Arthit's consciousness stirred sluggishly, his head throbbing as he forced his heavy eyelids open. The first thing he registered was the frigid sensation of water soaking his clothes, dripping from his hair, chilling him to the bone. A scowl formed on his lips as the realization set in—someone had deliberately doused him awake.
His body felt restrained, the rough fibers of a rope biting into his wrists, securing his arms tightly against the backrest of a wooden chair. He gave an experimental tug, testing the strength of the knots. No luck. At least his legs were left free—either an oversight or they'd simply run out of rope.
A shiver ran down his spine, and he blinked rapidly, his vision adjusting to the dim surroundings. Darkness stretched around him, the faint scent of rust and damp wood lingering in the air. An abandoned warehouse, most likely. A silhouette loomed before him, standing rigidly with an empty bucket in hand.
Arthit squinted, recognition settling in as he made out the man's features. It was none other than the sore loser from the race he'd won earlier—his recent opponent, humiliated and out of a billion baht. The absurdity of the situation nearly made him laugh. Kidnapping? Over a damn car race?
A dull throb at the base of his skull reminded him of how he got here. Right. He'd been caught off guard while taking a piss. Ambushed mid-zip. The bastards hadn't even allowed him the basic dignity of finishing in peace. What kind of lowlife knocks someone out during their most vulnerable moment?
"Well, this is just great," he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply.
"You're awake now, huh?" The man smirked, arrogance lacing his voice.
"No, I'm sleep-talking."
The sarcastic quip was barely out of his mouth before a fist collided with the corner of his lips, jerking his head sideways. Pain flared in his jaw, a metallic tang blooming on his tongue. He spat to the side, unimpressed. He wasn't scared. Not even a little. He'd been through worse. Growing up under Direk's shadow, he had learned early on that pain was just part of the deal.
Every enemy Direk made eventually sought revenge, and more often than not, Arthit was dragged into it. They all seemed to think he was Direk's Achilles' heel. They weren't entirely wrong. Direk had always been protective, dangerously so. If he so much as caught wind of Arthit being hurt, he'd rain hell down on whoever was responsible. And right now, these idiots had unknowingly signed their own death warrants.
Still, what really pissed him off wasn't the kidnapping—it was the timing. He had just won a race, was about to ask Daotok to be his boyfriend, and now this? The audacity. Did they not understand how long he had been waiting for that moment? He sighed, frustrated.
"What's with the sighing? Still acting tough? You even realize what's about to happen to you?" his captor sneered.
Arthit tilted his head, feigning boredom. "Enlighten me. What's the grand plan? Or is this just a desperate attempt to make up for your lack of racing skills?"
The man's face darkened, his teeth clenching in irritation. "Shut the hell up."
"Touchy," Arthit mused. "Let me guess. Daddy doesn't know about this, does he?"
The sudden tension in the man's expression gave him all the confirmation he needed.
"Ah. So, you lost a billion and panicked. Makes sense. This plan reeks of last-minute desperation." He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "If you'd put this much effort into actually learning how to drive, maybe you wouldn't be in this mess."
"Shut up!" The man's face twisted with fury as he turned away, grabbing his phone. "I'm calling your father."
Arthit's brows lifted in surprise before realization hit, and he nearly laughed. "You're calling Direk? That's the best you've got?"
The man visibly hesitated before dialing. Arthit could practically see the tremor in his hands. Good. He should be scared. The call connected.
"Direk?"
"How are you?"
"Oh, you know. Got knocked out after peeing. At least I zipped up first."
"Hmm. I'm on my way."
"You don't have to."
"I do."
"And Dao?"
"Worry about yourself first. Dao is fine."
"Don't let him come here."
"Hmm."
"See you soon."
"Mm-hmm."
As soon as the call ended, his captor's face had turned a sickly shade of pale. Arthit knew exactly why—Direk's wrath was not something anyone walked away from unscathed. The man, clearly rattled, lashed out, landing another punch to Arthit's face. It barely hurt, but it sure as hell pissed him off. He couldn't sit here wasting time. If Daotok found out about this, he'd be worried sick. The last thing Arthit wanted was to make Daotok cry. The sound of approaching vehicles interrupted his thoughts. A lot of them.
Direk was here.
