eucalyptus."
They moved around each other in the cramped kitchen with the practiced efficiency of people who'd shared too many small spaces. Aarohi sliced mango while Rhea battled with the stove, which seemed to have two settings: off and surface-of-the-sun. Outside their window, the morning rush was building—motorbikes weaving through impossible gaps in traffic, school children in crisp uniforms picking their way around puddles from last night's rain, monks making their quiet rounds with wooden bowls.
"First day of work," Rhea said, finally managing to crack an egg without getting shell fragments everywhere. "Are you nervous?"
Aarohi considered this while arranging fruit on their mismatched plates. "Terrified, excited, and slightly nauseous. So, basically every major life decision I've ever made."
"That's the spirit."
---
By 8:15, they were dressed and sweating through their carefully chosen outfits. Aarohi had gone for professional but not trying-too-hard—a pale blue cotton blouse that she hoped wouldn't show sweat stains, tailored black trousers, and flats that were comfortable enough to survive a full day without making her feet hate her. Her hair was pulled back in what she optimistically called a sleek ponytail but which was already developing rebellious wisps around her temples.
Rhea had chosen a knee-length dress in a print that somehow managed to be both professional and distinctly her—tiny pineapples on a navy background, paired with a white cardigan and sandals that clicked against the pavement as they walked.
The taxi ride to the office was an adventure in controlled chaos. Their driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a Buddha figurine hanging from his rearview mirror, navigated Bangkok traffic with the skill of someone who'd learned to find gaps where none existed. He chatted cheerfully in broken English about the weather, the traffic, and his daughter who was studying to be a nurse.
"You work Veerayut?" he asked, catching Aarohi's eye in the mirror.
"Yes, first day," Rhea replied, gripping the door handle as they took a particularly sharp turn.
He grinned. "Good company. My neighbor's son work there. Very happy."
The building, when they finally reached it, was more impressive than Aarohi had expected—a gleaming tower of glass and steel that reflected the morning clouds like a mirror. The lobby was all marble floors and modern art, with air conditioning that hit them like a wall of arctic bliss after the humid street.
The receptionist was young, maybe their age, with short black hair tipped in lavender and enough personality to light up the entire ground floor. Her name tag read "Mint" in both English and Thai script.
"Sawasdee ka!" she chirped, pressing her palms together in a traditional wai. "You must be our new interns! I'm Mint. Pim is waiting for you upstairs—she's our HR manager. Take the elevator to the eighth floor."
In the elevator, Aarohi caught her reflection in the polished steel doors. She looked professional enough, though there was something in her eyes that gave away her nerves—a slight wideness, like a deer caught in headlights but trying to pretend it belonged in the forest.
"Breathe," Rhea murmured beside her. "You've got this."
The doors opened to reveal an office that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood that people worked better when their environment didn't make them want to cry. Open floor plan, yes, but with enough plants and natural light to keep it from feeling like a corporate prison. Desks in warm wood tones, pops of color from artwork and cushions, and—blessed relief—the unmistakable gleam of a proper coffee machine in the corner.
Pim appeared as if summoned by their arrival. She was probably in her early thirties, wearing a soft pink blazer that somehow managed to look both professional and approachable, and smiled like someone who genuinely enjoyed meeting new people.
"Welcome to Veerayut Media Group!" she said, her English accented but clear. "I hope you're ready for the grand tour."
---
The tour was like speed-dating with an entire office ecosystem. Marketing department: energetic chaos barely contained by deadlines and caffeine. Editorial wing: focused quiet broken by the occasional burst of laughter or frustrated sigh. Meeting rooms with names like "Chiang Mai" and "Phuket," each with floor-to-ceiling windows that made Aarohi slightly dizzy when she looked down at the street below.
"And this," Pim said, gesturing to a corner area with comfortable chairs and a bookshelf, "is where we go to pretend we're having profound thoughts about creativity when we're really just avoiding our emails."
The team introductions came in rapid succession, each person a distinct flavor in what was clearly a well-seasoned mix:
Piya, the social media strategist, had bright pink glasses that matched her personality and a laugh that could probably be heard in the next building. She immediately started rattling off questions about their Instagram strategies and whether they'd noticed the latest trend in story formats.
Nam, the project manager, carried herself with the calm competence of someone who'd learned to juggle flaming swords while riding a unicycle. She had three phones—"Personal, work, and backup for when the other two decide to have nervous breakdowns"—and spoke in a way that made even the most chaotic deadlines sound manageable.
Lek from IT had the kind of energy that suggested he might have replaced his blood with espresso sometime in the past decade. Today's t-shirt read "There are only 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary and those who don't," which he'd probably explain to anyone who made the mistake of asking.
And then there was Jayden.
He was hunched over his computer in the corner, wearing headphones and the kind of intense concentration that suggested he was either designing something brilliant or playing an elaborate online game. When Pim called his name, he looked up with the slightly dazed expression of someone returning from another planet.
"Jayden's our graphic designer," Pim explained. "Half-Thai, half-British, fully antisocial until you get a few drinks in him."
"Charming introduction," Jayden said dryly, but there was humor in his dark eyes. He was probably around their age, with the kind of casual dishevelment that suggested he'd either rolled out of bed or spent considerable time making it look like he'd rolled out of bed. "Welcome to the asylum."
"Are you always this encouraging?" Rhea asked.
"Only on days ending in 'y.'"
