1990'S META'S POV:
The walls of my father's office were a mausoleum of conquests, lined with the leather-bound records of a thousand sins. The air was a suffocating cocktail of old money, spilled whiskey, and the cloying sweetness of his imported cigars—a scent I now associated with failure. I stood before him, my head a nauseating vortex of pain, each throb a mocking echo of the gunshots from the failed engagement. My tactical assessment had been absolute, flawless on paper. The variables were controlled. So why had it failed?
"How many times must I calibrate your understanding, Meta?" Athip's voice was not loud, but it was a cold, precision instrument, each word designed to find a weakness and pry it open. "Our public image is a fragile shield, a necessary illusion. Our business is under a microscope, and you, in your spectacular arrogance, have just lit a bonfire in a munitions depot."
I said nothing. My jaw was a knot of stone. I tasted the bitter, familiar tang of my own blood, a coppery data point I logged without emotion. The plan had been a masterpiece of control. The meeting location was a tactical dead zone, deliberately outside police patrol routes. My assets within law enforcement were a calculated fail-safe. Yet they arrived with a coordinated speed that defied all logical probability. My calculations remained sound, which left only one conclusion: an internal breach. A corrupted file. A traitor. I would find this variable, and I would deconstruct him into a living, screaming equation of pain.
"Are you incapable of a response?" The cold voice became a shout, a physical force that preceded the blow. He didn't just hit me; he struck with the calculated contempt of a master inspecting a flawed tool. Each impact was a lesson in my own inadequacy, a brutal recalibration of the hierarchy. I did not fight back. I did not flinch. I was a professional. I understood the system. He was the architect, the ultimate authority. My function was to endure.
"If you cannot execute the simple tasks I assign you," he said, stepping back to admire his work on my face, "then I will reassign them. Perhaps your brother has a better aptitude for this."
The words were worse than any physical blow. They were a violation of the one parameter I protected above all others. A sacred, unwritten rule. My cold, logical mind fractured, the system crashing against a firewall of pure, illogical emotion. Phayu. My gentle, kind brother. His hands were made for the smooth pages of a book, the cool ivory of piano keys, not for the warm, sticky viscosity of the blood I had become so accustomed to.
"Father, please. Grant me another operational cycle," my voice cracked, the sound of weakness a disgusting anomaly I had not produced in years. The asset's operational capacity—my body—was already degrading under a canvas of purple and black bruises. "I will not fail. Just… do not bring Phayu into this equation. He is not calibrated for this work."
Athip laughed. It was not a sound of humor, but a dry, rasping noise, like stones grinding together in the dark. "I have granted you a multitude of cycles, Meta. Your performance metrics are… disappointing. Why should I believe this outcome will be different?" He grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back until my neck strained, forcing my gaze up to meet his cold, dead eyes. "You are a disgrace. A liability who learns nothing from his own correction."
The pain was a sharp, white light, but the image of my brother's hands—clean, untainted—burned brighter. I needed to offer an undeniable variable. A new asset that would satisfy his ambition and secure my siblings' safety.
"I will eliminate the Setthawut Yodprakun syndicate," I said, my voice a raw whisper, a promise forged in agony. "Their territory is a prime asset for our expansion. I will deliver it to you. Cleanly. Efficiently. Just… do not let my brother's hands be contaminated."
He released my hair, shoving my head away. His expression shifted from raw contempt to cold, calculating interest. The offer was being processed. It was acceptable. "And the consequences of your failure? You will drag this entire family into a war that even I cannot guarantee a favorable outcome in."
"I will not fail," I stated, the words a concrete fact. I spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the plush, imported carpet, a deliberate desecration of his sterile world. "And if an error occurs, I will be the one to absorb the consequences. I will ensure our family is not implicated."
A thin, cruel grin stretched his lips, a horrifying mirror of my own. "I expect results, Meta. Because if you fail, you still have a brother and a sister. Assets are, after all, replaceable."
The echo of his words—a final, brutal reminder of my dispensability—reverberated in the suffocating silence as he turned his back on me. My hands, hidden at my sides, clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms until they drew blood. I am an evil man, a ruthless weapon forged in this very fire. But I would not let them become collateral damage. I would not let them suffer this calibration. I would succeed. The system demanded it.
"Leave," was his final command. "I am tired of looking at your failure."
I walked from the gilded cage he called an office, my head ringing. My logic remained. A traitor had contaminated my plan. A problem required a solution. That solution would be both painful and final.
I had anticipated the probability of tactical failure. A man who operates without a contingency plan is a fool. Sakda was already executing his secondary objective. I found him waiting in the main hall, a statue of perfect obedience, though the rigid set of his shoulders was a clear indicator of his own anxiety.
"Report," I commanded.
He handed me a thin file without a word. "Yes, Khun Meta. The communication logs show three assets with temporal anomalies in their transmissions. They are awaiting your orders in the interrogation chamber."
A grim smile, cold and thin, touched my lips. "Excellent. Let us proceed."
