Neon Shadows

CHAPTER ONE: KASEM The View from Above The city spread beneath me like a circuit board—millions of lights pulsing in the darkness, each one a life I would never touch. From the forty-seventh floor of the Mahanakhon Tower, Bangkok looked clean, orderly, beautiful. Down there, I knew, it was chaos. Tuk-tuks belching exhaust, vendors shouting over sizzling woks, humanity pressed together in the humid night. But from up here, in my climate-controlled silence, I could pretend the world made sense. I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, whiskey in hand, and did what I did every Tuesday and Thursday night at exactly 9:47 PM. I watched. My reflection stared back at me—tall, lean, expensive haircut, Tom Ford shirt unbuttoned at the collar because there was no one to impress. Twenty-eight years old and I looked like my father's ghost. Same sharp cheekbones, same perpetual expression of mild disapproval, same dark eyes that revealed nothing. He'd taught me that, before the yacht sank six years ago. "Never let them see inside, Kasem. The moment you do, they'll use it against you." I'd become exactly what he wanted. A stranger even to myself. The whiskey burned going down—Macallan 25, because I could afford to drink my feelings through the finest Scottish distillery money could buy. My therapist, the one I'd stopped seeing after three sessions two years ago, would probably have something to say about that. She'd had plenty to say about many things. I hadn't wanted to hear any of it. My phone buzzed. I ignored it. Probably Aunty Siriporn, my father's sister, checking if I was still alive and upholding the family reputation. Or maybe Wut, my assistant, with some crisis at Viriyapong Technologies that couldn't wait until morning. There was always a crisis. Servers failing, contracts disputed, board members circling like sharks sensing blood in the water. They all thought I was too young, too inexperienced, too damaged to run my father's empire. They were probably right. But none of that mattered right now, because it was 9:47 PM, and he would be leaving the library soon. I moved to the telescope—a Celestron CGX-L 1400, top of the line, ostensibly for stargazing. I'd told the interior designer I wanted it for astronomy. She'd believed me, positioned it perfectly by the western window, never suspecting that I had no interest in celestial bodies. Only one body. Earthbound and devastatingly alive. I adjusted the focus, my hands steady despite the whiskey, and found the University of Chulalongkorn campus three kilometers away. The architecture building was a concrete behemoth that looked like a dozen egg cartons stacked haphazardly, but at night, with lights blazing from studio windows, it had a certain desperate beauty. Students working late, chasing deadlines, fueled by coffee and youth and the belief that their designs might change the world. I'd never had that belief. I'd inherited a world already designed, and my only job was to maintain it. The library doors opened and students spilled out—clusters of them, laughing, exhausted, carrying oversized portfolio cases. I tracked across faces, patient, until— There. My breath caught, same as it had every time for the past three months. Niran Saetang. Twenty years old. Architecture student, third year. Scholarship kid from Nonthaburi. 5'8", slight build, hair that fell into his eyes, a smile that could power half of Bangkok if they could harness it. I'd memorized everything about him. He emerged with his usual group—three friends he was apparently inseparable from. The non-binary one with the undercut and vintage band t-shirts (Mae Suwan, graphic design major). The earnest-looking guy in wire-rim glasses who was clearly Mae's boyfriend (Porn Chaikong, computer science). And the fierce girl with the septum piercing who looked like she could kill you with her thesis on feminist architecture (Dao Wongsuwan). But I only saw Niran. Tonight he wore ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie, paint-stained sneakers, a messenger bag slung across his body covered in pins and patches. He was gesturing animatedly, telling some story that made his friends double over laughing. His whole body was involved in the storytelling—hands sweeping through the air, face mobile and expressive, completely unguarded. He was the opposite of everything I was. Everything I'd been trained not to be. I'd first seen him three months ago at Siam Paragon, of all places. I'd been there for a meeting with Japanese investors at one of the high-end restaurants, and I'd spotted him in the Apple Store, arguing cheerfully with a sales associate about the environmental impact of planned obsolescence. He'd been wearing the same paint-stained sneakers. I should have forgotten him immediately. A random beautiful boy in a city full of beautiful boys. Instead, I'd asked Wut to find out who he was. That should have been the end of it. Curiosity satisfied, I should have moved on. But I'd found myself driving past the university. Then parking nearby. Then learning his schedule. Then buying the telescope. I knew what this was. I wasn't stupid, despite what my abandoned therapist might think. This was obsessive behavior. Stalking. Fundamentally wrong on every level. I did it anyway. Through the telescope, I watched Niran and his friends reach the street corner. They were clearly debating where to go—Mae was pointing north toward the night market, Dao south toward the clubs. Niran was checking his phone, that crease appearing between his eyebrows that meant he was worried about money. His scholarship covered tuition but not much else. He took odd jobs, design commissions, tutoring gigs. Last month he'd sold his old laptop to help pay his mother's medical bills. I knew all of this because I'd paid an investigator 50,000 baht for a complete background report. The guilt was supposed to stop me. It never did. Finally, the group started walking north—night market won, probably because it was cheaper. They disappeared around the corner, and I lowered the telescope, suddenly aware of the silence in my penthouse. 