Chapter Text
The black sedan slid through the neon-drenched arteries of Bangkok, a silent predator in a school of glittering fish. Inside, William watched the city bleed past his window, a smear of garish light and frantic movement. It was a spectacle he’d long since become numb to. The thrum of the engine was a deeper bass than the music already pulsing from the clubs they passed, a vibration he felt in his molars.
He disliked the commute. The transition from the sterile, controlled silence of his penthouse to this… this cacophony. It was a necessary evil, a bridge between two worlds he ruled but felt equally disconnected from.
The car turned down an unmarked alley, so narrow the tinted windows almost brushed against the moss-slick brickwork. It stopped before a featureless steel door. No sign, no number, just a single, ancient-looking keyhole and a modern retinal scanner set discreetly into the wall. His driver, a man of few words and fewer expressions, simply nodded. The engine cut, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
William emerged, the door of the sedan closing with a sound like a vault sealing. He didn’t look back. The heat of the alley was a physical weight, thick with the scent of rotting fruit, diesel, and the cloying sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from a unseen vine. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the deep shadow, feeling the city’s sweat prickle on the back of his neck under his crisp white shirt.
He leaned into the scanner. A red light traced his eye. A series of heavy, mechanical thunks echoed from behind the door before it swung inward on silent hinges.
The transition was instantaneous. The humid chaos of the alley was severed, replaced by a cocoon of chilled, perfumed air and the low, resonant throb of a house beat. The door wasn't just steel; it was a foot thick, soundproofed, a barrier between realities.
A man in a tailored black suit stood just inside. "Mr. William." The greeting was a deferential murmur, the man’s eyes carefully averted from William’s face, focusing on a point somewhere on his shoulder.
William didn’t acknowledge the greeting with words, just a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin. He shrugged off his jacket, and the man was there to catch it, his movements fluid, practiced. Another man, nearly as broad as the door itself, stepped forward. His hands were empty, open, a ritual of submission. William raised his arms, enduring the swift, professional pat-down. The bodyguard’s touch was impersonal, efficient. He found nothing, because William carried nothing. No wallet, no phone, no identity. Here, he was just a body. A presence. A bank account.
"Enjoy your evening, sir," the first man said, already turning to hang the jacket in a hidden closet.
William moved past him, into the heart of the club. It was called ‘Cipher.’ Apt. A zero. A void. It was a place designed for anonymity, for the shedding of selves. The lighting was a masterclass in obscurity: pools of deep amber light that made jewels on wrists gleam and eyes disappear into shadow, separated by stretches of near-total darkness. The air tasted of expensive whiskey, dark tobacco, and the subtle, musky undertone of human desire. Velvet banquettes lined the walls, their occupants mere silhouettes against the rich fabric. The music was a physical thing, a pulse that moved through the polished concrete floor and up into the bones of his feet.
He knew the layout by heart. The main bar, a crescent of polished black obsidian. The smaller, more intimate rooms veiled by cascading beads of onyx. The stairs leading to the private suites upstairs, where the real business of the club was conducted. He’d been in all of them.
He took a seat at the end of the bar, a position that gave him a panoramic view of the room without making him the immediate focus. The bartender, a sharp-faced woman with eyes that missed nothing, was already moving. She placed a crystal tumbler in front of him, the ice cubes perfect, clear spheres. She poured three fingers of a whisky so dark it was almost black, from a bottle with no label.
"Quiet tonight," she said, her voice barely a whisper over the music.
William’s gaze swept the room. A European industrialist trying to impress a young model. A group of Thai socialites, their laughter a sharp, brittle sound. A lone American, sweating through his shirt, looking nervously for a transaction. The usual cast of characters, playing the usual parts.
"Loud enough," he replied, his voice flat. He brought the glass to his lips. The whisky was peat and smoke and a slow, burning death on the tongue. It did nothing for him. Nothing did.
This was his ritual. A pantomime of pursuit. He came here not for sex—that was a readily available commodity, meaningless in its ease—but for a moment of friction. A spark. Something, anything, to cut through the profound, leaden boredom that had become his life. He had power, a obscene amount of it. It insulated him, buffered him from the world, until he felt like he was watching life through a thick, soundproof window. He could touch nothing. Feel nothing.
He scanned the faces, the bodies. Attractive, all of them. Carefully curated. But they were empty vessels. Their eyes held hunger, but it was a simple, predictable hunger for money, for status, for a night’s distraction. He could see the calculation in their glances, the eager desperation. It was tedious.