"How many people are coming?!" one of the guards shouted in panic, a knife suddenly pressed to Arthit's throat.
Tch. Amateurs.
Taking advantage of the momentary chaos, Arthit jerked his head forward, smashing it against the guard's face. The man stumbled back with a pained grunt. Arthit kicked out, knocking him down, then twisted his chair, slamming it into another. The impact shattered the brittle wood, and he freed his hands in the process.
In one swift motion, he grabbed a broken chair leg and swung it at an oncoming attacker, disarming him. Seizing the opportunity, he took the man's gun, firing without hesitation. Gunfire erupted as the remaining guards scrambled. Arthit ducked behind a pile of wooden crates, adrenaline surging through his veins. His grip tightened around the stolen firearm as bullets whizzed past.
"He's armed!"
"Take him down!"
Idiots. They still thought they had a chance? Checking the magazine, he cursed under his breath—only a few rounds left. No room for mistakes. Shifting positions, he fired precisely, each shot hitting its mark. The warehouse filled with shouts and the deafening sound of gunfire. One by one, the guards fell, until only their terrified leader remained.
Arthit stalked toward him, chest heaving, exhaustion creeping into his limbs. Blood stained the floor, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air. The man trembled beneath him, eyes wide with terror.
"Please... spare me," he whimpered.
Arthit sneered, dropping the gun. Instead, he delivered a swift, brutal kick to the man's stomach, sending him sprawling. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, he dragged him across the cold, blood-slicked floor. Reaching the warehouse doors, he yanked them open and threw the bastard outside, where Direk's men were already waiting.
Finally, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders. All this trouble... over a car race.
Ridiculous.
As Arthit stepped forward, nearly twenty guns immediately aimed in his direction. Unfazed, he lifted his hands slightly and spoke with a calm but firm voice.
"It's me."
Recognizing him, the armed men swiftly lowered their weapons, tension dissipating in an instant. One of them, a burly man with a deep scar across his cheek, stepped forward in concern.
"Young Master! Are you okay?"
Arthit barely spared him a glance as he surveyed the carnage around them. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood, bodies of their enemies strewn across the cold concrete.
"Everyone inside is taken care of. What about outside?" he asked, his voice steady.
"There were about twenty of them. We've dealt with all of them," the man reported without hesitation.
Arthit gave a slow nod. "Good."
Those who were still writhing in pain on the ground were swiftly silenced with ruthless efficiency. He had no doubt it was Direk's standing order—leave no one alive.
"Thit!" A familiar voice cut through the heavy silence.
Arthit turned just as Direk rushed toward him, his usual composed demeanor shattered by unfiltered worry.
"Damn it! I was so worried about you, you idiot!" Direk barked, grabbing his shoulder roughly. "Why didn't you take better care of yourself?! What if you gave your old man a heart attack?!"
Despite his father's scolding, there was an underlying note of relief in his voice. Arthit smirked slightly.
"Calm down, Direk. I'm fine now."
Direk exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "What about Dao?"
At the mention of Daotok, something in Arthit's expression softened. "He's safe?"
"Yes, but you should worry about yourself first," Direk said, crossing his arms. "You're the one in the most danger. But... yeah, he's worried sick about you."
Arthit hesitated before asking, "Did he cry?"
Direk shrugged. "I don't know. I rushed out as soon as I could. I heard the gunfire inside and panicked. We were held up out here. Couldn't charge in fast enough."
"Panicked, huh?" Arthit smirked. "Come on, Direk, have some faith in me. You brought quite the crew. It looked like a rushed plan."
"Of course, I trust you. I know you're capable, but seeing you in danger as a father figure... it's unbearable," Direk admitted. "And yeah, it was rushed.
Their scheme was sloppy, though. I checked with his father—he didn't know about it. The guy acted out of fear after losing the race."
"Knew it. If it was pre-planned, you'd have caught on," Arthit muttered. His gaze flickered downward, noticing the deep crimson soaking through his sleeve. Direk followed his line of sight and frowned.
"You're bleeding a lot. Were you shot? Is the bullet still in?"
Arthit lifted his right arm, testing it. A sharp sting shot through him. "It just grazed me. The rest is their blood."
"Let's get you to a hospital."
