They had just landed in Bangkok, Thailand, the humid air wrapping around them the moment they stepped out of the airport—thick, fragrant, alive. It smelled of rain-soaked concrete, distant street food, and something faintly floral that Selma couldn't place. The city breathed differently from home. Louder. Faster. As though it didn't care whether she belonged in it or not.
Selma adjusted her sunglasses, eyes flicking over the unfamiliar signs, the blur of Thai script glowing above polished floors and rushing travelers. Her fingers twitched around her phone. A return ticket would be easy—two taps, a confirmation email, and this mistake could be undone before it truly began.
But Agatha beat her to it.
"If you're thinking about leaving," Agatha said calmly, without slowing her stride, "and expect me to cover for you, then I hope your piled-up resentment rises increasingly high."
Selma froze for half a second.
Well. It wasn't a secret.
Agatha knew—had always known—that Selma harbored resentment toward her. Old, layered resentment. The kind that never quite faded, only rearranged itself into something quieter and sharper. And that was fine, apparently. Agatha was her personal assistant. Taking care of Selma—her moods, her impulses, her disasters—was part of the job description.
Selma scoffed softly.
"I'm glad you still know I hold a grudge," she huffed, pushing her luggage forward and walking ahead. Her heels clicked against the smooth floor, sharp and irritated. She'd already taken a few steps when Agatha's voice followed her again.
"Do you really know where we're going?"
Selma stopped.
Of course she didn't.
Bangkok sprawled endlessly beyond the airport—towering buildings tangled with old temples, narrow alleys hiding behind glass skyscrapers, a city layered with contradictions. She had agreed to come here in a moment of exhaustion, not clarity.
But who was Selma to admit that?
She turned slightly, chin lifted.
"Of course I do," she said smoothly. "You distracted me. Now, lead the way."
She stood there, waiting.
Agatha sighed, shaking her head with the quiet resignation of someone who had long accepted her role as caretaker to an overgrown baby disguised as a capable adult. Still, she took the lead without complaint.
Agatha always had it covered.
They rented a condo at The Met Sathorn, a towering structure of steel and glass nestled in one of Bangkok's most prestigious districts. The building rose like a quiet fortress above the chaos below—sleek, modern, and detached from the noise of street vendors, motorbikes, and endless traffic.
Inside, everything felt controlled.
Cool air-conditioning replaced the oppressive heat. Marble floors reflected soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a living painting—Bangkok at dusk, glowing gold and violet, alive with movement. From the balcony, Selma could see the Chao Phraya River winding through the city like a patient observer, carrying secrets older than any of them.
They had already settled in.
Suitcases unpacked. Clothes hung neatly.
Groceries stacked with methodical precision—Agatha's doing. The condo didn't feel temporary. That unsettled Selma more than anything.
They weren't moving here.
They were staying.
A year, officially. If only it would be that long.
Selma leaned against the balcony railing, city lights flickering below like restless thoughts. She had planned—no, promised herself—that the highest limit for this damned vacation, this beautifully disguised cage, was three months. Three months to breathe, regroup, then leave before the walls closed in.
Agatha could live here all her life and not blink.
In fact, she would be pleased.
She thrived in stability, in routines, in places that didn't ask too many emotional questions. Bangkok, with its rhythm and structure beneath chaos, suited her perfectly.
Selma, on the other hand, felt suspended—caught between escape and obligation, resentment and reliance. The city stretched endlessly before her, offering freedom she wasn't sure she wanted and confinement she couldn't yet name.
Below, Bangkok roared on, indifferent to her indecision.
And above it all, from a condo that felt too permanent for comfort, Selma wondered whether this place would break her—or quietly teach her how to stay.
---
It was already 1:00 p.m., yet sleep refused to come.
The curtains were half-drawn, letting Bangkok's daylight spill into the condo in a muted haze—bright but softened by glass and height. Outside, the city throbbed quietly at this altitude. Traffic hummed like a distant river, broken occasionally by a siren or the echo of construction somewhere far below. Inside, the air-conditioning whispered steadily, cold against Selma's skin, a stark contrast to the heat pressing against the windows.
