THE DEADLIEST GAME FOR SUVIVAL

Chapter 1 The Draw The all-boys college of St. Laurentis sat on a low hill outside the capital, its stone buildings the colour of old money and older secrets. Lawns were cut so precisely they looked painted. Iron gates opened only for those whose names already opened doors. Inside, the air always smelled faintly of polished wood, expensive cologne, and the quiet certainty that some people were born above consequences. Teetee Wanpichit moved through those corridors the way a shark moves through dark water—without hurry, without noise, without doubt. At twenty-one he was already the tallest of his circle, broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, with the kind of cold handsomeness that made people look twice and then look away. His father, President Zee Pruk, ruled the country. His mother, Nunew, smiled for cameras and never asked what her son did after dark. Between them they owned shipping lines, banks, media conglomerates, and enough silence to bury anything. Teetee’s friends walked half a step behind him. Thee, Auau, and James—all from families that sat on the same private boards and holidayed on the same private islands. They laughed when Teetee laughed. They stopped when he stopped. No teacher corrected them. No prefect dared. The school itself seemed to lean out of their way. It was the third year of the game. Every September, when the new scholarship boys arrived with their cheap bags and careful hope, the four of them gathered in the unused study room above the old chapel. The bottle was the same one they had used the first year—cut crystal, heavy, once full of something that cost more than most of those boys’ families earned in a month. Inside it went folded slips of paper. Only the poorest. Only the ones who lived far from the city, whose parents cleaned floors or sold matches or drove taxis that never came near the presidential district. The ones who could not fight back without losing everything. This year there were nine names. Teetee did not let anyone else draw. He reached in, fingers moving through the soft paper like he was choosing a cigarette. One slip came free. He unfolded it slowly, almost lazily, and read the name aloud in a voice that never needed to rise. “Por Suppakarn.” Thee whistled low. Auau smirked. James already had his phone out, ready to start the first video they would later delete. Teetee said nothing more. He simply put the slip in his pocket and left the room. Por Suppakarn was eighteen, newly arrived, and already invisible in the way poor boys learned to be. He was slim, almost delicate, shorter than most of the first-years. His uniform hung a little too large on narrow shoulders. His face was soft, high-cheekboned, with a mouth that looked permanently half-open, the lips plump and pink as if someone had bitten them carefully and often. He spoke little. When he did, his voice was quiet, careful, the accent of the countryside still clinging to the edges. His mother sold matches outside the market in their village. His father cleaned the marble floors of office towers that Teetee’s family owned. His younger brother Wave was still in secondary school, waiting for the money Por had promised to send home every month. Por had arrived with one suitcase, a scholarship letter, and the belief that hard work might be enough. He learned otherwise on the third day. The second-floor science corridor emptied quickly after the last afternoon class. Fluorescent lights hummed. The lockers stood in long metal rows like silent witnesses. Por was putting away a textbook when a hand closed around the back of his neck—not hard yet, just certain—and shoved him forward. His forehead struck the open locker door. The impact rang through the empty hall. Before he could turn, Teetee’s body was already behind him, larger, heavier, smelling of expensive cologne and something colder. One arm locked around Por’s waist. The other forced his head down. In three brutal movements Teetee folded him into the narrow metal space, knees slamming against the cold floor, shoulders compressed, the door swinging shut with a heavy clang that locked the darkness in. The lock clicked. Por’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. The air inside was stale, metallic, already growing warm with his own fear. He pushed against the door. It did not move. He tried to shout. The sound came out thin, trapped. Footsteps walked away. Laughter drifted back—Thee’s voice, then Auau’s—then nothing. Two hours. Por counted the minutes by the way his legs cramped, by the way sweat gathered at the base of his spine, by the way the pink of his lips felt dry and cracked against the metal. When the lock finally turned, the sudden light made his eyes water. Teetee stood there looking down at him the way a man looks at something he has already decided he owns. He dragged Por out by the collar. The smaller boy’s knees buckled. Teetee slammed him back against the lockers hard enough that the entire row shuddered. One fist drove into Por’s stomach—precise, practised—folding him forward. Air left Por’s lungs in a broken sound. Before he could straighten, Teetee’s hand closed around his throat and pinned him upright again. “You’re mine now,” Teetee said, voice almost conversational. “Every year we pick one. You’re this year’s.” Por’s eyes were wide, wet, the soft pink mouth already trembling. “I—I didn’t do anything—” Teetee hit him again. Open palm across the cheek this time, hard enough to snap Por’s head sideways. The taste of blood bloomed immediately where his teeth cut the inside of his lip. “You exist,” Teetee said. “That’s enough.” He let go. Por slid down the metal until he was sitting on the floor, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other to his split lip. Blood welled bright against the plump pink of his mouth. Teetee watched it for a long second, something dark and satisfied moving behind his eyes. Then he crouched, close enough that Por could feel the heat of him. “Tomorrow you walk to the old practice room behind the gym after last class. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t run. You don’t cry where anyone can see. You survive because I allow it. Understand?” Por could only nod, small and broken. Teetee stood, straightened his cuffs, and walked away without looking back. Thee, Auau, and James were waiting at the end of the corridor. None of them spoke. The game had begun the way it always did—with a name, a locker, and the first careful breaking of something soft. Por stayed on the floor until the lights automatically dimmed for the evening. When he finally pushed himself up, his legs shook. The blood on his lip had dried in a thin dark line. He wiped it with the back of his hand and tasted iron. Somewhere far away, in a small house with a leaking roof, his mother was probably counting matches by lamplight, waiting for the first letter that would say her son was safe. Por walked back to the scholarship dormitory in silence, every step a reminder of the hand that had closed around his throat, and the voice that had already claimed him. He did not yet know how much further the claiming would go. But the game had rules older than mercy, and Teetee Wanpichit had never once lost.