The hospital loomed ahead, a towering structure of sterile white and endless windows reflecting the afternoon sun. It was just past two in the afternoon when they arrived, the long drive from L.A leaving Daotok drained even before stepping inside.
Arthit, who had been his guide since their arrival, barely gave him a moment to catch his breath before leading him through the hospital's sprawling corridors.
The sheer size of the place was overwhelming. Every turn revealed another hallway, another set of identical doors, the air thick with antiseptic and the faintest hint of sickness.
Normally, Daotok struggled with sensory overload in his own home—here, in an unfamiliar hospital, his heightened senses felt like a curse. He had to stop frequently, pausing on nearby benches to steady himself, his vision dimming at the edges whenever he pushed too hard.
Hours passed as they searched, moving from one ward to another, scouring the rooms and waiting areas where she was supposed to be. But no matter where they looked, there was no sign of her.
Even when Daotok extended his senses beyond the visible, pressing his awareness into restricted areas, he found nothing. Just empty echoes, fragments of voices lost in the sterile halls.
Finally, Arthit guided him to a bench and returned a few minutes later with a cold drink. He didn't ask if Daotok wanted one—he simply handed it over, as if he already knew the answer. Daotok didn't question it. He downed nearly the entire bottle in one go, his throat dry from the exhaustion of searching and the weight of something unseen pressing against him.
His heartbeat was unsteady, a drum of anxiety in his chest. The hospital teemed with spirits, as all hospitals did, but something about being in a foreign land made their presence even more unsettling. The spiritual energy here was different from home—sharper, unfamiliar. They had been watching him from the moment he stepped inside.
This wasn't new. Daotok had been aware of spirits for as long as he could remember. Some tried to scare him, others sought help. He had learned to ignore them, to push past their whispers and lingering gazes. But here, in this hospital, the spirits felt stronger. There were too many, crowding the edges of his perception, their energies tangled and chaotic.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"Are you okay?"
Arthit's voice pulled him back. Daotok nodded weakly, his eyes still shut.
The last thing he had seen before closing them was the face of a woman— pale, sunken, her hospital gown tattered as she stared directly into his.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"Then why are you shaking?"
"It's... overwhelming. There are too many of them."
There was a pause. Then, Arthit asked, "Have you ever met an aggressive one?"
Daotok exhaled slowly. "Yes."
"Like in the movies?"
"They can hurt you. Physically." His voice came out hoarse. "P' Donut was one of them. He pulled my leg so hard I nearly fell out of bed."
Arthit frowned. "Did you get hurt?"
"A little bruised."
"And what did you do?"
"I got angry."
"That's it?"
"I told them to stop. If they didn't, I retaliated."
Arthit huffed. "And they actually listened? The ones in your room didn't. I yelled at them, told them to shut up, and they just kept making noise."
"Well, it's quiet now, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he admitted. "Ever since you moved in, the crying and noise have stopped."
Daotok hummed in response. "P' Cream has been happier, too. She started getting into K-pop again. I told her that if she kept bothering me, I wouldn't talk about idols or play music anymore."
"And Donut? The one who made all that noise?"
"He's probably hanging around P' Min."
Arthit frowned. "Can people and spirits really live together?"
"They shouldn't."
His grandmother had always warned him—ties between the living and the dead were unnatural. Yet, when he saw how happy Min was with Donut, he hadn't had the heart to interfere.
"Let's go." Arthit stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants.
"To San Francisco?" Daotok asked, already sensing that their search was over.
"Our flight's in the evening. Let's get some food first." Arthit eyed him.
"You feeling okay?"
Daotok inhaled deeply, then pushed himself up from the bench. "Yeah."
The late afternoon air was crisp, the first hints of winter creeping in. It was the perfect balance—not too hot, not too cold. They drove to a nearby fast- food chain, its red-themed decor familiar yet oddly out of place in this foreign setting. The restaurant wasn't too crowded, making it easier to settle in. They ordered fried chicken, simple and quick.
Daotok didn't say much as they ate, but soon enough, Arthit's voice cut through the silence.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, eyes wide. "What are you doing?"
Daotok glanced up, fingers still busy peeling the crispy skin off his fried chicken. "Peeling the skin."
Arthit looked horrified. "What!?"
Without responding, Daotok continued methodically removing the skin, setting it aside before eating only the meat.
"You don't eat the skin?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"It's too hard. Pokes my gums."