Selma sat curled on the couch, laptop balanced on her thighs, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion nesting behind them.
Documents filled her screen—contracts, timelines, projections—rows of text she had memorized so thoroughly they felt like a second language. She scrolled, highlighted, corrected, deleted. Her fingers moved with unconscious precision.
She had grown used to this.
So used to working that sleeping without it felt unnatural, almost wrong. As though rest was something she had to earn through exhaustion. Her body might crave sleep, but her mind demanded structure—something to hold onto until deep into the dead of night.
The city was awake. So was she.
Her phone buzzed suddenly, the vibration sharp against the quiet. Selma barely flinched. Without looking away from the screen, she picked it up and answered.
"Yes?" she said, voice flat, professional, eyes still scanning a paragraph.
"Hallo."
The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.
Not rushed. Not formal either.
"What can I do for you?" Selma asked, irritation creeping in. She assumed it was work—someone calling late, crossing time zones without consideration.
Then the words came.
A string of language spilled from the speaker—rapid, fluid, completely foreign. It wasn't English. It wasn't anything Selma recognized. The syllables rose and fell in a rhythm that sounded almost melodic, unmistakably not her dialect, not even close.
She frowned slightly, attention finally shifting.
Before the caller could continue, Selma brought the phone closer to her lips and said, slowly and clearly, as though clarity alone could fix the mistake, "Wrong number."
She ended the call.
The screen went dark.
For a moment, she stared at her phone, thumb hovering as if expecting it to buzz again. It didn't.
"Weird," she murmured, exhaling softly.
She set it aside and returned to her laptop, forcing her focus back into the neat, controllable world of documents and deadlines. Outside, the sunlight shifted, clouds drifting lazily past the towering windows. Time slipped by unnoticed, measured only by the steady scrolling of text and the dull ache creeping into her shoulders.
She worked until she forgot she was working.
Somewhere between a half-finished sentence and an unresolved note, her eyes closed. The laptop remained open, screen glowing faintly in the dimming room. Her body finally gave in, slumping sideways, one hand still resting on the keyboard.
The alarm rang.
Sharp. Insistent.
Selma jolted awake, heart racing for half a second as confusion washed over her. The room looked different—softer, paler. Morning light crept through the curtains, gentle and unassuming, painting the walls in gold.
She blinked.
Her laptop was still on.
Her neck ached.
She reached for her phone, silencing the alarm, and glanced at the time. Morning.
Somehow.
"It's morning already," she muttered, voice rough with sleep.
Outside, Bangkok stirred again—vendors setting up stalls, engines starting, life resuming without pause. Selma sat there, suspended between yesterday's work and today's obligations, the echo of a strange voice lingering faintly at the back of her mind, like a call unanswered.
___
What Selma met when she stepped out of her room was not silence, nor the orderly calm she preferred, but laughter—bright, unrestrained, and utterly unfamiliar.
It drifted through the condo like music she hadn't chosen to play.
In the living room stood two strange men and two women, gathered comfortably around Agatha as though they had known her for years. Their voices rose and overlapped, cheerful and warm, carrying an ease that made the space feel suddenly smaller, more crowded. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, catching on their expressions, on the casual way they leaned against furniture that Selma still hadn't grown used to calling hers.
She paused at the threshold.
She couldn't tell their ages. That unsettled her more than it should have. They all looked… similar. Not in features, but in presence—self-assured, relaxed, like people who belonged exactly where they were. The moment their eyes fell on her, the laughter stilled.
Then, as one, they stood and bowed.
Deep. Respectful. Sincere.
Selma didn't flinch.
That, she was used to.
As the owner of things—companies, properties, hospitals, responsibilities—she knew what respect looked like. Knew the posture, the pause, the unspoken
acknowledgment of hierarchy. After a brief hesitation, she bowed back. Not too deeply.
Not dismissively either.
Because what were you supposed to do in a country you knew nothing about?
No matter what people said, she had always lived by that phrase.
When in Rome, do like the Romans.
"Selma, you must—"
Agatha didn't finish her sentence.
If eyes could kill, she would have been dead on the spot.