The underground chamber of the estate was a concrete tomb. It had the damp chill of a place that never sees the sun and smelled of bleach, iron, and the metallic tang of old fear. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long, distorted shadows. In the center of the floor was a drain.
The three officers I had placed in key positions—Narong, Somchai, and Wit—stood at attention. Their attempt at a salute was a pathetic display, an insult to my intelligence.
"At ease," I commanded, my voice echoing slightly in the dead space. I circled them slowly, a predator assessing its prey. "I have a simple question. Which one of you is the corrupted file? Who provided unauthorized tactical information regarding my engagement with Thanin?"
Wit, a man whose face was already ashen with terror, opened his mouth. "I… I swear, Khun Meta. I have no information."
Before the lie had fully cooled in the air, I fired a single round. The sound was a deafening crack in the enclosed space. A neat, dark hole appeared in the center of his forehead. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, a discarded asset. A fine, red mist hung in the air where his head had been. The other two men, my remaining variables, gasped, their faces draining of all color.
"He was an inefficient variable," I stated, my gaze fixed on the corpse. "His ignorance made him a liability. I am merely optimizing the system."
Somchai's legs gave way. A warm, yellow stain bloomed across the front of his trousers as his bladder released in a wave of pure terror. Narong, however, held his ground, his body trembling violently, but his eyes were fixed on the growing puddle at Somchai's feet.
"I require a name," I continued, my tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "The next person to provide an answer that is not a name will be the next one to be optimized."
"IT WAS HIM! SOMCHAI!" Narong shrieked, his finger a trembling accusation. "I heard him on the phone with Thanin's men! He set you up!"
Somchai's eyes went wide with a mix of betrayal and raw panic. "No! Sir, please! He's lying! I'm just scared! Look, I even peed my pants!"
A humorless laugh, a dry rasp in my throat, escaped me. I took a step closer to Somchai. "Fear is a quantifiable variable. But your body's response is… inconsistent. Your pupils are dilated, yes, but your lips are not pale. The tremor in your hands is a performance. Narong, on the other hand," I glanced at the other man, "is exhibiting a genuine adrenal response. His breathing is shallow, his skin is clammy, and he is trying not to vomit. Your lie is transparent. Inefficient."
I fired. Not at his head. The bullet tore through the fabric of his stained trousers and into the soft flesh of his groin.
A high-pitched, inhuman shriek ripped from his throat, a sound that was less a scream and more an animal's cry of pure agony. Blood, dark and arterial, began to pump from the wound, mixing with the urine to paint the concrete floor a grotesque shade of crimson. The thick, coppery smell of it filled the small room.
"There," I said softly, crouching down to look him in the eye as he writhed. "Now you are not faking fear. And you are not forcing yourself to urinate. You are urinating blood. An honest and visceral reaction. Much more efficient."
Narong, witnessing the grotesque scene, squeezed his eyes shut and finally retched, a thin stream of bile hitting the floor.
I turned to him, my tone softening. "Do not be alarmed, Narong. I will not terminate you." He let out a shaky, sobbing sigh of relief.
Somchai, clutching his ruined groin, his face a mask of white-hot agony, used his other hand to grasp the toe of my perfectly polished boot. "Please… Khun Meta… forgive me. I will serve you… I will never betray you again."
I fired another shot, this time into the hand clutching my shoe, pinning it to the floor. The scream was even more piercing this time.
"Forgiveness is not a function in my operational manual," I stated, my voice like ice. "You betrayed my trust. You contaminated my plan. The punishment must be proportional to the transgression."
"I'll… I'll do anything!" he wailed, his body a trembling pile of ruined flesh.
"I know," I said, a smile—the same thin, cold smile my father used—spreading across my face. "Sakda. Terminate his pain. Slowly. Ensure he remains conscious for the duration."
Narong's eyes flew open, wide with a new, all-encompassing terror. He understood. My "forgiveness" was a far crueler sentence than death.
"What… what do you mean?" Somchai whimpered as my men began to drag him from the room, his blood leaving a thick, glistening trail on the concrete.
I looked at Narong, whose entire body was now a single, quivering mass of fear. "He will not die peacefully. I will not kill him. But I will not let him live. Anyone who betrays me will die in a state of prolonged, agonizing regret. I want them to understand the fundamental error in their calculation. So they do not repeat it in their next life."
The door slammed shut, cutting off the screams. A new, suffocating silence descended.
"As for you, Narong," I said, my voice returning to its flat, operational tone. "You are free to leave."
He scrambled to his feet, a pathetic, sobbing mess, and turned to flee. The moment his back was to me, I fired a single, clean shot into the base of his skull. His body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
"I said you are free to leave," I whispered to his corpse. "And as a reward for your… eventual loyalty, I have granted you a painless, efficient termination." I holstered the warm pistol. "I will not tolerate any more failures. My next plan… will be absolute."
I turned and walked out, leaving the concrete tomb and its two new occupants to the silence and the dark.