Actions

Work Header

" Velvet Whispers "

Summary:

Love. Secrets. Shadows.

Three sisters carry a bloodline curse that should never have been awakened.
And now the Velvet Gate is stirring again.

When Ling, Namtan, and Milk return to their father's house, they uncover journals, maps, and warnings that don't belong to any ordinary family. The deeper they dig, the closer they get to the truth:
their family's legacy is not just history - it's alive.

But danger doesn't come alone.
Love tangles Ling with Orm, a woman haunted by strange marks and shadowed mirrors. Desire collides with fear. Attraction turns into obsession. And every kiss risks unlocking the darkness they were meant to contain.

Not every love story saves you.
Some become the doorway to everything you fear.

 

☆ U.A 💜

---

Chapter 1: * Ling’s Control *

Chapter Text

*Chapter 1: Ling’s Control*

---

The city of Bangkok shimmered with its usual confidence, golden sunlight slipping past the steel and glass of skyscrapers like liquid heat. Street noise formed a distant hum from twenty-three floors above Sukhumvit Road, where the penthouse of the Kwong Group headquarters sat like a throne above the world. And in that throne sat a woman who was elegance, authority, and quiet fire wrapped in a designer black suit and flawless red lipstick.

Sirilak Kwong — known to most as *Ling* or more quietly as “Madame Kwong” — glanced through the towering window behind her glass desk. Her fingers held a delicate espresso cup, but the look in her eyes was made of steel. The woman across from her was speaking — a marketing director whose voice quivered ever so slightly — but Ling wasn’t listening. She’d already read the proposal two days ago. Her silence now wasn’t out of indecision; it was strategic. Calculated.

She placed the cup down on the saucer. The sound was so sharp and intentional it might as well have been the strike of a gavel.

“Redo the campaign,” she said without looking up. “It’s derivative. Lazy. We don’t follow trends here — we set them.”

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but Ling raised one hand. Silence returned like a snap of frost.

“You may leave.”

It wasn’t cruelty — it was precision. Ling didn’t waste time. Every second in her presence had value, and she was done spending hers on mediocrity.

When the office door closed behind the woman, Ling leaned back in her leather chair, fingers pressing to her temple. Just three more hours and she could escape — not to rest, of course, but to trade one performance for another.

Tonight was the annual “City of Lights” charity gala. Ling was a major sponsor, and for years she’d attended as the enigmatic CEO who glided through the room without warmth or scandal. Elegant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

And tonight, she had no plans to break that tradition.

At least, that’s what she believed at 5:47 PM.

She had no idea the girl who’d completely disrupt her carefully structured world had just stepped out of a limousine on the other side of the city — wearing silver, smiling like starlight, and about to crash into her life like a spark in dry grass.

---

*Later That Night — The City of Lights Gala*

The Royal Grand Hotel had been transformed into a fantasy. Crystal chandeliers gleamed like galaxies overhead, while white roses and glass sculptures glowed under soft blue lighting. Bangkok’s elite circled the marble ballroom floor — tech moguls, models, political heirs, and of course, the press — all dressed in tailored perfection.

Ling arrived last.

She always did.

Her gown was simple yet striking — black silk, sleeveless, with a deep plunge in the back and a diamond clasp at the neck. Her hair was pulled into a low chignon, earrings glittering with quiet defiance. The room seemed to hush slightly when she entered — or maybe that was just the weight she carried with her. Some women demanded attention. Ling made people offer it willingly.

“Madame Kwong,” a host greeted her with a nervous bow. “This way, please.”

She offered a nod — not quite warm, not quite cold. As always, Ling was aware of every stare that followed her. She had become a myth — a woman who built a business empire after her father’s sudden death, who raised her two younger sisters while building a legacy, who never once had a public relationship.

And never needed one.

She moved through the crowd like a blade — silent, clean, efficient — accepting glasses of champagne, answering questions with polite indifference.

Until the music changed.

The host’s voice came on over the mic, his tone eager.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to welcome a special guest tonight — the multi-talented actress, singer, and rising icon: *Kornnaphat Sethratanapong!*”

The ballroom shifted.

Heads turned. Applause rippled. Cameras raised.

Ling, who had been in the middle of thanking a client for a deal signed last week, looked toward the entrance and paused.

She didn’t know the name personally — she didn’t watch drama series, had no time for pop music — but the woman walking in through the glass doors was unmistakable.

A silver dress, fluid and shimmering with every step, hugged a lithe, confident body. Dark hair curled around bare shoulders. Eyes lined with smoky gold. A smile — easy, teasing, radiant — played on her lips like she knew everyone was watching, and she loved it.

She looked like light personified.

And then she looked directly at Ling.

And winked.

Ling blinked.

The woman was being led to the stage — the emcee saying something about her latest film — but Ling didn’t hear it. She felt a strange heat in her chest. Like someone had lit a match in a place she hadn’t realized was filled with gas.

She turned away, irritated. That kind of woman — young, charming, attention-seeking — meant trouble.

She had no idea how right she was.

---

*Backstage, Post-Performance*

Orm hated heels. She could perform in five-inch Louboutins like a pro, but they still made her feet hurt like hell after. She kicked them off backstage and leaned against the dressing room counter, sipping water, heart still high from the applause.

The gala was fun. Glamorous. Good PR.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the black dress — that CEO with the ice-cold gaze and glass-cut cheekbones.

Ling… something.

Orm liked women who looked like they could ruin her life. Bonus points if they did it in designer.

So when a young assistant said, “Would you like to meet some of the sponsors, Ms. Kornnaphat?”, Orm smiled slowly and said, “Sure. Lead the way.”

---

*At the Champagne Bar*

Ling was studying her watch, calculating exactly how long she had to stay before she could leave without being rude, when a voice cut through the ambient music behind her.

“Ms. Kwong, right? Or should I call you… Ling?”

Ling turned.

There she was.

Up close, the girl was even more beautiful — not just model-beautiful, but real and warm in a way that made Ling feel… off-balance.

“Kornnaphat,” Ling said coolly. “Your performance was… acceptable.”

Orm laughed. Actually laughed.

“Wow. I think that’s the coldest compliment I’ve gotten all year.”

Ling raised one brow. “I don’t believe in flattery.”

“Good,” Orm said, stepping a little closer. “Neither do I.”

There was a silence.

Not awkward — charged.

Ling’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

Orm tilted her head, smiling. “Charity. PR. Free champagne. And maybe…” Her voice dropped just a touch. “To see if the Ice Queen in the black dress was as untouchable as she looks.”

Ling felt something tighten inside her.

“You’ll be disappointed.”

Orm grinned. “Maybe. But I’m very hard to scare off.”

Ling said nothing.

Just looked at her for a long moment. As if she were making a choice.

Then: “Walk with me.”

---

*On the Terrace*

The city was a sea of lights beneath them. Quiet and distant.

Orm leaned on the balcony, wind teasing her hair. Ling stood beside her, a foot of space between them — too much and not enough.

“Why do you act like you hate attention,” Orm asked suddenly, “when you walk like you own the world?”