He took another sip of whisky, the ice clicking softly against the crystal. Another night. Another performance. The emptiness inside him yawned wider, a silent scream in a soundproof room. He was so terribly, exhaustingly bored.
***
The fan on Est's desk rattled with mechanical fatigue, failing to push back the heat that hung like a curtain over the precinct. The stale air was thick with the smell of old sweat, cheap takeout, and the bitter sting of paper and printer ink. It was after midnight, and the bullpen had thinned, but the weight of it—the fatigue, the futility—clung to him like his damp shirt.
He’d already showered once today. He’d already gone home. And yet here he was, back again, restless.
Est leaned back in his chair, unbuttoning his collar, trying to make space for air that wouldn’t come. The world outside still turned, traffic snarled on Rama IV, sirens echoing in the distance. But he wasn’t chasing cases tonight. He wasn’t even on the clock.
He was going out.
The membership to Cipher wasn’t something he’d asked for. It was given. Slid across his desk one day by a commissioner with eyes that had seen too much and chosen to forget it all. "You’ll want this one day," the man had said, tapping the envelope with a knowing look. "The club’s off-grid. No surveillance. No media. No bullshit. Just people who can afford not to be seen."
Est had filed it away for months. He didn’t think he’d ever use it. Then again, he hadn’t planned to end up here, on a night like this, with his skin too tight around his thoughts.
The club didn’t ask questions when he arrived. The doorman recognized the black-metal token he carried and nodded. He didn’t need to explain who he was. He was on the list. Not for what he did, but for the kind of power his presence implied. Rich in connections, dangerous in silence. A senior officer who could shut down a floor with a phone call. That kind of guest didn’t get patted down. He was escorted in like a returning regular.
He’d come here twice before, both times alone. Both times to drink in the hush and the heat, to watch the predators feed. He liked the way no one approached him here. No flirty glances, no fake charm. There was something sacred about the isolation the club offered. Everyone inside was playing pretend, but the game required silence.
Tonight, he needed that silence more than ever.
The club was exactly as he remembered it. A cocoon of dark decadence, all obsidian and velvet and smoke. He slipped onto a stool at the far end of the crescent-shaped bar, his back to the wall.
“What’s your poison?” Her voice was melodic, yet carried no warmth.
“Beer. Whatever’s local.” His own voice sounded too loud, too coarse in this refined space.
She didn’t blink. “We don’t serve beer.” She gestured to the wall of bottles behind her, a library of amber and deep emerald glass. “Whisky? Gin?”
He felt like a fraud. “Whisky. Neat.”
She poured something pale gold into a glass. He tossed it back. It was smooth, smoky, and expensive. It burned a clean line down his throat, a welcome heat in the chilled air. He ordered another, sipping this one slowly, forcing himself to lean back, to try and look like he belonged.
He watched the room.
The money here wasn’t subtle. Every piece of jewelry, every whisper of silk or tailored wool, every glint of a Patek or Jaeger told a story of old money, old crimes. This wasn’t where the nouveau riche came to show off. This was where power came to breathe.
His eyes swept across the room once, then again.
And stopped.
A man sat at the opposite end of the bar. Alone. Not posturing, not seeking attention. He wore a crisp white shirt that should’ve looked simple, but on him, it was lethal. His face was composed, untouched by boredom or distraction. But his eyes, razor-sharp—cut across the room like a scalpel. He was watching.
Est recognized the kind of man he was instantly. The kind who didn’t enter rooms—he owned them. And now, that focus, that calculation, was turned on him.
****
William’s gaze, glazed over with disinterest, swept the room for what felt like the hundredth time. The industrialist was getting handsy. The socialites were getting louder. The American was getting a line of cocaine presented on a small, polished tray. Predictable. All of it.
He signaled for another whisky, the bartender’s movement a silent ballet of efficiency. As she poured, his eyes caught on a anomaly.
At the far end of the bar, half-swallowed by shadow, was a man who didn’t fit. It wasn’t his clothes—a simple, well-cut dark shirt that could have belonged to any wealthy patron. It was the posture. The way he held his glass, not with casual ownership, but with a firm, almost clinical grip. The way he sat, spine straight, shoulders set, his eyes constantly, subtly scanning. Not with the hungry, acquisitive gaze of the others, but with the wary assessment of a man used to assessing threats. He wasn’t looking for an opportunity; he was looking for an exit.