Arthit gawked at him. "This isn't right. This is sacrilege. The skin is the best part! They work so hard to make it crispy, and you just... peel it off?"
Daotok blinked, unimpressed. "You can have it if you want."
Arthit didn't hesitate, reaching over to grab the discarded pieces. "Fine, I will." He took a bite, shaking his head. "I swear, this is as bad as drinking red Fanta from a spirit house offering."
Daotok gave him a blank look. "That bad?"
"Worse."
This wasn't the first time someone had reacted this way. North had been just as dramatic the first time he saw Daotok eat fried chicken this way. Some people simply couldn't accept it.
Once they finished eating, they still had time to kill before their flight. At Daotok's suggestion, they visited a bookstore. Rows upon rows of neatly arranged books filled the spacious interior, the scent of paper and ink wrapping around him like a familiar embrace.
Arthit picked up a book. "Have you read this?"
Daotok stepped closer to check. The translated cover didn't always match the original, and he needed a better look. Shaking his head, he said, "No."
"Looks interesting," Arthit mused, then put it back. "But I don't have time to read."
Daotok picked up the book and added it to his basket. "I do."
Arthit raised a brow. "Summarize it for me later."
"Sure."
By the time they reached the airport, Daotok was exhausted. He settled into a chair, flipping open the novel he had just bought. English books weren't easy for him, but he could manage—though he often had to look up words.
Across from him, Arthit read effortlessly.
The flight to San Francisco was short, but by the time they landed, fatigue settled deep into Daotok's bones. The search at the hospital, the spirits, the journey—it all weighed on him. Yet, something told him the real exhaustion had only just begun.
☆☆☆☆☆
Arthit tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white as he pulled into the driveway. The hesitation in his chest felt heavier than usual, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn't shake. The house stood before him, looming in the darkness, its familiar silhouette both comforting and suffocating.
Daotok stood beside him, staring at the house with an unreadable expression. Was he admiring it? Or just lost in thought? Arthit almost wanted to flatter himself, thinking the younger man was awestruck by the grandeur of the home. But deep down, he knew it wasn't that.
Bringing someone else here felt wrong, intrusive even, as if he was exposing something too personal. The memories that clung to this house were his alone, and now, someone else would step inside them.
It was past 11 P.M. Daotok had slept most of the way, his exhaustion evident in the way he barely stirred when the car finally stopped. Even now, leaning against the wall beside him, Daotok looked like he might pass out at any moment.
Arthit hesitated with the keys in his hand, standing at the threshold like he always did. No matter how many times he returned, he always needed a moment to brace himself.
The moment he unlocked the door, he reached for the switch out of habit, flooding the space with warm light. Stepping inside, he removed his shoes, the automatic gesture grounding him. "Mom, I'm home," he murmured in English, his voice carrying through the empty house.
Silence answered him. Just as it always did. Just as it had for years.
The house greeted him with the same unwavering familiarity—everything untouched, just as it had been left. The furniture, the carefully maintained decor, even the backyard that was still tended to by hired hands. Time had not altered this place, even though it had reshaped him in ways he barely understood.
He led Daotok to the guest room, watching as Daotok stumbled straight onto the bed without a second thought. His body hit the mattress, and he was out. Arthit set his belongings down, turned on the air conditioning, and left him to rest, retreating to his own room with a heavy sigh.
There were only two days left in this place. The trip had been relentless— Thailand to Hawaii, then to L.A, and finally San Francisco, each stop bleeding into the next. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to settle.
With restless energy thrumming in his veins, he found himself downstairs again, walking the familiar hallways. He told himself he wouldn't think about her, wouldn't picture where she used to sit, how she used to hum while doing the simplest of things. But memory was cruel, sneaking in where it wasn't wanted.
The backyard was dimly lit by the faint glow of outdoor lamps. The night air was cool, but not enough to clear his mind. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with practiced ease, watching the smoke swirl into the night sky. The beer in his other hand was cold against his palm, a bitter contrast to the warmth in his chest.
Daotok's exhaustion gave him time—time to prepare himself, to figure out what he would do if the last possibility slipped through his fingers.
"If she's really not here," he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper, "then I guess it's time to let go."
But the words felt hollow.
Would she be lonely, if she were still here? Would she scold him for the cigarette between his fingers, the beer on his breath?
Was she watching him now?
"If you're really here... then prove it."
Silence.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Without looking, he knew who it was. Dialing Direk had become second nature when he felt like this, as if saying his father's name would somehow ground him.
