Nin’s apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that made every small sound stand out—the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of rain from the balcony railing, the distant murmur of traffic moving through Bangkok long past midnight.

He dropped his keys into the dish by the door and loosened his collar.

Normally, after a late shift, he could come home, shower, review his notes, and settle his mind.

Tonight, nothing settled.

Aran Suriya’s face still lingered in his thoughts.

That calm expression.

That faint, knowing smile.

The way he had looked at Nin as if the distance between them meant nothing.

Nin exhaled sharply and crossed the apartment.

A small table sat by the window, and on it were three framed photographs.

His mother.

His father.

His younger sister.

He stopped there, as he always did.

For a moment he said nothing.

Then quietly, “I’m still trying.”

The city lights reflected faintly in the glass of the frames.

His father had once told him that the truth always left traces behind.

Even when powerful men tried to bury it.

That belief had shaped Nin’s entire life.

It was the reason he became a police officer.

The reason he stayed.

The reason he kept going long after other people would have let the case die.

But tonight, for the first time in a long time, the investigation felt different.

More personal.

And he hated that.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Kit.

Nin stared at the screen for a moment before answering.

“What?”

Kit laughed softly. “You sound warm and approachable.”

“It’s late.”

“That it is. Which is why I’m calling.”

Nin walked to the kitchen and leaned one hand against the counter.

“What happened?”

“Someone was looking for you.”

That got his attention immediately.

Nin straightened. “Who?”

Kit’s voice lost some of its usual teasing edge.

“I don’t know. But he was sitting in a black car outside the station for almost an hour.”

Nin’s expression hardened.

“And?”

“And when I walked past, he asked if you always left this late.”

A cold stillness moved through him.

“Did you get a plate?”

“No.”

“Description?”

Kit hesitated.

“Tall. Dressed well. Definitely not street-level.”

Nin’s jaw tightened.

“That narrows it down to half the city.”

“Yeah, well, this half looked expensive.”

Nin moved toward the window and looked down at the street below his building.

Nothing unusual.

Just headlights. Rain. Shadows.

Still, a strange unease crept under his skin.

Kit lowered his voice.

“You think it was one of Aran’s men?”

Nin didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t know what bothered him more—the idea that Aran was watching him, or the idea that someone else was.

“Maybe,” he said at last.

Kit sighed. “That’s not comforting.”

“Go home, Kit.”

“I am home.”

Nin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Then stop calling and sleep.”

“Right. But if you get murdered, I’m going to be very annoyed.”

The line clicked dead.

Nin lowered the phone slowly.

The apartment felt even quieter after that.

He turned off the kitchen light and stood in the darkness for a moment, watching the city through the rain-streaked glass.

Somewhere in Bangkok, powerful men were moving pieces across a board he still couldn’t fully see.

And somehow, Aran Suriya sat at the center of it all.

Across the city, Aran stood barefoot on the polished floor of his penthouse, looking out over the river.

The skyline stretched wide and glittering beneath the night.

Behind him, Phayu stepped out of the elevator and stopped a respectful distance away.

“He went home,” Phayu said.

Aran didn’t turn.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That answer seemed to satisfy him.

For a moment, only the low hiss of rain against glass filled the silence.

Then Phayu asked, “Do you want us to keep watching him?”

Aran’s reflection in the window remained calm, unreadable.

“Yes.”

Phayu crossed his arms.

“He’s a police captain.”

“I’m aware.”

“He’s investigating you.”

Aran’s mouth curved faintly.

“I’m aware of that too.”

Phayu studied him for a moment.

“This is unusual.”