Ling didn’t respond for a moment. “Because I don’t have time for indulgence.”

Orm turned to her. “Maybe that’s why you need it.”

Their eyes locked.

And for the first time in years, Ling did something completely out of character.

She leaned in.

Orm met her halfway.

The kiss was brief. Soft. Ling’s hand barely touched Orm’s jaw, and Orm's fingers brushed her wrist like a dare.

They pulled back.

“Goodnight,” Ling said, suddenly stepping away.

“Running already?” Orm teased.

Ling turned once, just enough to say: “I don’t run. I withdraw.”

And then she was gone.

---

 

☆ U.A 💜

Chapter 2: * The Idol Smile *

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

---

The bright stage lights still echoed behind her eyes.

Orm stood in her dressing room at the Royal Grand, heels finally off, bare feet planted on cool marble tile. Her dress shimmered like liquid silver every time she moved, and her reflection in the mirror looked like someone from a dream - perfect makeup, tousled curls, expensive jewelry borrowed from sponsors.

But she wasn't thinking about the crowd, the applause, or even the cameras that had chased her down the carpet earlier.

She was thinking about her.

That woman.

That **Ling**.

Orm leaned forward toward the vanity mirror, smirking slightly. "Damn," she muttered to herself. "You really like them cold, don't you?"

Ling's kiss had been brief - barely more than a touch of heat and lips - but it had stayed with her all night like an echo she couldn't shake. That unreadable look in her eyes. The sharpness of her tone. The fact that she hadn't said goodbye with a smile, or a number, or even a look back.

She was trouble. The delicious, impossible kind.

And Orm had always had a problem with letting things go.

---

**The Next Morning - Orm's Condo, Ekkamai**

Orm's condo was a far cry from the spotless perfection of Ling's penthouse. Hers had posters on the walls, mugs left out from last night's tea, guitars stacked in a corner, and an oversized plush Pikachu curled on her couch. She had floor-to-ceiling windows and sunlight spilling over everything, but it felt more like an artist's chaos than a CEO's control.

She was curled up on her sofa with a bowl of cereal and her phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram.

Her own face was everywhere - tagged photos from the gala, videos from the performance, even a blurry paparazzi shot of her standing suspiciously close to a certain black-gowned CEO on the terrace.

*Damn,* she thought with a slight grin. *That fast, huh?*

She clicked on the photo and read the comments.

> "Who's the mystery woman?"
> "Y'all see how close she's standing? 👀"
> "That's Sirilak Kwong. CEO of Kwong Group. And a LEGEND."
> "She looks like she eats people. I'd let her."
> "THEY KISSED I SWEAR-look at Orm's lipstick smudge!"
> "Power couple energy."

Orm snorted into her cereal. She should've been annoyed. But instead, she just felt... amused. Curious. Challenged.

She didn't do flings. Or at least not *public* ones. She'd learned early that any girl she touched became gossip within hours. And that hurt people. It made things ugly.

But Ling?

She didn't seem like someone who could be hurt easily. Or moved easily. Or *touched* easily.

Which made her all the more tempting.

Orm set her cereal down, grabbed her phone again, and opened her private Instagram - the one only five people followed, including Love.

She clicked on Ling's profile. It was clean. Polished. Nothing personal. All business and press shots.

But her DMs were open.

Orm grinned, thumbs moving.

> *Last night's kiss was cold. You usually start with ice and work your way down, or was that just for me?*

She didn't expect a reply.

She definitely didn't expect one **six minutes later**.

> *I start with what I know won't melt too quickly.*

Orm blinked.

Then grinned wider.

"Ohhh, she's dangerous."

---

**Later That Day - Kwong Group HQ**

Ling's office was back to its usual silence. The scent of fresh orchids from the lobby. The soft clack of keyboards outside the glass doors. Her morning schedule printed in clean bullet points beside her phone.

Except her mind wasn't on the quarterly projections.

It was on a silver dress. A mouth like temptation. And a text reply she definitely shouldn't have sent.

Ling rarely texted anyone who wasn't in her executive circle. She didn't flirt. She didn't banter. She didn't indulge in momentary distractions.

But something about Orm had irritated the edges of her control.

That smile. That unafraid confidence. The way she walked into every room like she belonged to it, even though she lived in a world of scripts and spotlights - a world Ling usually dismissed.

But Orm hadn't asked for approval. She hadn't begged for attention. She hadn't even tried to impress.

She had simply... looked.

And Ling had found herself *looking back*.

She tapped her pen against her desk, annoyed.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Come in."

Her assistant poked her head in. "Ms. Kwong, the production team for the Harmony Night sponsorship is here. They've brought the headliner with them."

Ling blinked. "Headliner?"

"Miss Kornnaphat Sethratanapong."

Of course.

---

**In the Conference Room**

Orm walked into the glass conference room with a leather jacket over a fitted white tee and high-waisted black pants that looked custom tailored. Her makeup was light, her hair messy in that purposeful way. She looked like a pop star pretending she wasn't a pop star.

"Nice place," she said, glancing around. "Very... grown-up."

Ling didn't smile. But she did hold Orm's gaze.

"We don't usually host talent in-house."

"Aw," Orm said, walking around the table slowly. "Is that your way of saying I'm special?"

Ling's tone was flat. "No. That was my way of saying this meeting should be brief."

But her eyes betrayed her. Just slightly.

Orm caught it.

"Well, I'll try to be quick, then," she said, sliding into a chair across from her. "Though I hear I'm very distracting."

One of the managers coughed. Ling didn't blink.

Business came first. She asked a few dry questions. Approved the sponsorship terms. Gave feedback on the venue and suggested lighting improvements.

But the entire time, Orm watched her.

Not her papers. Not her staff.

*Her.*

Ling stood when it ended. "My team will follow up with yours."

Orm stood too. "Looking forward to it."

Then, too quiet for anyone else to hear, she added: "Unless you want to follow up with me personally."

Ling met her eyes.

Sharp. Measuring.

Then: "You wouldn't survive it."

Orm's lips curled. "Try me."

And she was gone.

---

**That Night - Ling's Penthouse**

She stood by the window again, this time holding a glass of wine instead of espresso.

The city was buzzing below. Orm's latest single was playing somewhere on a rooftop bar across the river. Ling could faintly hear the beat if she focused.

And she hated how beautiful her voice was.

Her phone buzzed.

> **\[Orm:]** You think about me every time you look out that window, don't you?

Ling didn't reply immediately.

Then she did.

> **\[Ling:]** You assume a lot.

> **\[Orm:]** Only what I can feel.

> **\[Orm:]** Are you going to pretend that kiss didn't happen?

> **\[Ling:]** I can pretend very well.

> **\[Orm:]** I bet you can. But you didn't want to.

Ling stared at the message.

Then typed.

Then deleted.

Then typed again.

> **\[Ling:]** You'll get bored of this. Of chasing silence.

> **\[Orm:]** Only if it stops looking like you.

Ling's fingers hovered over the keyboard.

But she didn't reply.

Not tonight.

