*I re-did the chapter and will work on writing more soon!*

Between the bustling streets of Bangkok, where neon lights flickered and music spilled from countless bars, there was one establishment with a particularly straightforward name—The Bar. A hotspot for the wealthier clientele, it was packed nearly every night. It was also where Peter, a 20-year-old bartender fresh out of school abroad, had landed a job upon returning home.

Tall and effortlessly handsome—so he was often told—Peter never gave much thought to his looks. What mattered to him was presenting a clean and professional image. But more than that, he lived for the showmanship of bartending. Twirling and tossing bottles, pouring drinks with effortless precision—presentation, he believed, was just as important as taste.

His first shift had gone smoothly. Customers gathered at the counter to watch him work, tossing appreciative glances his way. The rush of excitement, the adrenaline of a job well done, and the weight of a night’s worth of tips in his pocket left him in high spirits. As his shift ended, he volunteered to take out the trash, stepping into the dimly lit alley beside the bar.

He was about to toss the bags into the bin when the sound of hurried footsteps and angry shouts caught his attention. Three boys rushed past him, their faces set in hard determination. His stomach twisted uneasily. Something had happened. His gaze darted around the alley until it landed on a slumped figure against the wall.

At first, he thought it was a girl—long hair, delicate frame—but as he got closer, he realized it was a boy. Bruises bloomed violently along his arms and face, his lip was split open, and he clutched his chest as though trying to hold himself together. But what unsettled Peter the most was the boy’s expression—a slow, eerie smile, the kind one might wear after indulging in their favorite meal.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked hesitantly.

The smile vanished, but the boy didn’t acknowledge him otherwise. Concern tightening his chest, Peter pulled out his phone and started dialing for an ambulance.

“I’ll call for help—”

Before he could finish, a hand shot out, knocking the phone from his grasp. It hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

Peter clenched his jaw, forcing himself to swallow his irritation. But when he looked up, whatever anger he felt dissolved. The boy’s eyes—deep, expressive, and filled with something raw and aching—held him in place. Peter had never seen such a lonely gaze before. It nearly brought tears to his eyes.

“Mind your own business.” The boy’s voice was soft yet firm, cutting through the silence like a blade. Without waiting for a response, he pushed himself up with the help of the wall, his movements slow and deliberate. Though he tried to hide it, Peter noticed the slight limp as he walked away.

The encounter haunted him for the rest of the night. Even as he made himself a bowl of ramen at home, his thoughts kept circling back. Who was that kid? Why had he refused help? And why had he smiled like that?

With a sigh, he shook off the thoughts and grabbed his phone, calling the one person who could distract him.

“What happened?” Meen asked as he flopped onto Peter’s couch, clearly sensing that something was on his mind.

“A kid got the shit beaten out of him outside the bar today,” Peter muttered, running a hand through his hair. “And afterward… he smiled. Like he enjoyed it.”

Meen raised an eyebrow but shrugged as if it were nothing unusual. “Maybe he’s a masochist.”

Peter frowned. He had heard the term before but had never encountered someone like that in real life. Meen, noticing his confusion, elaborated.

“Masochists connect pain to pleasure. The two sensations are intertwined. Usually, they explore it in a safe, controlled environment with a willing partner. But that kid? Sounds like he either doesn’t realize it yet or just doesn’t care.”

Peter absorbed the explanation, his mind still stuck on the image of the boy’s battered form. He turned to Meen, giving him a playful smirk. “And how exactly do you know so much about masochists?”

Meen grinned and leaned in, teasingly running a hand along Peter’s arm. “You need to experiment more, Peter.”

Laughter turned into something more, and soon enough, Peter found himself tangled with Meen for the rest of the night.

But even after Meen had fallen asleep, Peter lay awake in the dark, his mind drifting back to the boy in the alley. There was something dark in him—something Peter couldn’t quite put into words. And for some reason, he wanted to know more.

Over the next few weeks, he kept running into the kid. Always covered in fresh bruises and cuts, always alone. Each time, Peter tried to speak to him, but the boy ignored him completely. Eventually, Peter gave up on conversation and resorted to simply observing from afar.

Then, one evening, with a rare night off, he stumbled upon something that made his blood run cold. A group of boys surrounded the kid—Tawin, as they called him. Their uniforms suggested they were classmates. At first, the conversation seemed harmless, but Tawin kept provoking them, taunting them, until fists started flying.

Peter, unable to stand by, stepped out from his hiding spot and shouted. The group scattered immediately, leaving Tawin curled on the ground, convulsing.

Peter ran over in a panic, but as he got closer, he realized the convulsions weren’t from pain—they were laughter.

“Fuck, kid,” Peter muttered in disbelief.

Tawin’s laughter died down, replaced by that same hollow, unreadable expression. But his eyes, once again, held Peter captive.

“Mind your own business,” he repeated. But this time, he didn’t walk away. Instead, he stepped forward, raising a hand to Peter’s face, fingers tracing along his jaw before brushing against his lips.

Peter snapped out of his trance, grabbing Tawin’s wrist. “No,” he said firmly. “It’s not like that. You’re just a kid.”

Tawin scoffed, pulling his hand away. Without another word, he turned and walked off, leaving Peter standing there, staring after him yet again.

For a while, Peter still saw him around. Still watched him from a distance. Still wondered. But then, one day, Tawin disappeared completely.

Peter liked to imagine he had gone abroad, much like he had—maybe studying, maybe finally happy. But deep down, he knew better. And that knowledge weighed on him more than he cared to admit.