He was beautiful, in a way that felt unplanned. Dark hair, a little too long, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. A strong, clean jawline, currently clenched tight. And his eyes… even from across the room, William could see they were full of a turbulent, dark energy. Anger. Resentment. Exhaustion. A storm looking for a place to break.
The boredom that had been a lead weight in William’s chest suddenly… shifted. It cracked. Here was something real. Something not for sale. A man who wasn’t here to play a game because he clearly didn’t know the rules.
William felt a pull, a visceral hook in his gut. He didn’t smile. He just watched, his entire world narrowing to this single, contradictory figure in the shadows. The music, the chatter, the oppressive luxury of the club—it all faded into a dull hum. There was only the man, the tension in his frame, the storm in his eyes.
Est felt the weight of the gaze before he identified its source. It was a physical sensation, a pressure between his shoulder blades, a heat on the side of his face. Years on the force had honed his sense of being watched—the prickling awareness that separated paranoia from survival.
He didn’t turn immediately. He took a slow sip of his whisky, letting his own gaze continue its patrol of the room, using the mirror behind the bar. And there he was. A man seated at the opposite end of the crescent. Dressed in a simple white shirt that probably cost more than Est’s monthly rent. He wasn’t surrounded by sycophants. He wasn’t preening or performing. He was just… watching. His expression was unreadable, a mask of cool indifference, but his eyes… his eyes were like lasers, pinning Est to the spot.
A jolt, raw and electric, went through him. It was part alarm, part something else entirely—a dark, unwelcome thrill. This was no casual glance. This was a dissection. It felt like the man was seeing past the shirt, past the borrowed confidence, straight down to the furious, weary man beneath.
Est’s grip tightened on his glass. His first instinct was to leave. To melt back into the alley and forget this stupid idea. But something held him there. The intensity of that look wasn’t accusatory. It was… fascinated. Hungry. It was the same look he gave a puzzle, a complex case, a locked door. It was the look of a man who had seen something he wanted to take apart to see how it worked.
Against his will, Est turned his head. He let his own eyes meet the stranger’s across the smoky expanse of the club.
The air left his lungs. The man’s face was all sharp, elegant angles, his hair a shade of dark brown. But it was his eyes that were arresting. They held no warmth, only a deep, unnerving focus. They didn’t flirt or invite. They commanded.
Est felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the whisky. It was a surge of defiance, of challenge. He didn’t look away. He held the man’s gaze, his own stormy darkness meeting that cool, green fire. The noise of the club vanished, replaced by a roaring silence in his ears. The space between them seemed to contract, charged with a gravity that was almost audible. He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t a savior. He was just a man, being devoured by a stranger’s eyes, and to his own shock, he found himself leaning into the bite.
***
The challenge in the stranger’s eyes was the spark William had been starving for. It wasn’t coyness. It wasn’t a negotiation. It was a flat, unvarnished what the fuck are you looking at?*Beautiful.
William unfolded himself from his stool. The movement was deliberate, unhurried. He felt the eyes of the room on him—the bartender, a few regulars—tracking his progress. He was the shark moving through the reef, and everything else stilled in his wake. He ignored them all. His focus was singular.
He stopped a few feet from the man, close enough to see the faint stubble along his jawline, the tight line of his mouth, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. He could smell him now, over the club’s perfume: a clean, soapy scent undercut by the sharp, honest sweat of nervousness. Real. So real it was intoxicating.
“You look like you’re waiting for a raid,” William said. His voice was low, meant only for him, cutting through the bassline.
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by wariness. “Maybe I am.”
William allowed the ghost of a smile. “They don’t raid this place.”
“Why? Who owns it?”
“Someone who values privacy over profit.” William gestured to the man’s empty glass. “Can I buy you a drink that you’ll actually enjoy? That single malt they gave you is for tourists who want to look like they know what they’re doing.”
A beat of silence. William watched the internal debate play out across the man’s face: pride, suspicion, and a raw, undeniable curiosity. The curiosity won.
“What would you suggest?” the man asked, his voice still guarded.
William didn’t look away from him as he spoke to the bartender. “Two glasses. The Yamazaki 25.” He finally broke eye contact to glance at the bottle the bartender retrieved, a gesture of theater. “From a single sherry cask. It tastes like regret and expensive wood.”
The man almost smiled. Almost. “You’re a poet.”
“I’m a man with a good palate and too much money.” William leaned a hip against the bar, closing the distance between them by another few inches. “You’re not.”
The man’s posture stiffened. “Is that a question?”