Selma's glare was sharp, cold, and unmistakably displeased—one of those looks that ended conversations before they properly began. Agatha cleared her throat, unfazed in the way only someone long accustomed to Selma's moods could be.
"They're our neighbors," she said quickly, gesturing toward them. "Rei, Koon, and Ray. And Gus."
Names passed Selma without leaving a mark. She registered none of them. Instead, she straightened her posture, smoothed the imaginary crease in her sleeve, and summoned her professional smile—the one perfected over years of boardrooms and polite warfare.
"I'm Selma," she said smoothly. "Pleased to meet you."
She wasn't.
Not in any way. Not even remotely. But she wouldn't say that, would she?
She gave them a courteous nod, then turned sharply toward Agatha.
"A moment."
She didn't wait for a response.
The kitchen was, naturally, the farthest place from the living room. Enclosed. Safe. Neutral territory. Selma leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
"I know what you're going to ask," Agatha said before Selma could speak. "I didn't invite them. They came."
Selma studied her, then asked, genuinely puzzled, "You speak Thai?"
"A little," Agatha replied easily. "I had a cousin here, remember?"
Selma paused.
She searched her memory, sifting through old conversations and half-forgotten details.
Then she nodded once.
"Well. That makes sense," she said.
And just like that, the tension evaporated—not resolved, merely postponed. Selma pushed herself off the counter and left the kitchen without another word, abandoning Agatha to return to the guests.
Back in her room, Selma lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.
The room was quiet now, insulated from laughter and voices she didn't want to understand. The ceiling fan turned slowly, shadows drifting across white paint. She felt oddly displaced—too far from home, too close to people she hadn't chosen.
With nothing to do, she contemplated her life choices.
Every single one of them.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she said absently, not bothering to sit up.
Agatha stepped inside, studying Selma with a look that hovered between amusement and concern.
"We're heading out tonight," she said.
"Wanna come?"
Selma turned her head slightly. "Where?"
"Ray and Koon suggested showing us around. Places worth seeing. I was wondering if you're okay with that."
Selma exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to the ceiling.
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
"You do," Agatha said lightly. "Just say you're bored."
"That's the same thing," Selma shot back.
Agatha laughed.
Outside, the city waited—bright, loud, and insistent—ready to pull Selma further into a life she hadn't planned, surrounded by people she didn't trust, in a place that refused to let her stay invisible.
__
Night arrived far sooner than Selma expected, slipping over the city like a curtain drawn without warning.
When she finally stepped out, she wore jean pants that hugged her legs comfortably, paired with a baggy polo shirt that had absolutely nothing to do with the jeans—wrong cut, wrong mood, wrong intention.
And yet, somehow, it worked. There was something effortless about her presence, the kind of beauty that didn't ask for approval and certainly didn't try to impress.
Bangkok at night was a different creature.
Neon lights flickered like restless thoughts.
Street vendors lined the sidewalks, smoke rising from grills, carrying the scent of spice, oil, sweetness, and heat. Motorbikes weaved through traffic like water slipping through cracks. Laughter burst from open bars, music pulsed from unseen speakers, and the city felt alive in a way that bordered on overwhelming.
They walked. They ate.
Skewers. Bowls of noodles. Things Selma couldn't pronounce and didn't bother trying to. Food that burned her tongue, made her eyes water, and yet somehow demanded another bite. Against her expectations, she found herself laughing—quietly, briefly—but genuinely.
They really did have fun.
And then someone suggested the cinema.
The theater was cool, dim, and buzzing with quiet anticipation. According to every recommendation thrown around, the movie was excellent. A must-watch. A local favorite.
Everyone seemed absorbed.
Everyone except Selma.
To her, it took sheer discipline—not taste, not politeness, but pure self-esteem—not to gag right there in her seat.
It was a Thai drama soaked in romance and angst. Long stares. Slow confessions. Pain stretched thin for emotional effect. Music swelling at the wrong moments. Eyes glistening too perfectly.
Selma sat rigid, arms crossed, jaw tight.
She hated angst movies. She hated romance even more. And this one? This one felt second-guessed, as if even the actors weren't fully convinced of their own feelings.
She rolled her eyes so many times she was certain she'd seen more movement from herself than from the entire cast combined.
