The city had barely begun to wake when Krit Veerayut left his mansion, the morning fog curling around the streets like a cautious warning. He walked at a slow, deliberate pace, his polished shoes clicking against the damp pavement. The news of the previous night's murder still lingered in the back of his mind, but Krit had no fear ,only curiosity. There was always a pattern, and he intended to find it.
By the time he reached the quiet café near the river, the sun had burned away most of the fog, leaving the streets slick but glimmering. The scent of freshly baked bread and coffee wrapped around the narrow street like a warm blanket. Krit pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by the soft chime of the bell, a mundane sound that somehow carried a promise of normalcy.
"Good morning, Krit," said the barista, a bright-eyed girl with a name tag reading Mayuree. She had the kind of smile that made people forget the weight of the world, if only for a moment.
Krit nodded politely, his gaze scanning the café. It was quiet, patrons scattered at various tables. And then he saw him, the boy from the day before, hunched over a notebook, scribbling with intense focus. His hair was still damp from the drizzle, strands sticking to his forehead, and his posture radiated a kind of quiet determination that Krit found unexpectedly magnetic.
"Niran," Krit said softly, almost to himself. He took a seat across from him, careful not to startle him.
The boy looked up, eyes wide, and immediately straightened. "Good morning… Krit." His voice was soft, slightly hesitant, but there was an honesty in it that made Krit pause.
"Do you come here often?" Krit asked casually, though his eyes never left Niran's face.
Niran shook his head, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. "Not really… just… I like the quiet here. Helps me think."
Krit inclined his head slightly, understanding more than he let on. The boy seemed fragile, yet there was a subtle strength beneath the surface. A quiet courage that wasn't loud or boastful but was unmistakable.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sounds the soft hiss of the coffee machine and the occasional clink of porcelain. Krit found the stillness oddly comforting. He rarely let anyone in, rarely allowed himself to linger on someone else's presence. Yet with Niran, it felt… different.
Outside, unnoticed, a figure paused in the shadows. Kit watched, leaning against the wall, hood pulled low over his face. There was a careful grace to his movements, the kind that belonged to someone who had long mastered the art of invisibility. He studied Krit with an intensity that made his chest tighten in a way that no one else had ever managed. Every word, every gesture from Krit was stored in his memory, cataloged, and analyzed.
"He doesn't know yet… but he will," Kit thought. The rain from the night before still clung to the edges of his hair, tiny droplets catching the morning light like shattered glass. A part of him wanted to step forward, reveal himself, but another part .. the darker, more meticulous part, reminded him that timing was everything.
Back inside, Krit's attention shifted as Niran's notebook slid off the table, spilling a page of carefully drawn sketches and notes. Without thinking, Krit reached to catch it, their fingers brushing briefly. A faint warmth lingered where they touched, and Niran's cheeks tinged pink.
"Sorry… I'm always so clumsy," Niran murmured, a nervous laugh escaping him.
"You're not clumsy," Krit replied evenly, returning the notebook. "Just… distracted."
Niran's eyes widened slightly, unsure if that was an observation or a critique. He nodded quickly, tucking the notebook under his arm. "I… I should go. Classes soon."
Krit watched him leave, a strange sense of unease settling in his chest. Something about the boy, the way he carried himself, the subtle tension in his movements, made Krit feel like the world had shifted slightly.
And he was right.
Because across the street, Kit's eyes followed every step Niran took. Every time Krit interacted with him, every smile, every soft word, Kit cataloged it all. He had already begun constructing a world in which he could keep Krit safe. A world where no one would ever come between them, not even this gentle, frustrating boy.
Later that evening, Krit returned to his study, the mansion silent except for the soft ticking of the antique clock on the wall. He poured himself a glass of water, letting the events of the day settle in his mind. Another murder in the city had been reported, and though the media speculated wildly, Krit saw patterns others did not.
Something about the killings, the meticulous precision, the way the victims seemed chosen for reasons no one could comprehend, it didn't feel random. And deep down, Krit sensed that someone was watching. Not the city, not strangers on the street, someone close.
He didn't know it yet, but that someone was already moving...