---

**Across Town - Orm's Bedroom**

Love was lying on her stomach on Orm's bed, eating chips and scrolling through her phone.

"You're texting her again, aren't you?"

Orm tossed a pillow at her. "Shut up."

Love laughed. "She's hot, I'll give you that. But you're playing with fire, babe."

Orm dropped onto the bed beside her. "She's fire. I want to see if it'll burn."

"You're going to get hurt."

Orm thought about that.

Then smiled.

"Maybe."

Orm turned to face the ceiling, her smile fading just a little.

Because even as Love’s laughter filled the room, she swore she heard it again—
that low, impossible whisper.

Not from her phone.
Not from outside.
From somewhere deeper.

The Velvet Gate was stirring.

🌙💜

---

 

[ “💜 If you’re reading this, welcome to the Velvet Gate. Drop a 🌙 in the comments so I know you’ve entered.” ]

 

☆ U.A 💜

Notes:

“I hope you guys enjoy it!”
"Thanks for reading this chapter! I’d love to hear your thoughts — kudos, comments, or just knowing you were here means a lot. The next part will continue soon."

Chapter 3: *Glass Between Us*

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Ling × Orm ;

 

---

Ling hadn’t slept.

Not because of insomnia. Not because of the city buzzing below.
Because of her.

Orm.

The memory of that rooftop — the near-kiss, the soft laugh, the way she had just… existed in Ling’s space — lingered like a pulse in her chest. Every breath reminded her of the warmth, the danger, the audacity of that smile.

And yet, beneath it all, there was something darker. A whisper that had slipped past the edges of her consciousness as she poured her second glass of wine. Not from Orm. Not from anyone. Something else. Something alive.

Ling pressed a hand to the window, tracing the reflection of the city lights. Somewhere far below, cars crawled like fireflies, oblivious to what stirred above.
And Ling knew it: the Velvet Gate was watching.

---

The city always glowed at night, but from this height, it didn’t feel real.

Ling stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, barefoot now, her silk robe tied loosely at her waist, a half-full glass of red wine resting in her hand. She didn’t usually drink on weeknights. She didn’t usually leave her hair down. She didn’t usually check her phone twice in the span of ten minutes either.

But tonight was unusual.

She had replayed Orm’s smirk at the conference table all afternoon. The way she leaned forward just enough to invade her space. The confidence. The audacity. That voice.

Ling didn’t entertain games.

But Orm wasn’t playing.

She was… provoking.

And Ling wasn’t used to being provoked.

Her phone buzzed on the table behind her. She didn’t turn.

Not immediately.

It buzzed again.

Still, she resisted.

Only when it stopped completely — when silence returned — did she move.

She crossed the living room in long, silent strides and picked it up.

*\[Orm:]*

> “You should see this moon. You’re missing it.”

Ling stared at the message for a long moment. Then she stepped back toward the window and looked up.

The moon was full and sharp and resting high above the skyline — silver like Orm’s dress at the gala.

She didn’t respond.

Not yet.

Another buzz.

*\[Orm:]*

> “Do you ever come down from your castle?”

*\[Ling:]*

> “Only when I’m in the mood to destroy something.”

*\[Orm:]*

> “Good. Destroy me then.”

Ling exhaled.

That girl was dangerous.

The kind of dangerous that didn’t try to trap you. She just stood there, smiling, while you walked into her fire willingly.

A third message came through.

*\[Orm:]*

> “Want to go somewhere? I’m already out. I’ll drive.”

Ling typed, paused, deleted.

She stared at her reflection in the glass for a moment.

Then she replied:

*\[Ling:]*

> “Send me the location.”

---

*1:13 AM – Rooftop Bar, Ari District*

Orm was already leaning on the railing when Ling arrived.

No red carpet. No paparazzi. No chaos. Just soft jazz music playing through hidden speakers and a few rooftop patrons huddled near heaters.

Orm wore a dark blue hoodie under a black coat, no makeup, and her hair tied in a high messy bun. She looked like the girl next door and a heartbreaker rolled into one — casual, glowing, and completely unbothered by her own effect.

Ling didn’t speak.

Orm turned her head slowly. Smiled.

“I was starting to think you’d ghost me.”

“I’m not in the habit of chasing idols around rooftops.”

“No?” Orm said, walking closer. “You could’ve fooled me.”

They stood there for a beat. The wind swept over them in small shivers, but neither moved. Orm's hands were buried in her coat pockets. Ling’s arms crossed.

Orm tilted her head.

“You always this guarded?”

“Yes.”

“Is it exhausting?”

Ling let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. Or an exhale. “No more than pretending to be charming 24/7.”

Orm grinned. “Touché.”

They fell into silence again, but this one felt different.

Not strained — *aware*.

Orm’s gaze slid over Ling slowly, the way someone looks at something they’re trying to memorize in case they wake up and it’s gone. And Ling… let her.

“I don’t usually meet people like you,” Orm said after a long pause.

“Like me?”

“People who make me nervous.”

Ling’s brow arched. “You look fine to me.”

“I fake it well,” Orm admitted. “But you… You walk into a room and make everyone straighten their spines.”

Ling’s gaze held hers. “You didn’t.”

Orm stepped a little closer.

“No,” she said softly. “I didn’t.”

They were a breath apart now. The wind died down. The city fell away.

And then—

“I’m cold,” Orm murmured, almost as an afterthought.

Ling didn’t move.

But after a moment, her hand reached out. Just slightly. Fingertips brushed Orm’s wrist, light as silk.

Orm didn’t flinch. She leaned in.

Ling’s voice was quieter now. Lower.

“You came here for something.”

Orm nodded. “Yeah.”

“What do you want from me?”

Orm’s smile faded just a bit.

“Not a headline,” she said. “Not a photo. Not even a kiss.”

She stepped closer — *closer* — until there was no distance left between them.

“I want you to look at me like I’m real.”

Ling swallowed.

Orm’s breath was warm against her jaw now. Her scent — vanilla and jasmine — wrapped around Ling’s senses like a slow fog.

“You’re playing with something you don’t understand,” Ling whispered.

“Maybe,” Orm said. “But I’m not afraid.”

And she leaned in —

But stopped.

Their noses brushed. Lips almost touched.

Almost.

Ling’s hand came up — not to pull her closer, but to hold her still.

“Not here,” she whispered.

“Then where?”

Ling didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped back.

Orm didn’t chase.

She smiled.

Something softer this time.

“I’ll wait,” she said. “But not forever.”

Ling turned away.

“I never asked you to.”

---

*Two Hours Later – Ling’s Penthouse*

She hadn’t invited her up.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because it was too soon. Too dangerous.

Too… exposed.

But she was still thinking about her.

Still tasting almost.

She poured another glass of wine and turned on the security feed. One of the cameras pointed at her lobby. Empty.

She turned it off.

Her phone buzzed.

*\[Orm:]*

> “Home safe. You’re still thinking about me. Goodnight, Ice Queen.”

Ling stared at the message.

Then typed:

> *\[Ling:]*
> “It’s Sirilak to you.”

*\[Orm:]*

> “Then say it to me next time. Close. Like tonight.”