Forced longing. Forced tears. Forced love.
Cringe.
By the time the credits rolled, she felt like she had endured something rather than experienced it.
Outside the cinema, the night air greeted them again, warm and loud.
"That was great," Rei said enthusiastically, looking at Agatha.
Agatha smiled, soft and polite. "It's good. Great."
Selma caught it immediately.
That smile wasn't genuine. It was the smile Agatha used when she didn't want to argue.
The man Selma assumed was Koon turned to her. "What about you, Ama? Did you like it?"
Selma pointed at herself, brows lifting. "Me?"
"It's Selma," she corrected coolly. "Don't sweet-talk it."
Koon laughed awkwardly. "Yeah—Ama—Selma. What do you think?"
Selma exhaled, almost relieved.
If there was one thing she was grateful for, it was that these neighbors spoke English. Ray—the youngest among them—struggled with it, mixing words and meanings, but Selma didn't mind. At least she didn't have to strain herself to be understood.
She smiled. Bright. Unapologetic.
"It's bad," she said plainly. "Predictable. Their expressions looked forced. The romance felt like they were threatened into performing it." She shuddered lightly. "That makes it uncomfortable."
Silence followed.
The looks they gave her were unreadable—somewhere between surprise and mild horror.
"What?" Selma added calmly. "I just stated my feelings. I'll introduce you to films that are twisted, unpredictable, full of suspicion. I honestly can't believe this was recommended to a cinema."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
She took a wrong turn without realizing it.
The street grew quieter, lights dimmer. A dark alley stretched ahead, narrow and poorly lit. Selma slowed, then stopped.
That was when she heard it.
A sound—too intimate, too breathy to be mistaken for anything else. A low, satisfied sigh. Something dangerously close to a moan.
Her body stiffened.
She turned slightly, shock freezing her in place.
"You—" she started to mutter to herself.
Then came another voice. Rough. Urgent.
"Just get on with it, Poon. I want you. I want you now."
Selma's eyes widened.
It wasn't Thai. Not quite. It was English—or something close to it—raw, slurred, unmistakable. And as a doctor, she didn't need context to understand what was happening.
A second male voice followed, deeper, amused. "Ah… impatient, huh? I'll make you feel real good."
She didn't see anything, but the rustling of clothes, and the tingling of a belt, proved she wasn't hallucinating what she felt they were doing.
Then, another sigh, this one deep. As if the other being done was trying his best not to moan.
Sounds that's unmistakenly an "ah" filled the quiet place. Was this Thailand or was this something horrifying in total?
Then she heard it again. "Just do me already, stop teasing me."
For a moment, Selma thought that the doer wasn't Thai, for the receiver was trying to speak English for his top to understand.
Why the heck was she thinking about that? This shouldn't be like her. But... It was to her, disgusting.
The word "top" almost made her puke. She held her hands to her tommy trying hard not to go there and beat those two.
The bottom said something that wasn't English, but it seems like the top understood.
"Are we really doing it here? Isn't this place a bit too shady for a hot sex?"
"I don't care. I want your d*ck inside me now."
"D*ck? Get a room!" For a very stupid reason she couldn't fathom, Selma couldn't move, as if she was rooted deep without letting her go.
"So feisty. I want to dismantle you to nothingness.
To nothingness. Bros, this isn't a motel. This is an alley... I didn't sign up for this.
Another lewd sound came through
"F*ck! Just like that. So, sweet. I wonder...ah, I wonder how it would be if you're inside me.
That was it.
"HOLY SHIT!! " she yelled. Selma could tell that those two realized. But before reason could win...
Selma spun around and ran.
She didn't look back. Didn't hesitate. Her heart pounded as she hurried down the street, heels striking pavement too loudly, dignity forgotten in the face of survival.
Did she just witness that?
On her second day in Thailand?
"I'm going home," she muttered fiercely to herself, pace quickening. "Absolutely going home."
Whatever this city had planned for her, she wanted no part of it—not tonight, not in a dark alley, and certainly not as an accidental witness.
Bangkok roared behind her, uncaring, as Selma disappeared back into the lights, determined to lock her door and pretend none of it had happened.