Chapter Text
The Theerapanyakul mansion had always been buzzing with activity. From strictly trained bodyguards positioned in front of the opulent entrance and patrolling around the compound, to staff working day and night to keep the majestic palace spotless — the scenes rarely changed. The cooks were constantly busy preparing the food, ensuring all the men and women working in the Theerapanyakul’s household were well-fed. All of them needed energy and strength. The fact that they were standing and working under Thailand’s most influential and notorious mafia family meant that mistakes and slacking were not tolerable. It was unacceptable.
The towering mansion, designed with modern touches by prominent architects, was filled with luxurious furniture and rare items that were worth more than any ordinary person could imagine. The shiny and polished marble floors reflected those who walked on them. The advanced facilities equipped inside the opulent building were impressive, and the grand mansion only screamed a small part of the family’s wealth. The mansion seemed to have everything except humanity.
These were the normal, almost mundane surroundings for every staff member that served the Theerapanyakul. Normalcy means good — it signifies peace.
But today was different. There was no regular appearance of the eccentric behavior of Master Tankhun, business meetings were officially canceled by the heads of major and minor families, the staff was walking on their toes, and the elite bodyguards were called into the meeting room by Master Kinn and Master Porsche. The internal conflict happening inside the heavy locked doors could be felt by everyone. The air was brewing with upcoming havoc. The constant whispers and endless gossip from the workers could not be heard — the silence in the mansion was deafening. The atmosphere was dark, the tension stretched and waiting to be snapped — like a ticking time bomb about to explode. Just like three months ago. And this wasn't good, it signifies war.
It's all because of the missing young master, Khun’ Porchay.
The rumbling engines could be heard seconds before a black Maserati screeched to a stop in front of the mansion's driveway. The bodyguards, standing uprooted at the front of the entrance, dressed in standard black and white suits with the major family's insignia pinned on the right upper chest — visibly stood upright and shoulders tense.
They knew who had just arrived.
The third son of the Theerapanyakul major family came like a storm, opening and slamming the car door shut with heavy force, his dark eyes glaring piercingly at the rigid men. The aura the man emanated was a dark one — one that couldn't be seen yet could be felt by every person in the area. Throwing his car keys at one of the unexpected bodyguards who reflexively caught them, the man continued to stride into the mansion.
They knew that Doom had just arrived.
Kim Khimhant barged through the entryway with one main purpose in mind — Porchay.
All the staff who stumbled across him scattered away with bowing heads, muttering their greetings in small voices. Some even turned their backs and scurried away, tails between their legs. Bodyguards straightened, shoulders squared, arms on their sides, and eyes focused ahead. Not daring to make any eye contact with the brutal man.
They know who he is, who they shouldn’t come across. It's not a secret what kind of ferocious reputation the third son of the major Theerapanyakul carried. The one with the coldest aura out of the three brothers, the one with the pitch black eyes—almost obsidian, the most stealthy yet the cruelest. The killer of the major mafia family.
Kim Khimhant had always been the epitome of a controlled vicious beast.
Three months ago, they witnessed what happened when the man became enraged. Bullets were flying, marble floors were bathed in dark blood, and family members were almost killed. That day had felt like the end for the Theerapanyakul — when the third son stormed in directly through the mansion’s door, destroying everything that dared to cross him, killing those who tried to take away what was his, and leaving the survivors with unhealed scars and dark terrors in the night. Since that fateful day, they'd called him the 'Doom.'
He strode and reached the front of the elevator, jaw clenched, eyes hard. Big, one of the bodyguards he trusted, quickly pressed the button to the upper floor. He needed to see it. He needed to see Porchay’s room with his own eyes. To see if it was indeed true that the boy had managed to pack his belongings and run away.
Porchay didn’t have the skill to do that. Not from the high security installed in this place, not from the more than 40 trained bodyguards located around the building. And definitely not from the two bodyguards he secretly assigned to take care of the boy.
The bodyguards that he had personally trained to protect him.
The elevator dinged, snapping Kim out of his thoughts. He stepped into the rectangular box, looking out at the glass window briefly before he turned his back away from the marveling view. Big followed after him, pressing the button to the 25th floor — Porchay’s room.
Kim felt it, the heaviness that was growing in the pit of his stomach, the feeling of desperation that threatened to consume him. A desperate plea for the news to not be true. That Kinn was just bluffing in the phone call, trying to get on his nerves, to get revenge on him for shooting him three months ago. Kinn knew that Porchay was the most lethal bullet to pierce him back.
He thought back to their conversations less than 30 minutes ago, and his fists were automatically clenched.
"He's gone." The voice from the end of the line grimly said. Kim's mind short-circuited for a second, trying to understand what the uttered words meant.
"Explain Kinn," he said after a few breaths.
"He's gone, Kim. Porchay is gone."
