June rain swallowed the road.
At 2:45 a.m., outside Chiang Mai, darkness stretched endlessly—no lights, no voices—only the highway, slick and breathing under rolling thunder. Rain struck with relentless insistence, drowning the world in cold water.
He moved forward alone, drenched, limbs trembling, breath sharp against the night.
"Great job, genius," he hissed, teeth chattering. "Chase your dream... and die in a storm. Perfect ending, Niloy."
The name came out rough, bitter, almost alien.
"You wanted to be a star, and now look at you—"
"...shining alone in a thunderstorm. If this isn't destiny, it's at least dramatic." A humorless laugh rose and fell in his chest.
The sky cracked again, white lightning flaring across his face. For an instant, his reflection flickered in a puddle: dark hair plastered to his forehead, lashes heavy with rain, eyes still bright—too bright for someone freezing to death. His lips were pale, trembling, but curved in that same careless smirk that had gotten him into trouble since childhood.
"Pretty," they had called him once. Too pretty to be taken seriously. Now, the face staring back seemed stripped bare, nearly desperate—more phantom than boy.
"Perhaps I was mistaken," he thought. "Perhaps people like me were never meant to climb—only to crawl."
"Maybe I'll die here, where no one even whispers my name."
He swiped rain from his cheek, dragging the cold across his skin, and lifted his face to the storm. "Is this what chasing dreams feels like?" The thought burned sharp. "If so... then I am their finest fool."
Then the headlights tore the night apart. Hope flared—brief, fragile. "Humans... finally..."—gone before he could grasp it. A gold crest glimmered through the sheets of water: Thai Royal Police.
"Ah," he exhaled, a hollow laugh cracking his throat. "Of course. Even the gods send me an audience."
He ran.
When the ground finally fell away, he saw it—the Ping River, swollen and merciless, devouring the edge of the road.
He froze, lungs burning. "...hmph...They would have parcelled me by now..."
Then—movement.
He raised his eyes—and halted.
A figure stood ahead.
Tall, impossibly still, walking down the deserted asphalt. A white shirt clung to a sculpted back, ghostly in the rain. His feet pressed into the road, unhurried, unshaken by the rain. A liquor bottle swung loosely from his hand, glinting in the lightning.
From behind, he looked carved from calm itself—broad shoulders, straight spine, the quiet grace of someone used to being obeyed. The rain turned his shirt to silk, tracing the line of muscle beneath it, the faint curve of a waist that moved with quiet control.
"A drunk! Maybe he'll mug me before the river swallows me whole." Niloy hesitated.
But terror was a luxury he could not afford. He needed someone—anyone.
He stumbled forward, half-running. "Hey—wait! Please—" feet slipping on the slick asphalt.
The storm didn't stop.
He ran. Water slapped against his ankles, the world a blur of light and noise. The man ahead didn't turn, not once, just kept walking like the storm wasn't even there.
"Hey—!" Niloy's voice was swallowed by the wind. "Wait—!"
"...Strangerr..."
No reply.
Panic flared, overriding reason. He surged forward, hand trembling from cold, and pressed against the man's shoulder.
The body beneath was warm. Solid.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then the man turned.
Lightning tore the sky. Their eyes locked—black against black, sharp enough to slice through the downpour. Rain clung to lashes, traced the edge of a pale jaw, and the faint tang of alcohol hung between them.
Niloy forgot to breathe.
The man's gaze slid to the hand pressing his shoulder—expressionless. Then, without warning, he shoved.
Hard.
Niloy slipped, foot sliding on the slick riverbank. Reflex kicked in—his hand clutched the man's collar, dragging him forward without thinking.
The river yanked at him, icy and unforgiving. Panic and heat tangled in his chest. He couldn't swim—every instinct screamed.
Arms wrapped around him—warm, strong.
Niloy clung without thinking, fingers wrapping around the man's shoulder, teeth chattering, body trembling from cold and fear. The other hand pressed into his waist, holding him upright against the river's pull.
Water splashed around them. Their chests brushed, wet clothes sticking, breath mingling in short, ragged gasps. Niloy's heart slammed in his ears. He dared a glance—those dark, unwavering eyes meeting his.
No one spoke. Niloy's lips trembled, pale and parted, fingers clenching at the man's chest.
His body sagged in the stranger's arms, soaked, shivering, unresponsive.
Moments passed. Niloy lay on the wet ground. Stranger's palms pressed to his belly—press. Release. Still nothing. He shook the shoulders, tilted the face, searching. Silence answered. Only wind, rain, and cold bit through their wet clothes.
He leaned closer, then stopped, hovering. Lips brushed against Niloy's—soft, tentative. Paused. Pressed again, tracing the curve of his mouth.
Niloy remained still.
Stranger forced air in, patient, relentless—one breath. Two.
Niloy's eyes fluttered open, just a sliver. Warm, soft pressure lingered on his lips—salty, gentle, a subtle suction, breath hot against his skin. Instinct flared before reason. He jerked back violently, palm striking the stranger's face.
The stranger's face turned slightly from the impact, jaw tightening, a faint red mark blooming against pale skin.
He didn't move. Didn't even blink.
For a heartbeat, silence. Only their ragged breaths,
"What the hell do you think you're doing?! You—!" Niloy's voice tore out, raw, chest heaving.
The stranger's gaze lifted—steady, calm, but darkened by something heavier. His voice, when it came, was low and precise,
"...You dare!"
His gaze fell—first to the drenched ground, then upward through the thinning rain. Finally, it caught on the stranger's hand, still wet, still faintly trembling from the effort of pulling him back to life.
The truth struck like a stone to the heart. His pulse faltered, breath catching midair.
He opened his mouth. No words came out. "...You... you were trying to save me?"
The stranger began to move, deliberate and controlled, as if the storm itself followed his steps.
"...I—I'm... sorry... I—"
"... stop! Don't just leave me!" Panic wove through his limbs. He wobbled, planted his feet firmly, and brushed debris from soaked clothes. "Hey! Wait!"
"—What should I call you?"
"...the tall one!"
Hesitation froze him for a heartbeat, then he bolted forward.
"Stranger..."