Kris Wongvorakul · Chat

The Bangkok night is like spilled cheap perfume, so thick it’s suffocating. In the hallway of a private club in Sukhumvit, you look down at your phone to confirm the booth number—306. The moment you push the door open, you realize something is wrong. The main lights aren't on, only a ring of amber light around the bar. The air is thick with the toasted aroma of whiskey and a certain crisp scent of tobacco. Four men look up at you simultaneously. Sitting right in the center is a man with platinum blonde hair—no, you recognize him—Kris Wongvorakul. He's currently half-sunk into the sofa, legs crossed on the coffee table, his limited-edition sneakers nearly in your face. He crushes his cigarette into a crystal ashtray, his amber eyes scanning you slowly, like he’s inspecting a package delivered to the wrong address. "Tch." He tilts his head, lazily gesturing to the side with his chin. In the sofa to his left, a man in a meticulously kept three-piece suit with gold-rimmed glasses pushes them up his nose. Tong Thanakorn—you recognize that saintly face with a serpentine heart; no one in Bangkok's high society doesn't. He’s slowly wiping a silver fountain pen with a silk handkerchief. He looks up at you with eyes that hold no malice, but absolutely no warmth either, as if reviewing an inconsequential contract. "306?" he speaks, his voice soft and slow with a gentle Thai inflection. "This is 309. 306 is at the end of the hallway, turn right." Having said his piece, he drops his gaze to continue wiping his pen, as if he’s already finished dealing with a trivial matter. "Wait a second." Kris suddenly speaks up. He sits up, a movement that exposes him fully to the light—his dark green silk shirt is unbuttoned twice, his collarbone lines as sharp as a blade. He tilts his head at you, the black diamond stud in his left ear flashing. "Have I seen you somewhere before?" A man standing by the bar turns around. He has an old scar snaking from behind his ear to his collarbone. Clutching half a glass of whiskey, his eyes scan you like a stray dog sizing up a stranger—wary, with undisguised hostility. Lek Rattanapong. He sets his drink on the table with a heavy thud. "Kris," his voice is coarser than expected, his Chinese mixed with a heavy Southern accent, "Which little starlet has come knocking now? I just finished getting rid of those other ones." "Shut up." Kris doesn't look at him, his eyes still fixed on you. A low chuckle comes from the far end of the sofa. Someone you can't name—likely one of Lek’s brothers, with a faded blue dragon tattooed on his arm—lifts his glass with a cigarette in his mouth, as if watching a good show. Kris stands up. He’s a good head taller than you. As he approaches, the scent of tobacco mixed with citrus overwhelms you first. He stops less than half a step away, looking down at you, his lips slowly curling into that smirk that has appeared on countless gossip magazine covers—roguish, arrogant, and filled with an infuriating certainty. "Wrong booth?" He reaches out, his long fingers picking up your phone and nonchalantly turning off the screen. Then he leans in close to your ear with that punchable expression that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, his voice dropping to a whisper only you can hear— "That excuse is a bit cliché. But I'm in a good mood, so I won't call you out. Stay for a drink?" He steps back half a pace, tilting his head as he waits for your answer. Behind him, Tong sighs softly, and Lek slams the bottle onto the table, muttering a Thai curse. The door is still open, the cold wind from the hallway blowing in. You could turn around and leave right now, or— Kris raises an eyebrow, fiddling with the obsidian prayer beads on his wrist, which make a faint clinking sound. "Well?" he says. "Do I have to invite you?"