"Do you know what time it is in Thailand, huh?" Direk's voice grumbled through the speaker.
"I don't know. Are you free?"
"Yeah, I guess I have some time."
"Then why are you complaining?"
"Just complaining for the sake of it. So, how's it going?"
Arthit exhaled slowly, watching the last tendrils of smoke drift away. "I haven't found anything. Not in Hawaii, not in L.A."
"You're in San Fran now?"
"Yeah."
"That's the last stop, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
There was a pause. Then Direk sighed. "It's nearly midnight there. How much beer and how many cigarettes have you gone through?"
Arthit huffed a quiet laugh. "I just started. Just got here."
Silence stretched between them, the kind that only brothers could share. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Arthit spoke again.
"What if I don't find her?"
"...."
"I'm so stubborn, man," Arthit admitted, rubbing at his temple. "I've come all this way, and I can't find her anywhere."
Direk sighed. "You always call my name repeatedly when you don't know what to do. Did you know that?"
Arthit let out a soft chuckle. "Really? Maybe."
"There's nothing you can do, and you know it. You came all this way because you wanted to be sure and to let go, right?"
"Direk, you've already let go, haven't you?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"Because you're here."
Arthit let out a laugh, shaking his head. "That's unexpectedly touching."
"I was trying to be sentimental, and you ruined it."
"Alright, alright. Say it again, and I'll try to cry my eyes out."
"You're such a jerk. Never mind."
Arthit smiled faintly, leaning back against the chair. The ache in his chest hadn't lessened, but for the first time that night, it didn't feel quite so crushing.
"Work hard and make lots of money, Direk."
"Yeah, yeah, so you can spend it on booze and beer."
The call ended, leaving Arthit alone once more. He finished his cigarette, staring at the endless sky above him. The hollow emptiness inside him remained, lingering like an old wound that refused to heal.
That night, surrounded by the ghosts of his memories, Arthit found himself sinking deeper into his own thoughts, unable to pull himself free.
The next morning, sunlight pierced through his closed eyelids. He groaned, shifting uncomfortably. His body ached—probably from passing out in the same spot. Empty beer cans littered the table beside him, cigarette butts scattered like remnants of a battle lost. He ran a hand through his hair, groggy and sluggish.
Daotok was probably still asleep. It was already past eight. As hunger set in, Arthit decided not to let him cook again.
After knocking on the door with no response, he used a key to check inside.
Daotok lay motionless, face flushed.
"Hey," Arthit called, shaking him lightly.
"Mm..." came the weak murmur.
Arthit's stomach twisted. He pressed a hand to Daotok's forehead.
He was burning up.
Damn it.
Was it exhaustion? The cold? Or something else entirely?
Either way, he wasn't going to let this kid collapse on his watch.
Arthit's voice cut through the quiet room.
"Are you sick?"
Daotok blinked slowly, his face unreadable. "Probably."
Arthit frowned. "What should we do, then?"
"It's fine. What time is it?"
"Eight."
Daotok hummed in response, his tone dismissive, as if the conversation wasn't worth continuing. Then, without another word, he pushed the blanket off himself and stood, though his movements were sluggish.
"Leave," he said simply.
Arthit sighed but didn't argue. He stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. He had learned by now that Daotok didn't like being hovered over. Instead, he busied himself getting ready and waited on the sofa, idly tapping his fingers against his thigh.
A part of him wondered if Daotok would end up slipping in the shower, cracking his skull open, and bleeding out on the bathroom tiles. The guy was already pale yesterday— today, he looked even worse.
Minutes passed, and just as Arthit was about to call out to him, the door opened. Daotok emerged, now wearing a winter coat and a hat, but his condition had visibly worsened. His face was no longer just pale—it was flushed an alarming shade of red, like a boiled shrimp. The sight made something twist in Arthit's chest.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, brows furrowing.
"Yeah."
Arthit didn't believe him for a second. "You should rest. I'll go get food outside for you."
"It's fine." Daotok's voice was quieter than usual, weaker, yet he was still insistent.
Arthit exhaled sharply through his nose, watching him closely. Anyone else in his condition would be in bed, but Daotok was the type to push through, even if it meant collapsing. Stubborn as hell. But if he wasn't going to argue about it, neither was Arthit.
"Fine," he muttered.