Kinn replied, his tone serious. "He disappeared this morning. His belongings were packed, only a note was left on his bed."
There was a pause after the man finished talking, waiting for the other person at the end of the line to speak, to say anything. But all Kinn received was the sound of labored breathing and an incredulous "What?" from the other man.
Kinn exhaled, his hand tightened on the phone. "Come to the main house and see for yourself. Arm and Porsche are trying to track him now." Kinn said with an urgent, tone that was unmistakably grave before he ended the phone call.
The elevator dinged for the second time, and Kim was pulled out of his reverie. He glanced at the small screen on the top of the elevator — 25th floor. He marched out, Big seconds after him. The sound of his dark leather boots stomping on the burgundy carpeted floor made him aggravated. His dark leather jacket creaked on his sides, his hands tightly clenched until the fingers cracked, his cold eyes narrowed, and he glared down at whoever came across him.
Kim couldn't think of anything else except Porchay.
Porchay is gone.
His mind was spiraling out of control, and whispers of venom kept repeating, feeding his controlled panic as anxiety crept in. The only thing that kept him from insanity, from going berserk again, was the thought that Porchay might have just outsmarted the bodyguards and was still inside the mansion. Hiding from them, from Porsche, and the CCTVs. He told himself the boy was just moping around, bored out of his mind, and wanted to play hide and seek, and these fucking people just couldn’t find him in this massive building.
His breathing started to get labored.
Porchay is gone.
The boy might just be in the kitchen area, stealing the freshly baked pastries from the chefs downstairs before they can serve the sweet desserts on the table. One of the bodyguards reported it to him a few weeks ago. He might be in the family’s library, drowning in the massive collection of books from the past generations. Apparently, Porchay liked to read.
The boy could be in the back corner of the gigantic room, soundlessly asleep on the brown leather of the library’s sofa, with a book covering his face from the sun rays coming in through the large windows. He remembered seeing the photo attached to the report, safely treasured in his room, hidden in one of the nightstand’s drawers.
He gripped his hands tightly, feeling the slight pain from the nails breaking into the skin of his palms. He needed to stop them from trembling, to ground himself from turning into the very side he despised the most.
Porchay is gone.
The boy could simply be walking around, sulking about whatever happened to him. Or he might be wandering around the city with his friends, sneaking out like he used to do, mingling with the wrong crowd before Kim intervened and stopped the boy from getting drugged.
He had made sure those people wouldn’t even dare to contact Porchay again.
Porchay will come back later after he’s done playing, and Porsche will scold him for leaving without the bodyguards. Kim will make sure the bodyguards he secretly put on the boy will get severe punishments for being careless, and for letting a 19-year-old outsmart them. He will remind Kinn to tighten the security around the boy, and Porchay will be safe again in this place — surrounded by brick walls, thick bulletproof windows, and shielded by the people who swore their loyalty to protect him.
He's not gone.
"Porchay is gone, Kim."
"He disappeared this morning."
His steps quickened. Kim swallowed the panic bottled up in his throat, trying to shut out the dark whispers inside his head. His eyes were glaring straight at the double doors at the end of the hallway. The two bodyguards he assigned to Porchay — Toru and Mike — had been waiting for him at the front of the room. Dressed in regular black and white suits, the family’s insignia gleamed under the light from the ceiling's hall. Their posture was straight, like standing soldiers ready to march, hands behind their backs and expressionless eyes staring straight ahead. They knew what was coming for them.
"Master Kim," they bowed their heads when Kim reached them, trying to avoid the man's icy cold gaze.
"I’ll deal with you later." Kim growled out, teeth-gritting in his mouth. One more word from them and he'll snap their necks with his bare hands.
They seemed to notice his tone. The tone Kim only used when the man was about to lose control, like how they caught sight of the bloodbath the man had spilled three months ago. Both of them quickly step away from the door, not wanting to be at the end of the man’s wrath.
Kim didn’t let the men reply. He took out his wallet and slid out the key card to Porchay’s room and pressed it onto the card reader. The door beeped, and Kim clutched the handle before turning slightly towards Big at his back.
"Stay outside. Do not enter until I give you permission." Kim ordered, his voice hard.
"Yes, Master Kim." Big responded with a small bow of his head before proceeding to shift his body around and stand guard, hands behind his back, looking over the hallway they just walked down.
Kim took a deep breath, readying himself for something, something that would definitely break the last string of his sanity.
He entered the room.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. The room faintly smelled of vanilla from the cheap 2-in-1 body wash and shampoo Porchay loved to use. Kim shut and locked the door. His eyes were skimming around and landed on the seating area, a beige sectional couch and a smart TV propped up against the wall. Some magazines, sudoku, and crossword books were lying around the top of the glass coffee table.