2,400 square feet of minimalist luxury. Danish furniture, original Araya Rasdjarmrearnsook paintings, a kitchen I never cooked in, a bedroom where I rarely slept. My phone buzzed again. This time I looked. Wut: "The Singapore contract needs your signature by tomorrow. Also, charity gala Saturday night. Your aunt insists you attend." I typed back: "Fine. Cancel my morning meetings. I'll sign the contract tonight." What I didn't type: Tomorrow I'm going to orchestrate a meeting with a college student I've been stalking for three months, and I don't know if I'm doing it because I'm lonely or because I'm fundamentally broken or because he's the only thing that's made me feel anything since my parents died. Probably all three. I finished my whiskey and poured another. On the wall, my father's portrait stared down at me—commissioned posthumously from a photograph, oil on canvas, dignified and cold. "What would you do?" I asked the painting. But I knew the answer. My father would have bought what he wanted. Acquisition was simpler than connection. But you couldn't buy a person. Not really. Not in the way I wanted. I wanted Niran to choose me. To see past the money and the control and the carefully constructed walls, and choose me anyway. I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at his friends—openly, warmly, like I was someone worth knowing. I wanted the impossible. My laptop sat on the obsidian coffee table, already open to the folder I'd labeled "Research"—a euphemism that didn't make me feel less sick. Photos I'd taken from a distance. Screenshots from social media. The investigator's report. I knew Niran's favorite coffee shop (Common Grounds on Sukhumvit Soi 55), his typical order (iced Americano, extra shot), the hours he usually spent there working on projects (Tuesday and Thursday afternoons). Tomorrow was Thursday. The plan had been forming for weeks now, refined and edited like one of my business proposals. I would go to Common Grounds. I would bring work, establish myself as a regular, create plausible deniability for my presence. And then, when Niran was there, I would engineer an introduction. An accident. Spilled coffee, perhaps. Clumsy but effective. I'd apologize profusely, offer to replace his damaged work, insist on buying him dinner as compensation. He'd resist at first—he had pride, the report had made that clear—but I'd persist just enough to seem earnest, not pushy. And then we'd talk. And maybe, finally, this obsessive loop in my head would break. Maybe meeting him would prove he was just a person, not the fantasy I'd constructed. Maybe the reality would disappoint me, and I could move on. Or maybe it would be worse. Maybe the reality would be better than the fantasy, and I'd fall deeper into this thing I didn't have a name for. I opened a new document on my laptop and began typing: Contingency Plans: If he's with friends: Wait for another opportunity. Do not approach a group. If he seems busy/stressed: Gauge carefully. Stressed people are either more vulnerable or more defensive. If he rejects initial approach: Graceful retreat. Do not push. Do not reveal knowledge you shouldn't have. If he accepts dinner invitation: Keep conversation light. Ask questions. Offer minimal personal information. Gauge interest level. Do not—under any circumstances—come on too strong. I read it over. It looked insane, typed out like that. A manipulation checklist. A predator's playbook. I saved the document anyway. The city glittered below, indifferent to my private crisis. Somewhere out there, Niran was eating som tam from a street vendor, laughing with his friends, completely unaware that someone in a tower was planning how to intersect with his life. He was probably happy. His biggest problems were probably deadlines and money, normal problems with normal solutions. And here I was, about to become one of his problems. I should stop. I knew I should stop. This wasn't healthy. This wasn't normal. This was how cautionary tales began. But lonely people don't make good decisions. And I was so profoundly lonely that I'd forgotten what connection even felt like. My phone lit up with a notification—an email from the investigator. "Subject: NR SAETANG - Updated Schedule." I clicked it before I could stop myself. Apparently Niran had picked up a new tutoring client on Thursday evenings, which meant he'd be at Common Grounds earlier than usual tomorrow, around 2 PM instead of 4 PM. I marked it in my calendar. Then I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the vibration of the city through the thick pane. Down there, life was happening. Messy, chaotic, real life. And up here, I was a ghost, watching through telescopes and screens, collecting data on someone who didn't know I existed. Tomorrow I would change that. Tomorrow I would step out of my tower and into his world, and there would be no going back from whatever I set in motion. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, for the first time in months, I felt something close to excitement. That dangerous, electric anticipation of standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you're about to jump, unable to stop yourself. I raised my glass to the city, to Niran somewhere in its depths, to the spectacular mistake I was about to make. "Tomorrow," I whispered to my reflection. "Tomorrow, I meet you." The glass steamed with my breath, obscuring my face. It felt like an omen. . . . . . Don't know if anybody will read this but enjoy. And stay tuned for the next chapter. Like and comment plssss Love you