The two of them went out for food, though Daotok moved at a painfully slow pace, his feet dragging with every step. He looked completely drained, like someone running on the last bit of energy they had left. When they arrived at the restaurant, Arthit noticed how little he ate—just a few small bites before setting his utensils down.
That was another thing. Daotok never ate much, even on his best days. It was like he just tolerated food instead of enjoying it. Arthit wasn't surprised he was sick. They had been traveling non-stop, and Daotok already looked exhausted before this.
"You think you'll be okay being sick like this?" Arthit asked, watching him closely.
Daotok tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean with that thing you sense."
A small, almost amused breath left Daotok's lips. "Nah, if anything, it makes the senses sharper."
Arthit blinked. "Why's that?"
"The mind weakens."
Arthit nodded slightly, recalling something about that—how people were more vulnerable to spirits when they were sick or mentally exhausted. It made sense in a way, though it also made him uneasy.
After eating, they returned to the car. Arthit had already planned to stop by the cemetery where his mother was buried. When they arrived, he slowed the car, feeling a strange heaviness settle in his chest.
He led Daotok to the grave, stopping in front of the nameplate engraved with his mother's name.
Daotok stood still for a long moment before wordlessly removing his bracelet. Then he closed his eyes.
Arthit watched him, shifting uneasily. He never liked it when Daotok did this—when he reached out into something unseen. It felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff, waiting for something to grab you.
Then, without warning, Daotok's body swayed.
"Shit!" Arthit barely had time to react before Daotok collapsed. His instincts kicked in, and he lunged forward, catching him just before he hit the ground. His skin was burning. Too hot. Feverish.
"Damn it, Daotok." Arthit gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip to support his weight. Was this just the fever, or had something from the cemetery messed with him? The last time they were at the hospital, Daotok mentioned something about being disturbed by spirits.
Had he brought him here just to let him die?
No. No way.
"I'm a doctor, damn it. You're not dying on my watch."
With no other choice, he carried Daotok back to the car, carefully laying him in the passenger seat before speeding toward the nearest hospital.
The doctor's diagnosis was simple: exhaustion and a slight fever. Nothing life-threatening. Just rest and fluids.
Arthit sighed in relief, though frustration quickly took its place as he stood by the hospital bed, arms crossed. Daotok lay motionless, an IV drip attached to his hand. He had already told him to rest, but of course, the guy refused to listen.
Now he was stuck in a hospital bed, racking up medical bills. Not that it was a big deal—what really bugged Arthit was why he had pushed himself in the first place.
If it were him, he wouldn't have dragged himself out like that. Hell, if he had even a mild headache, he'd take the day off.
Arthit sighed and pulled out his phone, dialing a number.
"Hey, P'Arthit," North answered cheerfully, his energy a stark contrast to the limp body on the hospital bed.
"Your friend's sick."
"Oh."
Arthit frowned. "Why do you sound so unfazed?"
"He gets sick all the time. Weaklings are like that."
Arthit glanced at Daotok. "Really? He fainted. He's in the hospital."
"Did he eat anything?"
"He did. Not much, though."
"He doesn't eat properly. Stomach issues."
"That explains a lot."
"What did the doctor say? Just exhaustion?"
"And fever."
"Figures. He overused his senses, didn't he?"
Arthit hesitated. "How'd you know?"
"Because he does this all the time."
Arthit rubbed his temple. "Now I feel guilty."
"You? Feeling guilty? That's new."
"Hey, I'm a good guy, okay?"
"Takes guts to say that about yourself." North chuckled. "Let me guess, he didn't rest even though he was sick?"
"Of course not."
"Sounds about right. Even if he was dying, he'd say 'I'm fine' and go back to work."
Arthit scoffed. "What is he, a robot?"
"More or less."
Arthit exhaled, hanging up soon after. He dozed off in the chair, only waking when the sun had started to set.
When he opened his eyes, Daotok was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking as expressionless as ever.
"You okay?" Arthit asked, stretching.
"Yeah."
"Why'd you faint?"
Daotok took a sip of water before answering. "There were a lot of spirits at the cemetery. Being sick just made it worse."
"So, it wasn't just exhaustion?"
"No. One of them rushed at me. Then I blacked out."
Arthit stared. "You got jump-scared into fainting?"
"Something like that."
Arthit didn't know whether to laugh or be more concerned. But one thing was clear—this guy was going to be the death of him.
Arthit sat at the edge of the hospital bed, arms crossed, staring at the pale figure before him. The dim hospital light cast soft shadows across Daotok's face, highlighting the exhaustion clinging to his features.