Stepping further into the second area, Porchay’s sleeping space, he was enveloped by the strong vanilla scent. He felt it. The heaviness in his stomach was beginning to consume him, threatening to drown him whole. Kim swallowed down the telltale signs of hysteria and hardened his feelings. He needed to see it for himself.
The day he came to tutor the boy, he remembered seeing the bottle of the product at the boy’s old house. When he was investigating the Kittisawat family, when everything was fine between them, Porchay always smelled like soft vanilla around him. When Porchay lay in his arms that morning, head resting on his pounding chest, his hand unconsciously stroking the boy’s head, he could smell the vanilla from his hair.
Porchay's body smelled like vanilla when he tightly circled his lean arms around his neck after confessing his feelings in the music room — speechless and giddy after receiving a kiss on his cheek. Kim hugged him back, squeezed him close to his chest, hips meeting hips, warm bodies molded into one — so close that Kim still remembers the taste of vanilla on his tongue from Porchay’s neck. He inhaled deeply and swallowed down hungrily — craving to be intoxicated by the boy’s scent.
And Kim just had to know what product the boy was using to smell this heavenly. Maybe it was the product, or maybe it was just Porchay himself, but he became addicted to it — desiring the boy's calming scent to wrap him all the time. After he went home, Kim ordered two bottles of the cheap 2-in-1 vanilla-scented body wash and shampoo.
The smell wasn't the same.
He walked to the queen-sized bed, white sheets rumpled, blankets neatly folded at the foot of the mattress. Images of Porchay on this bed, soundlessly sleeping, soft breaths coming out of his mouth, hugging one of these pillows, brought unknown greed and jealousy into his throat. How he badly wished to turn back time and be with the boy like that morning. Hands wrapped around each other, Porchay's head tucked into his neck, silky hair on his rough fingertips — to feel that morning again before everything went downhill.
He traced his fingers on the soft cushions, feeling the smooth cotton case under his calloused fingertips, and grabbed one of them. He brought the snow-white pillow close to his nose and inhaled deeply. His eyes closed, face buried in the soft cotton and savoring this part of Porchay.
Kim let out a low groaned.
Vanilla, Kim thought, head dizzy in the cocoon of the comforting scent, and Porchay.
"He disappeared this morning. His belongings were packed, only a note was left on his bed."
Kim exhaled harshly. His eyes snapped open as the sound of Kinn’s voice echoed across his mind like a punch to his face. The panic in his stomach finally overflowed, edging him to almost snap the last of his sanity.
He was thrown back to reality, forcefully woken up from the drunken trance he had been pulled into. Like a raging wave crashing against the shore, the hysterics came in with full force.
He dropped the pillow down, striding to the white dresser against the wall of the room, and wrenched the drawers open — empty. His hands started to tremble.
He stalked toward the bathroom and banged the door open, looking over the countertop and finding nothing. His breathing was getting labored.
He strode to the center of the room and looked wildly around, opting to march to the small walk-in closet and yank the door open. There were a few pieces of clothing scattered around the floor, some still hanging on the opened wardrobe doors, and Kim hastily reached for them. The soft fabrics felt strange in his rough palms, and Kim madly rummaged through the closet.
These branded clothes weren’t Porchay’s. He didn’t like wearing these types of fabrics made by these expensive brands. He had never worn them before, and he was certainly sure the boy didn’t even know how to pronounce the names. Those shoes and sneakers weren’t to his taste, and the pants looked untouched like they had never been worn.
No, these weren’t Porchay’s belongings. Instead, he harshly rummaged through the wardrobe, like a crazed man looking for something — hoping to see it. To find the plaid shirts and worn-out pants of Porchay. The desperate hope of finding the boy's old beaten-up shoes.
Nothing.
He felt like drowning.
Kim dragged his feet back to the bed, sitting on the foot of it with his head in his hands, arms propped on his knees. His back bent forward and his mind blanked for a moment.
Kinn wasn’t bluffing. That man wasn’t trying to take his revenge for what happened three months ago. His older brother was telling the truth.
It finally dawned on him that Porchay had truly left this place.
Alone. Unprotected. Nowhere.
The old plaid shirts and oversized cartoon sweaters weren’t here. The old stained shoes and school books couldn’t be seen. His cheap 2-in-1 vanilla-scented body wash and shampoo were gone.
Kim looked up from his hands, his red-rimmed eyes looking over the room once again. That was when he noticed it. The final blow to the last string of his controlled sanity.
Near the floor to the ceiling windows, beside the opened white curtain, leaning against the wall was the black guitar case he had gifted to the boy almost 6 months ago. The wooden acoustic guitar he personally picked up for the younger man was laying on the carpeted floor, abandoned by its rightful owner.
Humorless chuckles left his lips. It violently hit him. The impact left him breathless and choking on his silent rage.
Porchay packed only his belongings and left behind everything that wasn’t his.
Porchay is gone.
Kim finally snapped.