The first body was found at dawn.
It was one of Vavaporn's lieutenants, slumped against the back gate of the mansion like a broken doll. His eyes were wide open, frozen in that final moment of shock. His throat had been slit with surgical precision, not a drop of blood wasted on the ground. It was deliberate, clean, and personal.
There was no note.
No name.
No signature.
Just one thing.
A small silver coin was placed delicately in the dead man's palm. Ancient, polished, and Reverent.
A Korean coin.
Obsolete. Worthless. Symbolic.
The message didn't need words.
By noon, another body appeared on the other side of the city.
This time on Charlie's property.
The victim: a mid-level supplier. One of their "clean ones." He didn't smuggle drugs or launder money; he moved electronics through the Bangkok ports and kept his nose out of violence. That made the message louder.
They found him hanging upside down beneath a bridge that overlooked the old cargo docks.
Naked, burned, and stripped of everything except his boxers.
Stuffed in his mouth was a folded photograph, creased at the corners and darkened by smoke and blood. When the police peeled it out with gloves and masks over their noses, they realized it was a photo of Jack Charlie.
Not from a surveillance cam.
Not from a distant rooftop.
No.
It was taken up close and Personal.
His eyes were looking straight into the lens.
And it wasn't just blood staining the paper; it was fresh. Mixed with ash. As if whoever killed the man did it while looking at Jack's photo the whole time.
Charlie arrived before the scene was cleared.
He said nothing at first.
Just crouched by the hanging corpse, ignoring the whispers of his men, and reached up to pull the photo out himself.
His hand didn't shake.
But his eyes?
His eyes burned like acid behind his calm mask.
By sunset, all four boys had been summoned. There was no longer time for secrecy. No back channels or veiled threats. This was war, and it had come unannounced, bold as thunder in a quiet sky.
Jay stood stiffly in his father's study.
The air was thick with cigar smoke, not fresh but clinging to the velvet curtains like old secrets. Vavaporn sat behind his wide desk, his fingers glinting with rings, his face unreadable. In his hand, he turned the coin over and over, inspecting it under the lamplight like it was a sacred artifact.
"This," he said quietly, "is not just a message."
Jay's voice, cold and clear, cut through the stillness.
"It's a declaration."
Vavaporn's eyes met his. He nodded once.
"They want us to know exactly who's coming."
Jay stepped forward. His jaw was tense, his fists hidden in his pockets. "It's Juhu."
"I know," Vavaporn said. "But this wasn't a full strike. It's more like a warning."
Jay's heart was racing, though his face gave nothing away.
He knew the old ways; if Juhu was sending warnings, it meant he didn't want a battle.
Not yet.
But that only made him more dangerous.
"What are you going to do?" Jay asked.
"Prepare," Vavaporn replied simply. "And this time, I'm watching everyone closely, including you."
The words stung more than Jay expected.
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
He just stared at the coin, still glinting in the light, like it had something to say.
It haunted him long after he left the room.
Across the city, a very different kind of conversation was taking place.
Charlie's mansion was colder. More modern. Less history, more control. Everything was black glass and metal, all sharp edges, just like Charlie himself.
Jack stood in the middle of the study, his posture rigid. His father circled slowly, the photo of Jack, bloodied, burned, and folded, still clutched in his fist.
"They want you dead," Charlie said plainly.
Jack didn't flinch. "They won't get me."
Charlie's gaze sliced through the air. "Won't they?"
He paused. Took a step closer. "You've been careless lately. Slow. Emotional."
The last word was said like a curse.
Jack remained still.
Charlie dropped his voice, a cobra coiling. "I'm cleaning house. That means no more secrets. No more loyalty to anyone but me."
Jack's eyes darkened. "I've never been disloyal."
Charlie raised a skeptical brow. "Haven't you?"
Then, softer, almost tenderly, like the calm before an execution, he added, "You better be ready, son. Because this new king doesn't care about history or tradition. He cares about power. And he doesn't fight fair."
Jack's voice, when it came, was quiet but lethal.
"Neither do I."
That night, Chiang Mai's security was tightened like a noose.
Checkpoints sprang up like weeds.
Phones buzzed with silent codes.
Safehouses were quietly rearmed.
Allies were tested; some failed.
In a strange irony, both Vavaporn and Charlie—men who hadn't worked together before—strengthened their security on the same night, with the same urgency and the same bone-deep fear.
Because this wasn't about territory anymore.
It wasn't just a business move.
This was personal.
And the man behind it?
Juhu.
He wasn't hiding. Not exactly.
He was watching.
In the heart of Chiang Mai's underworld, nestled beneath the chaos of neon signs and brothel lights, there was a small bar known only to those who traded in violence. The liquor was expensive, the staff were silent, and the walls? Covered in photos.
Juhu sat at the bar, his suit tailored, his glass half full.
He sipped red wine like he owned the world and everyone in it.
His eyes were fixed on the far wall—a collage of faces. Targets, enemies, heirs.
At the center, bold and sharp, were four names written in red ink:
Jay, Jack, Jeff, and Rin.
Juhu reached forward with a gloved hand and slowly dragged his fingertip across Jack's photograph. He lingered at the lips, then the throat, like he was savoring it.
Then he smirked.
"It begins," he whispered.
And in that moment, the city exhaled a tremor—
One that would echo through bloodlines and bullet holes.
Because war wasn't knocking.
It had already let itself in.