No reply.

But Ling’s glass trembled slightly when she picked it up again.

---

Ling stared at the darkened skyline, the last traces of moonlight spilling over the penthouse floor.

Her phone buzzed again. Not Orm this time. Something else.

She froze.

A shadow flickered across the glass behind her. No sound. No wind. Just… presence.

Her fingers tingled. Not excitement. Not fear. Something older.
A whisper curled through the air, soft but unmistakable:

“You should not have let her in… the Gate is awakening.”

Ling’s breath caught. Her reflection in the window didn’t move with her.

It smiled.

---

[ “💜 If you’re reading this, welcome to the Velvet Gate. Drop a 🌙 in the comments so I know you’ve entered.” ]

☆ U.A 💜

Notes:

"Thanks for reading this chapter! I’d love to hear your thoughts — kudos, comments, or just knowing you were here means a lot. The next part will continue soon."

Chapter 4: * Coffee & Clashes *

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(Namtan × Film)

---

Rain clung to the café windows like melted pearls, streaking downward in thin, silver threads. Inside, soft music hummed beneath the hiss of milk steaming behind the bar.

The place sat on the edge of Thonglor - not too trendy, not too quiet - just hidden enough for Namtan to claim as hers.

She sat near the back, alone. A large cup of black coffee cooled beside a battered leather notebook crammed with scribbles and half-legible Thai cursive. Loose cream blouse, navy wide-leg trousers, hair in a messy bun that still looked expensive.

Her silver pen twirled between her fingers as she glared at her draft like it had betrayed her entire bloodline.

"Dialogue's stiff. Plot's dragging. Main character's annoying," she muttered. "Sounds like me."

A barista passed and smiled. Namtan's polite nod translated to: I'm working. Speak again only if I'm dying.

She wasn't in the mood for company.
Which meant, of course, that was the exact moment Film walked in.

At first, Namtan didn't notice. She was too busy crossing out paragraphs with violent strokes of ink. But then she heard it - a cool, low voice ordering an Americano - and her whole body snapped tight.

She didn't need to look up.
But she did.

Rachanun Mahawan. Film.

Ling's lawyer. Navy pantsuit, black heels, tablet under one arm, umbrella perfectly dry despite the downpour. Every inch of her polished.

God, she was annoying.

Namtan's shoulders stiffened. Please don't see me.

Film scanned the café once. Eyes landed. Smirk bloomed.

Damn it.

"Well," Film said, walking over. "Aren't we cozy."

Namtan didn't move. "Don't you have a contract to ruin?"

"Already finished. Your sister's efficient."

"This is my writing time. Go bother someone else with your tone."

Film slid into the chair across from her. "Public space."

"My mood space."

"That's not a thing."

"It is if I say it is."

Film raised one brow. "Charming as ever."

"I'm not here to charm."

The barista returned with Film's drink.
"Name?" they asked, starry-eyed.

"Film," she said smoothly.

"Cute," Namtan muttered. "Pretentious, but cute."

Film sipped, eyes flicking to the notebook. "Still using paper? What's next, chiseling stone tablets?"

"I like ink. Reminds me I'm human."

Film's gaze slid over her. "Flaws and all."

Namtan's pen stilled.

Film smiled, just barely.

They'd met three times before. Always professional. Always brief. And Namtan had disliked her instantly. Too neat. Too polished. Too much like herself.

"I don't know why Ling trusts you," she said.

Film shrugged. "I tell her the truth. I don't let feelings cloud judgment."

"Must be easy when you don't have any."

"Careful," Film murmured, smirking. "That sounded like interest."

"In what? Your tragic emotional repression? Not my genre."

Film's phone buzzed. One glance, then tucked away.
"Ling asked me to deliver your contract. The producers want to move forward."

"She's still pushing that?"

"Because it's good business."

"I don't write for business."

"You write for attention."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Namtan leaned in. "You don't know me."

"No," Film said evenly. "But I read. And your last novel practically bled out on the page."

Silence crackled.

Namtan wanted to slap her.
She wanted to kiss her.
Instead, she drained her coffee in one furious gulp.

"Fine. Give me the contract."

Film slid it across. "Have your agent review it. Though I doubt you will."

"I like the fine print. Reminds me not to trust anyone in a suit."

"That's wise," Film said, lips twitching. "But not always true."

Namtan skimmed, eyes narrowing. "Clause 18. Creative control?"

"They'll demand revisions."

"No."

"I can negotiate it."

"You mean make it sound prettier."

"I mean protect your work while getting you paid."

Damn her. She was good.

"Fine. Handle it. But I'm not attending meetings."

"Afraid you'll be too honest?"

"Afraid I'll commit a felony."

Film laughed. Not cold - real. Low, startled, warm.

Namtan blinked. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Laugh like we're friends."

Film's expression softened. Just for a second.

"Maybe I'd like to be," she whispered.

Namtan froze.

Rain eased. The café emptied. The air thickened.

She gripped her pen. Film stood.

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Don't," Namtan said.
But not like she meant it.

Film leaned down, voice brushing her ear.
"You smell like jasmine and ink."

Namtan forgot how to breathe.
By the time she looked up, Film was gone.

---

Later That Night - Kwong Sisters' Home

Namtan sat in the kitchen, oversized hoodie, barefoot, a bowl of strawberries in her lap. Laptop screen blank.

Milk shuffled in, rubbing her eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You look like you fought someone."

"Verbally."

"Ling?"

"Worse. Her pet lawyer."

Milk grinned. "The pretty one?"

"She's not-" Namtan paused. "...She's-"

"Uh-huh."

Namtan shoved a strawberry in her mouth. End of conversation.

---

Meanwhile - Film's Apartment

Film sat in her spotless living room, case brief open, pen tapping against the page. But her mind wasn't on work.

Her eyes flicked to her phone.
No messages.
Not that she expected any.

Still, she stared at the blank screen longer than she should. Finally, she sighed, poured herself a single whiskey, and sank back into the silence.

---

Film's words still echoed when Namtan finally shut her laptop that night.
You smell like jasmine and ink.

Stupid. Infuriating. Dangerous.
Why couldn't she get them out of her head?

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

> Next time, don't hide behind coffee. I'll be waiting.

 

Namtan froze.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.

For the first time in years, she didn't know whether to block the number-
or reply.

---

💬 Author's Note :

Ahhh the tension between Namtan & Film is real! 😳🔥
What do you think - should Namtan reply to that mysterious text, or ignore it? 👀
Drop your thoughts, theories, and ships in the comments - your votes & feedback keep me going! ✨

☆ U.A 💜

Notes:

💬 Author's Note :

Ahhh the tension between Namtan & Film is real! 😳🔥
What do you think - should Namtan reply to that mysterious text, or ignore it? 👀
Drop your thoughts, theories, and ships in the comments - your votes & feedback keep me going! ✨

Chapter 5: * Scraped Knees & Stolen Smiles *

Chapter Text

( Milk × Love )

---

Rain had passed, leaving Bangkok’s pavement slick and steaming under the late sun. On set, tempers boiled, schedules slipped, and one actress — one very particular, very stubborn actress — flat-out refused to step onto the metal platform in heels.