---
Lunch was a revelation. The team descended on a nearby food court like a friendly invasion, ordering dishes that arrived in a rainbow of colors and a symphony of aromas that made Aarohi's eyes water and her mouth water simultaneously. She'd thought she liked spicy food until she tried Nam's som tam, which seemed to be made primarily of chilies with a few pieces of papaya thrown in for texture.
"Friday is foodie day," Piya explained while Aarohi gulped iced tea and tried to regain feeling in her tongue. "We order from somewhere different each week. Last month we did a hot pot place that was so spicy, Lek cried actual tears of joy."
"And birthdays mean karaoke," Nam added. "Company policy. No exceptions."
"Even if you can't sing?" Aarohi asked weakly.
"Especially if you can't sing," Jayden said without looking up from his pad thai. "The worse you are, the more entertaining it is for everyone else."
"That seems cruel," Rhea observed.
"That's team bonding," Lek corrected cheerfully. "Mutual humiliation builds character."
---
The afternoon passed in a blur of orientation materials, system passwords, and the peculiar exhaustion that came from trying to absorb an entire new world in a single day. Aarohi found herself assigned to a small desk near the window, where she could watch the city sprawl below while pretending to focus on the employee handbook.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother: "How was your first day, beta? Are you eating enough?"
She stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How could she possibly explain this—the nervous energy, the tentative friendships already forming, the way the city seemed to hum with possibility just outside the window? How could she describe the feeling of being exactly where she was supposed to be and completely lost at the same time?
Instead, she typed back: "Good. Will call tonight."
It wasn't a lie, exactly. Just incomplete.
As the afternoon wound down and the office began to empty, Pim gathered the remaining team members for a brief wrap-up. She thanked everyone for making the new interns feel welcome and outlined the training schedule for the rest of the week.
"Any questions?" she asked.
Aarohi had about a thousand, but none that could be answered in a team meeting. How do you know if you're doing this right? How do you tell if people actually like you or are just being polite? How do you build a life from scratch when you're not entirely sure who you want to be?
"We're good," Rhea answered for both of them. "Thanks for everything."
As they packed up their things, Jayden paused by Aarohi's desk. Up close, she could see that his eyes were more brown than black, with flecks of gold that caught the light when he tilted his head.
"Not bad for a first day," he said. "Most people spend their first week looking like they're about to bolt for the exit."
"Who says I'm not?" Aarohi replied, surprised by her own boldness.
He smiled—a real one this time, not the polite office smile she'd seen earlier. "If you were going to run, you would have done it during Piya's thirty-minute explanation of hashtag strategy."
"That was only thirty minutes? It felt like a lifetime."
"She was being brief," he said. "Usually she includes a PowerPoint."
---
Back at the apartment, they collapsed onto their small couch like deflated balloons. Aarohi's feet ached despite her comfortable shoes, and there was a pleasant tiredness in her muscles that came from a day well-spent.
"I love it here," Rhea said, staring up at the ceiling where a small gecko was doing its evening hunt for insects.
"Already?" Aarohi asked, though she felt the same pull—something about the chaos and warmth of the place that made her want to dive in deeper.
"The people are real, you know? Like, actual humans instead of corporate robots. When's the last time you had a boss who made jokes about hiding from emails?"
Aarohi smiled, remembering Pim's easy laughter and the way the entire team had adopted them without question. "It's different from what I expected."
"Better?"
"Scarier. Which probably means better."
They ordered takeout from a place Mint had recommended—green curry that was fragrant enough to perfume the entire apartment, sticky rice that required a suspicious amount of maneuvering to eat gracefully, and mango that was so ripe it practically dissolved on their tongues.
Later, as Rhea disappeared into the bathroom for what she called her "evening skincare ritual" (which involved enough products to stock a small pharmacy), Aarohi found herself scrolling through the company's social media pages on her phone. It was partly professional curiosity—she wanted to understand the brand voice, the visual style, the way they presented themselves to the world.
But mostly, it was the particular kind of late-night internet wandering that happened when your brain was too tired to focus on anything important but too wired to sleep.
She scrolled through posts about recent campaigns, behind-the-scenes shots of the team at work, photos from company events. The usual corporate social media fare, but with enough personality to keep it interesting.
And then she saw it.
A photo from two months ago, tagged as a company dinner. The whole team gathered around a long table at what looked like a trendy restaurant, everyone laughing at something off-camera. She recognized faces from today—Piya with her bright smile, Nam looking relaxed in a way that suggested several drinks, Lek making bunny ears behind someone's head.
But it was the corner of the photo that made her blood turn to ice water.
There, slightly out of focus but unmistakably familiar, stood a figure next to Jayden. Tall, with the kind of easy confidence she remembered too well, dark hair that always looked like he'd just run his fingers through it, and a smile that had once made her forget her own name.
Her phone slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering onto the coffee table.
She leaned forward, squinting at the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. In the corner of the photo, slightly out of focus but unmistakably present, stood a tall figure she hadn't noticed during the office tour. The man was positioned next to what appeared to be the head of the table, clearly someone important, with the kind of confident posture that suggested authority.
She zoomed in on the photo, trying to get a clearer look at his face. Even blurred by the camera's focus on the foreground, there was something about him that made her breath catch.
The CEO. This had to be the CEO of Veerayut Media Group—the one person she hadn't met today, who Pim had mentioned was traveling but would be back soon.
Her hands trembled slightly as she stared at the image. There was something unsettling about seeing him there, something that made her stomach twist with an anxiety she couldn't name.
Why did looking at him make her feel like she was standing on the edge of something dangerous?