Arthit barely acknowledged the suggestion, his boot pressing down hard on the back of a man he had dragged out. The man let out a pained scream.
"What's next?" he asked, eyes dark with unspoken rage.
"I'll handle it," Direk assured him.
Arthit ground his foot harder against the man's spine. "Kill them all. Ruined my day."
"Don't worry. No one insults me and gets away with it," Direk said, his voice carrying an ominous finality.
At the hospital, chaos erupted the moment they arrived. Medical staff mistook Arthit for being critically injured due to the sheer amount of blood covering him. He was rushed onto a hospital bed, much to his irritation.
"It's not just a graze," the doctor observed after closer inspection. "It's a through-and-through wound."
"Ah, I see," Arthit muttered, entirely unbothered as the doctor started stitching his arm.
"How's my tattoo?"
The doctor glanced at the ink now marred by the wound. "You'll need a skilled artist to fix it."
Arthit groaned. "What a bother."
As soon as the stitches were done, a nurse began tending to his other wounds. Direk had already contacted Johan, who would be arriving soon. As he sat there, Arthit couldn't help but wonder how Daotok had reacted when he heard about the kidnapping. He didn't want him to cry—just to be a little worried.
But as the door suddenly burst open, he realized his wish had been granted too well. Daotok stood there, eyes wet with tears, his face flushed from running. He didn't hesitate—he rushed forward and threw his arms around Arthit, hugging him tightly.
"Are... are you okay? Does it hurt?"
"It doesn't. Go ahead and hug me."
"Hic."
Oh, crap. He's really crying.
Arthit sighed, lifting his left arm—the one that hadn't been shot—and wrapped it around Daotok, gently stroking his hair. His sobs grew louder, and Arthit felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
"Don't cry. Please, I'm fine."
"Hic... But there are so many wounds," Daotok whispered, pulling back slightly to scan his injuries. More tears welled up in his eyes, making Arthit panic internally.
"Hey, don't cry. You're making me feel worse."
"Didn't you say you'd come back for me?" Daotok's voice was small, breaking at the edges.
Arthit exhaled slowly. "Sorry. I was careless. But I came back, didn't I? I didn't risk my life just to see you cry."
"Hic... Promise me you won't leave me."
Getting stabbed or shot didn't kill me, but this might. Arthit swallowed, his grip tightening around Daotok's hand. "I won't leave. I promise."
Daotok sniffled, rubbing his tear-streaked face. Gently, Arthit wiped away the lingering tears, his fingers moving with unexpected tenderness. "No more crying, okay? Let me see... my brave one."
"I'm not brave... Don't talk like that," Daotok whispered, still sniffling.
Watching Daotok cry was seriously dangerous for Arthit's health.
Never again. I swear, no matter what it takes, I won't let Dao cry like this ever again.
The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air as Daotok sat beside Arthit's hospital bed, his eyes clouded with unspoken emotions. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out, hesitant but desperate to touch him.
"Where does it hurt?" Daotok asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Arthit gave him a small, reassuring smile, though pain flickered behind his eyes. "The bullet went through my upper arm. Just some cuts here and there, nothing serious. Mostly bruises."
Daotok hummed, pressing his lips together as he carefully examined Arthit's bandaged arm.
"Hey, don't look so sad," Arthit said, trying to lighten the mood.
Daotok's gaze lifted to meet his, his voice laced with suppressed emotion.
"If you were me, wouldn't you be sad?"
Arthit sighed, leaning his head back against the pillow. "Alright, fine. Even though I didn't want to see you cry, I have to admit—I'm a little happy. I didn't expect you to care this much." He paused before letting out a nervous chuckle. "Hey, why am I happy about this?"
Daotok frowned, his grip on Arthit's uninjured hand tightening. "And you still have the nerve to say you're happy? You're so cruel."
"Sorry."
Before Daotok could reply, the door swung open, and Direk strolled in, followed closely by Johan and North.
"You didn't make a sound while getting stitched up, but you act all dramatic when Dao cries," Direk remarked, his voice filled with amusement.
North whistled as he leaned against the foot of the bed, shaking his head. "Wow, you guys work fast. Didn't even wait for us. Damn, you're a mess, Arthit." He folded his arms and smirked. "I heard you got shot too?"
Arthit exhaled. "Yeah."