“I’m not stepping on that death trap again!” Love barked from behind the lighting rig, hands on her hips, golden-brown curls bouncing with every angry move. “I already told you people: those bars are not stable. My stylist nearly twisted her ankle.”

The assistant director, sweating buckets, tried to manage the situation. “We’ve reinforced it since yesterday—”

“Oh? Since yesterday? Well, unless you reinforced it with Jesus Christ himself, I’m not stepping on it.”

Crew members winced. Love was beautiful, bankable, and utterly impossible to manage after fourteen hours without proper air conditioning.

She stood in her sleek costume — a short skirt, blazer, and patent leather heels — meant to make her look like a tough prosecutor in the new primetime drama.

Right now, she looked like a princess in open rebellion.

“Love,” the director tried again, rubbing his temples, “we just need one shot. One. Two steps, turn, deliver the line. It’s literally three seconds.”

“I don’t do ‘just one shot.’ And I don’t fall for free. You want a sprained ankle on your insurance form? Because I’m telling you right now—”

Her heel slipped.

She yelped.

And before anyone could say “cut,” she tumbled sideways off the platform and onto the concrete with a sharp, echoing thud.

---

*Two Hours Later – Bangkok General Hospital, ER Department*

“I’m fine,” Love snapped, swinging her legs off the ER bed dramatically. “It’s just a scrape.”

“You said you felt faint a minute ago,” the nurse replied calmly.

“I said I might faint. That’s different.”

“You also said your head hurt.”

“My head always hurts when I’m forced to wait with people who wear socks with sandals.”

A cough of laughter came from behind the privacy curtain.

Love froze.

“Who’s that?” she asked suspiciously.

The nurse opened the curtain to reveal a tall woman in a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck and a chart in her hand. Her dark hair was clipped back loosely, and her almond eyes scanned the notes with sharp, efficient disinterest.

Love blinked.

Dr. Milk Kwong did not look like any ER doctor she’d seen before.

She looked… expensive. Effortless. Like she belonged on a cover of a fashion magazine if she ever cared enough to smile. The kind of woman who probably didn’t bother with apps, only went on silent dates with wine and piano jazz, and had left several women emotionally devastated in her wake.

Love narrowed her eyes.

Milk looked up from the chart.

“You're the actress who fell off a three-foot platform?”

“It was wet!” Love snapped. “And the heels were defective.”

Milk blinked once. “Of course.”

“Excuse me—what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I see a lot of sprains. Usually from motorbikes. Or broken pavement. Or running after buses. Not from standing still.”

Love gaped. “You’re mocking me.”

Milk walked closer and checked her chart again. “Your vitals are fine. The x-ray shows no fracture. You have a superficial scrape and a mild sprain. You’ll survive.”

“I know I’ll survive. I’m not dying. I just—” Love exhaled. “I’m a public figure. If something is broken and I don’t treat it properly, it could affect my career.”

Milk nodded. “Understood. We’ll be sure to file it under ‘Celebrity Concern.’”

Love squinted. “Do you always talk to patients like this?”

“Only the ones who demand a private room for a scraped knee.”

The two women stared at each other.

Heat. Static.

Love folded her arms. “What’s your name?”

“Dr. Milk Kwong.”

“…Milk?”

“Yes.”

“…Seriously?”

“I was named after my grandmother. Try not to laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I’m thinking,” Love said quickly. “I’m deciding if I like you or if I want to throw this ice pack at your face.”

Milk looked unbothered. “If you do, please aim for the side. I have surgery tomorrow.”

Love huffed.

But her smirk grew.

“…You know you’re kind of hot when you’re being rude?”

Milk blinked.

Then — incredibly — her mouth twitched upward. Barely.

Love caught it.

“Oh my God,” she said, pointing. “That was a smile. You smiled!”

“That wasn’t a smile.”

“It was! I saw it. You twitched.”

Milk turned to write something on the chart. “Your discharge papers will be ready in twenty minutes.”

“Why are you running away?”

“I have another patient.”

“Liar. You like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Miss Pattranite—”

“Love,” she corrected.

Milk looked up. “Miss Love, then—”

“No, just ‘Love.’”

Milk sighed. “Love. You’re loud, dramatic, and allergic to logic.”

Love beamed. “You do like me.”

“God help me.”

---

*The Next Day – Milk’s Apartment*

Milk sat in her kitchen with a cup of black coffee, hair still damp from a shower, her phone buzzing next to her with two unread messages.

*\[Ling:]*

> “You working Sunday?”

*\[Namtan:]*

> “Orm wants us all to come to her concert. You coming?”

She replied to both. “Yes” to Ling. “Maybe” to Namtan.

Her phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

*\[Unknown:]*

> “This is Love, the patient with the tragic scrape. I was thinking of suing the floor for emotional damage. Can I name you in the complaint so we talk again?”

> Milk read the message twice. Then again.
And for the first time in months, the corner of her mouth curved upward.
Just a little. But enough.

---

💬 Author’s Note

Dr. Milk × Love are finally here 😍🔥 What do you think — are they enemies, rivals, or already flirting? 👀
Drop me your theories + kudos below, your support means the world! ✨

☆ U.A 💜

Chapter 6: * Sisters & Secrets *

Chapter Text

---

The Kwong family house hadn't changed much in a decade.

The lawn still grew too fast in the rainy season. The windows still stuck when opened too wide. And the attic door still creaked like a ghost was whispering through it. But the house - nestled in the old-money part of the city - stood the same way it always had: quiet, clean, and far too large for comfort.

Ling parked her sleek black car in the stone driveway at exactly 8:00 AM, as planned. She didn't bother to honk. If they were late, they were late.

She stepped out in black trousers, a grey turtleneck, and low heels. Hair tied back. No earrings. A silver watch. Impeccably polished.

The same way she always showed up when dealing with anything involving him.

The house wasn't haunted by ghosts.

It was haunted by silences.

Ling didn't believe in spirits.

But she believed in grief.

And in houses that held it, pressed into the walls like smoke that never quite cleared.

She hadn't been back in months.

Not since the renovation on the ground floor. Not since the final cleaning of their father's office. Not since she'd forced herself to sign the deed over in her name, even though she didn't want it. Even though it hurt to claim it.

She walked up the stone steps slowly.

The front door opened before she could knock.

"Morning," said Milk, brushing her damp hair back from her face. She wore faded jeans and a navy hoodie that said Property of My Bad Decisions in tiny white letters. Her bare feet padded against the wood floors as she stepped aside.

Ling gave a small nod and walked in. "You're early."

"I didn't go to the hospital today. Told them I needed a mental health break."

Ling raised an eyebrow. "You don't believe in mental health breaks."

"Exactly," Milk replied, "which is why they were too scared to argue with me."

A rustle came from the hallway, followed by a dramatic yawn.

Namtan stumbled in wearing a sleep shirt that said Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy and carrying a mug the size of her head.

She blinked blearily at her sisters. "Why are we doing this at 8 AM again?"