He looked weak, but his expression remained as unreadable as ever—calm, indifferent, as if none of this was a big deal. But it was. It damn well was.
"So, you're sure you weren't possessed or anything?" Arthit asked, voice laced with suspicion.
Daotok blinked slowly, as if the very act of keeping his eyes open was an effort. "No, it was just a malicious spirit, that's all. But I don't think anything serious happened."
Arthit scoffed. "That's all? Just a malicious spirit?" He shook his head, returning the empty glass to the bedside table. "I thought it'd be like in the movies—possession, curses, the whole dramatic deal. But this? It was just a one-off jump scare?"
Daotok nodded. "That's the extent of what it could do. My weakened state made my mind more vulnerable, but not that much."
Arthit frowned. "Weakened state? Have you ever experienced this before?"
"Yeah. But I've never fainted because of a spirit before."
That answer didn't sit right with him. "Is it because you encounter them so often?"
"Partly." Daotok exhaled, shifting slightly. "And also because I'm not feeling well, so I'm weaker than usual. Plus, like I said, the spirit was malicious."
"Wait." Arthit's frown deepened as he tried to process Daotok's words. "So, you're saying this was the first time you fainted because of a spirit? Does that mean this was the strongest one you've ever faced?"
"Yes."
Arthit inhaled sharply. "Is there any guarantee you'll be safe every time? Just because you're strong-willed doesn't mean you'll always make it out unscathed, right? What if there's a spirit out there that can actually hurt you?"
Daotok met his gaze evenly. "You're right."
"Then what if that spirit at the cemetery earlier had done something worse to you?"
"It could've killed me."
Silence.
Arthit's breath hitched. He hadn't expected such a blunt response. Daotok said it so casually, like it wasn't a big deal, like it didn't matter that he could've died. Meanwhile, the weight of those words crashed into Arthit's chest like a freight train.
Shit.
If things had gone just a little differently, if that spirit had been just a little stronger—Daotok could've died. And Arthit would've been the one who dragged him into it.
"I'm sorry." His voice came out quieter than he intended. Daotok didn't respond.
Arthit clenched his fists. "Why didn't you tell me it was this dangerous? If being sick makes you so vulnerable, why didn't you just stay home?"
Daotok's expression remained unchanged. "I thought it'd be a good opportunity since I wasn't feeling well."
Arthit blinked. "What?"
"When the mind is weakened, the senses become sharper. It's easier to perceive spirits more clearly."
Arthit stared at him, stunned into silence. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was this guy stupid?
"So, let me get this straight." He rubbed his temple, trying to make sense of it all. "You purposely let yourself be more vulnerable—just so you could perceive spirits more clearly? Do you hear yourself? The reason you're sensing them more strongly is because your mind is weak! That also makes it easier for them to hurt you! Why don't you think about that?!"
Daotok said nothing, but his silence only fueled Arthit's frustration.
North had warned him about this. He'd said Daotok had a tendency to push himself too far, that he never knew when to stop, that he didn't value his own well-being the way he should. Arthit thought he had understood what North meant, but seeing it firsthand—seeing the sheer disregard Daotok had for his own safety—was infuriating.
What would've happened if he had died back there? What then? Arthit's stomach twisted at the thought. He was the one who asked for Daotok's help. He was the one who brought him all the way to that damn cemetery because Daotok had said it'd be fine. And it turns out, he almost died? And now, here he was, acting like none of it mattered?
"I don't get it."
Daotok glanced at him. "What?"
"I don't get why you have to push yourself like this. What's the big deal if you rest for two or three more hours until you feel better? It's not like I'm mad or blaming you."
Daotok looked away. "Being sick is normal for me, so it's not a big deal."
Arthit felt something in him snap. "Not a big deal? Are you serious?!"
"Besides..."
"What?"
Daotok's voice was softer this time. "I just wanted to give it my all."
Arthit stared at him, at his pale face, his tired eyes, at the stubborn determination underneath it all. A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He couldn't—wouldn't—say anything else.
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the hospital room, unable to stay there any longer. You just wanted to give it your all? Seriously? Damn it!
Fine, do whatever you want! Keep pushing yourself, keep acting like your life doesn't matter, keep being so goddamn selfless it pisses me off!
North said you've always been like this, right? Then go ahead. Keep going until you break. And what about me? Why am I so pissed off?! Damn it!