"Holy crap. What happened? Tell me the details. Dao cried his eyes out twice because of you—twice!" North emphasized, leaning closer as if demanding answers.
Arthit raised an eyebrow. "Twice?"
"First time was when he sensed how you were feeling," North explained.
"How is that my fault?"
"Normally, you're a stoic robot, but when you cry, it's heartbreaking. Why is it so pitiful?" North muttered before shaking his head. "Anyway, tell us."
Arthit shrugged. "Not much. Finished the race, stopped to pee, then got knocked out. Woke up in a warehouse. A fight broke out, I grabbed a gun and handled the situation. Got myself out. Almost like John Wick."
"I hate how casually you say, 'got knocked out,'" Johan grumbled.
Direk scoffed. "I couldn't figure out how someone like you got caught. It's pathetic."
"Yeah, true," Arthit admitted with an awkward chuckle.
"Why did you even have to pee? If you didn't, this wouldn't have happened."
"Humans have to pee and poop. Holding it in is bad for your health," Arthit argued.
North rolled his eyes. "How many of them were there?"
Arthit turned to Direk. "Did you count?"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen, huh?" Johan muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "You know, for a second, I thought you got caught because you were slacking. But taking down fifteen armed guys? Fine, I'll let it slide. You've earned the title of action hero, man."
Arthit smirked. "Of course. I've trained. In a past life, I was probably a military sniper. I'm an excellent shot, I'll have you know. Just now, I was shooting with my eyes closed."
"That's too much, man," North said, laughing. "I knew you were skilled, but not this much."
Arthit chuckled, but Daotok's expression remained troubled. He had been quiet throughout the banter, his head lowered, hands clenched tightly together.
"What now, with injuries like this?" Daotok asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll take some time off. I can't go to the ward like this. Joe, can you handle the paperwork with Fah for me?"
Johan groaned. "Ugh, I'm so annoyed. Can I shoot your other arm?"
Arthit gasped in mock horror. "Hey, calm down. Why does everyone want to hurt me?"
As laughter filled the room, North and Johan eventually excused themselves, leaving only Arthit, Daotok, and Direk.
"Let's head home," Arthit suggested.
Daotok shook his head firmly. "No, you're staying here."
"I don't want to. You know I hate hospitals."
"Just stay, don't be difficult," Direk sighed. "What if your wounds get infected?"
"They won't."
"Stay, please," Daotok said softly.
Arthit immediately turned to look at him. The quiet vulnerability in his voice made his chest tighten.
"Alright," he conceded.
Direk let out a low whistle. "Shit, you're more obedient than I am, and I raised you my whole life."
Daotok let out a small chuckle. "I'll stay and watch over him myself, Uncle Direk. You should go rest."
"Hmph. Guess he'd prefer you watching over him anyway," Direk mused before heading for the door. "Behave yourself, Thit."
Once they were alone, silence stretched between them. Daotok remained still, head lowered, fists clenched in his lap. Arthit tilted his head in concern.
"Dao?"
No response.
"Is something wrong?"
Still nothing.
Arthit frowned. "Come on, talk to me. Are you mad?"
Daotok finally spoke, his voice trembling. "I... I couldn't do anything."
Arthit's breath hitched. He had never heard Daotok sound so defeated before.
"I was scared... really scared. And I hated myself for just sitting there, waiting for you to come back while you were struggling. I couldn't do anything to help."
Arthit's heart ached. Without thinking, he reached out, gently pulling Daotok into his arms.
"I'm not someone who cries easily," Daotok murmured against his shoulder, "but I cried. You made me weak, damn it. You came out of nowhere, saying you liked me, staying close, taking care of me, and making me worry like hell."
"I'm sorry."
Daotok shook his head. "No, I didn't ask for an apology."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
Daotok's face burned red as he tightened his grip on Arthit's shirt. His voice trembled with determination. "Take responsibility."
Arthit's lips twitched into a smirk. "How do I do that?"
"Be—" Daotok hesitated, then huffed. "Be everything! Ask me already!"
Arthit chuckled. "Ask what?"
"Don't tease me!"
"Then... be my boyfriend."
"I will! Let me be! Please let me be!"
Arthit smiled, cupping Daotok's cheek. "Alright, you'll be for life."
"For life."