"Because you said you'd be 'clearheaded' before noon," Milk replied.

"I was obviously lying."

Ling ignored them both and walked toward the living room.

Milk followed. "So, what are we looking for exactly?"

"Father's personal boxes," Ling said. "I want to catalog and store them in the company archive."

Namtan flopped onto the couch. "You mean toss them into a dark basement and pretend we were never kids?"

"Don't start," Ling warned.

"I'm not starting," Namtan said. "I'm just saying - if you want to burn every trace of emotion out of this house, at least say it nicely."

Milk sighed. "Can we please do this without a Shakespearean meltdown?"

Namtan threw a pillow at her.

Milk caught it easily. "Nice try."

---

One Hour Later - The Attic

Dust floated in golden beams through the slats of sunlight as all three sisters crouched around the farthest corner of the attic.

They had opened nearly every box - photo albums, business receipts, books their father never read - when Ling reached for the final one tucked behind a stack of cracked vinyl records.

The box was different.

Wooden. Locked.

And etched with something strange on top - a symbol none of them recognized.

A circle split into four curved lines. Almost like petals. Almost like flame.

Ling's fingers paused on it.

Milk leaned closer. "That wasn't here before."

Ling said nothing.

"I've been through this attic a dozen times," Namtan added. "After the funeral. After the estate planning. Even when I was looking for our mom's old cookbooks. I never saw that box."

Ling examined the small iron lock. "It's sealed."

"Let me try something," Namtan said.

She reached into her tote and pulled out a single silver hairpin. She worked it into the lock with surprising skill.

Ling gave her a long look. "Where'd you learn that?"

Namtan smirked. "Research. I write murder mysteries."

Click.

The box popped open.

They all leaned in.

Inside were several items:

A bundle of old letters, tied in twine

A thin leather-bound journal with frayed edges

A folded map with strange red markings

And a brass coin shaped like the symbol on the lid

Ling reached for the journal first.

The pages were handwritten - not her father's business handwriting, but his personal script. The kind he used in birthday cards. In the notes he used to sneak into their lunchboxes.

She skimmed the first line aloud:

> "To my daughters - if you're reading this, it means the Velvet is waking again."

 

Milk frowned. "Velvet?"

Namtan leaned forward. "Keep going."

> "When I was young, I thought it was a dream. The flickers in mirrors. The way the shadows bent on certain nights. The tingling before lightning. But it was real. The Velvet is real. It's a current, a force. Hidden in our blood."

 

Silence fell.

"Dad believed in magic?" Milk asked quietly.

Ling kept reading.

> "Our family has kept this energy in balance for generations. My father before me. His mother before him. But something broke when your great-grandmother died. The seal weakened. I fear what may come next if it's not contained."

 

Namtan sat down heavily. "Okay. So either Dad had a breakdown, or we're in a horror movie."

Ling said nothing.

Milk reached for the coin. It felt warm in her hand.

"I don't like this," she said quietly. "This isn't how he talked. He was practical. Grounded."

Namtan took the journal. "Not always. Remember how he used to say we were 'keepers of the edge' when we asked about our dreams?"

"I thought that was just poetic nonsense," Milk muttered.

"I didn't."

Ling stood.

She walked to the small attic window, the journal still in her hand.

"Something's been off lately," she said.

Her voice was lower now. Almost like she was talking to herself.

"Orm said she felt someone following her. That she saw things in the corners of mirrors."

Milk frowned. "Did you believe her?"

Ling didn't answer.

Because she had.

Even if she hadn't wanted to.

Namtan unfolded the map.

"This isn't Bangkok," she murmured. "Not exactly. Some of the names are the same, but the layout's different. There are marks here - red symbols - on temples, old city borders, shrines."

Milk looked over her shoulder. "I think it's a layered map. One version on top of another."

"Like two cities in one," Namtan said.

Ling turned back to them.

"We don't tell Mom about this," she said.

"Agreed," Milk said.

Namtan nodded. "So what do we do with it?"

Ling looked at the journal again.

She didn't know the answer.

But something in her chest - something cold and tight and old - cracked open just a little.

She looked at her sisters.

"I think we start reading."

---

That Night - In Their Old Bedroom

The three of them sat in pajamas under the giant ceiling fan, just like they used to when they were kids. The journal was open on the floor. The brass coin rested on a dish of candles. The map hung from a coat hanger on the closet door.

No one spoke for a while.

Eventually, Milk broke the silence.

"...You think this is why Dad died?"

Ling didn't look up. "The accident was real."

"But the timing was strange," Namtan said quietly.

"I was twenty," Ling murmured. "I took over the company before I was ready. I never got to ask him what he meant by any of this. I thought he was hiding business things. Not... this."

Namtan reached across the space and touched her hand.

"You didn't have to do all of it alone, you know."

Ling blinked.

Milk added softly, "We were grieving too. We just... didn't know how to help you."

Ling didn't answer.

But she didn't pull away.

The journal's pages shifted in the draft, even though no window was open. The brass coin gave a faint metallic hum - so soft it could've been imagined.

Namtan's eyes flicked toward it. "Did you hear-"

But the sound stopped.

The three sisters sat in silence, the air heavier than before, the candle flames tilting as if pulled by something unseen.

Ling closed the journal.

Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled.

"Tomorrow," she said. "We keep reading tomorrow."

---

Author's Note :
The sisters thought they uncovered the truth... but what if this is only the first layer of their father's secrets? 🕯 Keep watching closely - every detail matters. ⭐ + 📝 if you're ready for Chapter 6...

---

From the last page of the journal, one sentence stood alone - underlined twice, as if their father wanted it burned into memory:

> "The Velvet does not wait. When the mirrors open, neither will you."

---

☆ U.A 💜

Chapter 7: * Kwong Family Flashback ✨ *

Chapter Text

Kwong Family Flashback

----

The last time they were whole.

Before the storm, before the scars, before the world bent into something strange - there was one last dinner table where the Kwong sisters sat with their father. This chapter doesn't move the timeline forward... but it does show you what they lost and what they might still carry inside them.

 

---

The cicadas were loud that evening, thrumming under the golden haze of the Bangkok sunset as it bled through the large windows of the Kwong family house.

The air smelled like jasmine, grilled fish, and fresh rain. Someone had opened all the doors to let the breeze in, and for once, it didn't feel heavy. It felt alive - like the house itself was holding its breath in anticipation.

It was supposed to be a simple family dinner.

Their last one together.

But none of them knew that then.

---

The Afternoon - Two Hours Before Dinner

Ling stood in her father's office, arms folded, heels planted on the thick rug, eyes fixed on the financial reports spread across his desk. She was seventeen - freshly accepted into university, already interning at his company - and trying so hard to be unshakable.

Her father sat across from her, leaning back in his leather chair, smiling in that maddening way he always did when she was being too serious.

"Stop staring at the numbers, Ling," he said.

"They're off," she replied flatly. "The quarterly report from Chanthaburi doesn't match the expected projection."

He chuckled. "That's not your job. Yet."

"I want to be ready."

"I know you do. But sometimes it's okay to breathe."

Her jaw tightened. "I don't want to be like her."

He raised a brow. "Your mother?"

Ling nodded, gaze sharp. "She cries too easily. She forgives too fast. She lets people walk over her."

"She's also kind. And soft. And she raised you three almost entirely by herself when I was flying across the country every week."

Ling flinched. "I didn't mean-"

He stood and crossed to her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"You're strong, Ling. But strength isn't the absence of emotion. It's knowing when to feel it."

She didn't answer.

He tapped the desk once and smiled. "Go help your sisters set the table."

"I'd rather-"

"Ling," he said, voice quiet but firm. "Go."

---

Meanwhile - In the kitchen

Milk, thirteen, was helping their mom slice mangoes while Namtan, fifteen, sat on the kitchen counter, chewing a liquorice stick and scribbling in a spiral note

"What are you writing?" Milk asked.

"A story."

"Is someone dying in it again?"

"Not yet."

Their mom, barefoot and humming, didn't even flinch. She was used to her middle daughter's morbid streak.

"Make sure you wash your hands before dinner," she said.

"I'm not eating," Namtan said.

"You're eating," Milk replied immediately.

Namtan groaned. "I had a sandwich earlier."

"Half a sandwich. At 10 a.m. You're eating."

Namtan squinted at her. "Why are you like this?"

"Because if you faint during dinner, I'll have to listen to Mom cry and Ling yell. No thanks."

Their mom laughed. "She's not wrong."

Namtan cracked a grin and hopped off the counter.

Milk eyed her notebook. "Is it about us?"

"...No. Yes."

Milk waited.

"It's about three sisters who find out their dad is secretly a time traveller."

"...Is he?"

"Only on weekends."

Milk blinked. "That's oddly specific."

"It's fiction," Namtan muttered. "It doesn't have to make sense."

But it was about them.

About the way their dad sometimes looked at old photos like he was waiting for them to move.

About the way he whispered strange lullabies in languages, no one recognized.

About the way he stared into mirrors, a beat too long, as if they might ripple.

---

An Hour Later - Setting the Table

Ling, back in control mode, directed everyone like a military general.

"Namtan, fold the napkins. Milk, check the rice. Mom-please, sit. We can handle the rest."

Their mom gave her a look. "Ling, this is not a royal banquet."

"It's the first full dinner we've had in weeks."

"It's just dinner, baby."

"It's not just anything," Ling said tightly.

Their father entered, whistling a strange melody.

It cut off sharply when he looked at the table.

All three daughters. Their mother. Laughter in the kitchen.

His eyes softened.

And maybe - just maybe - a flicker of something else passed behind them.

Fear?

Sadness?

He blinked it away before anyone noticed.

Almost.

---

The Dinner Table

They sat in order, like always.

Mom, at the end, Dad at the head.
Ling to his right, Namtan to his left.
Milk in the middle, peacekeeper.

It started normal.

Stories. Complaints. Ling arguing with Namtan about deadlines. Milk defending them both. Their dad pretended to referee while their mom refilled everyone's bowls.

Then came the question.

From Milk.

"Papa," she said, resting her chin on her hand, "what's the weirdest thing you've ever seen?"

Their father blinked.

"That's a loaded question."

"Answer it."

He paused.

Then - with a half-smile - he said:

"When I was nineteen, I saw a mirror ripple."

Namtan snorted. "Like water?"

"Exactly like water."

Ling frowned. "You're joking."

"Am I?"

Their mom gave him a warning glance, but he went on.

"I saw it in my grandmother's house. There was a storm outside. I looked up - and the mirror didn't show my face. It showed a field. With fireflies."

Namtan stared.

Milk leaned forward, wide-eyed.

Ling crossed her arms. "Were you dreaming?"

"I thought so. But the next day, my grandmother gave me a coin."

"A coin?" Namtan asked.

He nodded. "Said I'd need it when the world turned soft."

"The world?" Milk repeated.

"Soft?" Ling echoed.

"Like velvet," he whispered.

> The table froze in a hush so complete that even the cicadas outside seemed to pause. For a heartbeat, none of them breathed. It felt like the house itself was listening.

Then he grinned and reached for the mangoes. "But that's just a story. Right?"

Their mom exhaled in relief. "You'll give them nightmares."

"I already have those," Namtan muttered.

"You and me both," Milk said.

Ling said nothing.

But her eyes lingered on her father's face.

He'd smiled too fast.

---

Later That Night - In the Hallway

Ling caught him near the stairs as he turned off the lights.

"Papa," she said. "That mirror story. You weren't kidding."

He looked at her for a long time.

Then, slowly:

"There are things in this world that don't show themselves until they have to."

"And?"

"And one day, you might see them. You'll know what to do."

"I won't."

"You will."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because you're my daughter," he said softly, brushing her cheek. "And because I made sure you'd remember, even if I'm not there."

"Don't say that," she whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised.

But his eyes said otherwise.

---

Three Weeks Later - The Accident

A truck. Rain. The middle of the night.

A phone call that cracked the house in half.

sound of it clattering against the tile was sharper than the words it carried. That sound would haunt Ling longer than the funeral prayers.

Three girls are sitting in a hospital waiting room, too young to grieve properly, too old to be shielded from it.

Ling never cried.
Milk didn't sleep for three days.
Namtan wrote fifteen pages that she burned before anyone saw.

---

Now - In the Present

Ling closed the journal they found in the attic. Her hands were trembling.

Milk sat beside her, quiet but steady. The coin glinted faintly in her palm - the same coin their father had once described.

Namtan leaned against the couch, pretending not to watch, though her eyes betrayed her.

None of them spoke for a long time.

Finally, Milk whispered:

"Maybe he was a time traveller."

Namtan gave a sad smile. "Maybe he's still watching."

Ling said nothing.

> Ling shut the journal, but her gaze slid to the attic window. For just a flicker, the glass didn't look like glass at all-it shimmered, soft and wavering, like the surface of water. She blinked, and it was gone.

But she thought of the mirror in her old bedroom - how sometimes, when the light hit it wrong, it looked like smoke was curling around the corners.

Maybe he left something behind.

Maybe he left everything.

---

💔 That was the last time the Kwong family was whole.
Some memories hurt more because they are warm - and because they whisper that maybe, just maybe, they were warnings all along.

-------

Author's Note :

This chapter is a window into the Kwong sisters' last day with their father - a night wrapped in love, tension, and quiet mystery.
The memories they carry are not just fragments of the past but seeds of the future.

---

Next: Chapter - A Hand in the Dark.
Are you ready for what Ling will face when the night reaches for her?

☆ U.A 💜

Chapter 8: " A Hand in the Dark "

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Ling × Orm | Suspicion, closeness, and something invisible stirs

---

The first time Orm saw it - or felt it - she was leaving the soundstage after rehearsal, still high on adrenaline and low on patience.

She thought it was just nerves.

That's what she told herself.

That's what she told Love, too, when they drove home together, when Love asked why she kept checking the rearview mirror every ten seconds.

"I don't know," Orm said, clutching her water bottle like a weapon. "It just... felt like someone was behind me."

"There were literally forty people behind you. You're famous."

"No," Orm said. "Not watching. Following."

Love's teasing expression had faded then, just slightly.

"Did you see anyone?"

"No. Just..."

Just a flicker.

A ripple in the air.

A handprint that shouldn't have been on her dressing room mirror.

(Later, she would realize: the handprint had been bigger than hers.)

---

Two Days Later - Ling's Office, Sethratanapong Tower

The skyline sprawled behind Ling like a war map - concrete, glass, and ambition stitched into angles and noise.

She sat behind her desk, temple resting against her fingertips, the file open in front of her ignored.

The door buzzed.

Her assistant poked her head in.

"Ma'am, Orm is here."

Ling's spine straightened.

Her voice didn't falter. "Send her in."

The door opened.

Orm stepped in - sunglasses tucked into her shirt, windblown hair falling across one shoulder, a canvas jacket over a black crop top and jeans.

Too casual for this room. Too real. Too herself.

Ling stood slowly.

"You're early," she said.

"You're always early," Orm replied. "I figured I'd try it."

Their eyes met across the desk.

Ling gestured to the seat.

Orm ignored it.

"Ling," she said quietly, "I wasn't imagining it."

Ling tilted her head. "Tell me everything."

Orm hesitated.

Then: "It started a few weeks ago. Glimpses. Feelings. At first, I thought it was stress. The tour, the press, the insomnia... But then the mirror-"

"What about it?"

Orm lifted her shirt slightly, exposing her lower back. Just above the curve of her hip: a small, pale mark.

Shaped like a crescent. Or a claw.

Or a curl of flame.

Ling's eyes narrowed.

Orm dropped her shirt. "It wasn't there before."

"Anyone else see it?"

"No. I didn't even notice until I took a bath last week."

Ling came around the desk.

Orm stiffened slightly - not out of fear, but something else. Something that always happened when Ling stepped too close.

Ling's hand hovered near the mark, not touching. "May I?"

Orm swallowed. "You sound like a doctor."

"I'm worse," Ling said. "I'm a control freak."

Orm smiled - nervously, this time.

Ling touched the skin.

The moment she did, Orm flinched.

A flicker ran down her spine.

It was like static.

Like touching an exposed wire.

They both paused.

(Somewhere in the walls, a lightbulb fizzed and went dark.)

Ling stepped back.

Orm exhaled slowly.

"That's new," she said.

Ling didn't speak.

She walked to her desk, picked up her phone, and pressed a single button.

A male voice answered on speaker.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Double the surveillance around Kornnaphat. Two units, rotation. Do not make contact. I want full reports. If anyone breaches her perimeter, detain them."

"Understood."

Ling hung up.

Orm stared at her.

"That was fast."

"I've been thinking about this for a while."

"You think I'm in danger?"

"I think," Ling said slowly, "you're already compromised."

Orm blinked. "That's comforting."

Ling came closer again, her expression unreadable. "Do you trust me?"

Orm hesitated.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Ling didn't flinch.

"Good," she replied. "That means you're not stupid."

---

That Evening - Ling's Apartment

Rain tapped against the glass like fingers tracing the windowpanes.

Ling poured two glasses of wine. She didn't usually drink at home. She didn't usually invite anyone home.

But Orm wasn't just anyone.

And there was something about this - about the mark, the feeling, the way Ling's father's journal described energy that touched mirrors and left traces - that made her throat tighten with fear she refused to name.

Orm was curled on the leather couch, legs tucked under her, flipping through a notebook of lyrics she carried like a diary.

Ling handed her the wine.

"You don't have to stay here tonight," she said.

Orm glanced up. "You don't want me to?"

Ling didn't answer.

Orm smiled - a little sharper this time. "You always look like you're calculating me. Like I'm one of your boardroom problems."

"You are a problem," Ling murmured, sipping her wine. "Just not in the way I expected."

Orm stood and walked toward her, barefoot, steps soft on the rug.

"You think I'm making this up?" she asked.

"No."

"You think I'm cursed?"

"Not yet."

Orm tilted her head. "But I scare you."

Ling looked up at her.

"I don't get scared," she said.

"Liar."

Orm reached for her glass, took it from her hand, and sipped.

Their fingers brushed.

The static returned.

Not as sharp.

But warm. Tingling.

Orm's voice dropped.

"You like control."

Ling nodded.

"I'm not easy to control."

"I noticed."

"Still interested?"

Ling's breath hitched - the only sign she was feeling anything at all.

Then - softly - "Yes."

Orm set both glasses down and leaned in.

"I don't want your security team watching me," she said.

"Too bad."

"I want you."

Ling's eyes flickered.

"You already have me."

Orm kissed her.

It wasn't soft.

It wasn't slow.

It was heat - pressed lips and bruising pressure and fingers tangled in hair. It was Ling pulling her in like she was drowning. It was Orm gasping against her mouth, wrapping her arms around Ling's neck, tugging her jacket off without breaking the kiss.

They stumbled.

The wineglass shattered against the floor.

Neither noticed.

Orm pressed her against the window.

The lightning outside caught her reflection - and for one brief second, Orm wasn't alone in the glass.

A shadow.

Behind her.

Reaching.

Orm gasped and broke the kiss, turning.

Nothing there.

Just rain. Streetlights. The city.

But her pulse raced.

Her skin prickled.

Ling was already moving.

She grabbed the brass coin from her desk - the one from the journal - and held it out like a weapon.

Orm stared. "What is that?"

Ling didn't answer.

She pressed the coin against Orm's back - right on the scar.

The scar burned.

Orm cried out.

But she didn't pull away.

And then - just for a second - the mirror across the room flickered.

The same symbol from the coin glowed in the glass.

A ripple. A crack. A pull.

Then - nothing.

Orm dropped to her knees, panting.

Ling fell with her, catching her shoulders, holding her.

"Tell me what you saw," she said.

Orm looked up at her.

Voice shaking.

"I saw... myself," she whispered.

"But my eyes were wrong."

(And from the corner of the mirror - faint, almost invisible - something pressed its palm against the inside of the glass, and left a smear as it slid down.)

Ling held her tighter.

Neither of them noticed the mirror slowly bleeding shadow from its edges.

---

End of Chapter

☆ U.A 💜

Notes:

Author's Note 📝

This chapter was heavy, wasn't it? 😶‍🌫 We finally see The Velvet reaching for Orm - through mirrors, through touch, through something neither of them can control. And Ling, who never lets herself be shaken, is suddenly the one holding tighter.

Thank you for reading Chapter 6: A Hand in the Dark!
This chapter was all about bringing Ling × Orm closer, while showing that the shadows they face are no longer imaginary. Every flicker in the glass, every mark on the skin... it's all connected.

I want to hear from you guys:

Do you think Orm can really trust Ling, or is the danger already inside her? 👀

Do you think the scar is a curse or a mark of protection?

Did you catch the mirror clues? 👀

And...

Drop your thoughts, theories, and votes - your support means everything and keeps me motivated to bring the next twists your way. 💫

☆ U.A 💜