“An observation. Your shirt is good, but you’ve been pulling at the collar. Your shoes are polished, but the sole on the right heel is worn down. You hold your glass like you’re afraid it’s going to be taken from you. You’re not used to places like this.” William paused, letting the analysis hang in the air. “So why are you here?”
The man held his gaze, and William saw the storm in his eyes intensify. Good. *Get angry. Show me what’s under there.*
“Maybe I wanted to see how the other half lives,” the man said, his tone edged with a bitterness that felt deeply personal.
“And?” William pressed, swirling the deep amber liquid the bartender placed before them. “Are we living up to expectations?”
The man looked at him, a long, measuring look. Then he picked up his glass, sniffed it—a genuine, appraising gesture—and took a sip. William watched his throat work as he swallowed.
“It’s good,” the man conceded, though it sounded like an accusation.
“It’s a start,” William said.
***
Every word out of the man’s mouth was a probe, expertly placed. He’d dismantled Est’s facade in seconds, with the casual precision of a surgeon. It should have sent him running. Instead, it lit a fire in his gut. This man, with his pale, knowing eyes and his voice that felt like a touch, was the most dangerous thing in the room. And Est was a moth circling the flame.
He’d asked why he was here. The truth—I’m a cop who’s sick of watching girls like the one in my file get thrown away, and I needed to feel something other than rage—wasn’t an option. So he’d given him a piece of the truth, wrapped in sarcasm. How the other half lives.
The whisky the man ordered was unlike anything he’d ever tasted. It was complex, overwhelming, a universe of flavor in a single sip. It was, he suspected, a perfect metaphor for the man who’d ordered it.
“A start to what?” Est asked, setting the glass down. His heart was hammering against his ribs.
The man—William, the bartender had called him—leaned in slightly. The scent of him, sandalwood and clean, starched cotton, filled Est’s space. “That depends on you.”
The implication was clear, obscene, and it went through Est like a current. This was it. The point of no return. He could walk away now, back to his empty apartment and his thinner file. Or he could step off the cliff.
He thought of the girl’s photo. Of the captain’s smug face. Of the endless, grinding futility. He looked at William—at the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the promise of absolute, obliterating distraction in his stance.
“I’m not looking for conversation,” Est said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.
William’s gaze dropped to Est’s mouth, then back to his eyes. The heat in that look was undeniable. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping another octave, a sound that vibrated in the pit of Est’s stomach. “Neither am I.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply pushed away from the bar, a clear, unspoken command. Follow me.
Est’s every instinct, every shred of professional training, screamed at him to stay put. This was a bad idea. A catastrophic idea.
He stood up. And followed.
***
William led him away from the main bar, through a curtain of black beads that clicked softly like falling stones, into a dimly lit corridor. The music was muted here, a distant pulse. The air was cooler, smelling only of clean, chilled stone. William didn’t look back, his confidence absolute. He stopped at a door of dark, polished wood, placed his palm against a discreet panel, and it clicked open.
The room was not what Est had expected. It wasn’t a seedy boudoir or a gaudy fantasy suite. It was… serene. Spacious. The walls were a dark, textured plaster, the floor warmed by a single, vast silk rug in shades of charcoal and indigo. A low, wide platform bed dominated the space, heaped with pillows. The only light came from a single, slender floor lamp that cast a pool of soft gold onto the sheets. There was no art, no decoration. It was a cell for pleasure, stripped of everything but the essentials.
William closed the door, and the last of the club’s noise vanished, replaced by a silence so profound Est could hear the blood rushing in his own ears. He stood just inside the door, feeling abruptly, painfully out of place.
William turned to face him. He didn’t move closer. He just looked, his eyes doing another slow, thorough inventory in the intimate light. Est felt it like a physical touch, stripping away the dark shirt, seeing the scars, the flaws, the tension coiled in his muscles.
“You can still leave,” William said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the silent room. It wasn’t a taunt. It was a genuine offer. A final off-ramp.
****
The offer was a trap. A test. Est knew it. Leaving would mean this man had won, had seen his fear and sent him scurrying. Staying… staying felt like stepping into the path of an oncoming train. He was terrified. And he had never been more aroused in his life.
He shook his head, a short, sharp movement. He couldn’t form words. His mouth was dry.
That was all the confirmation William needed. He crossed the space between them in three slow strides, stopping just inches away. Est could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the flecks of darker green in his pale eyes.
“What’s your name?” William asked, his voice a low murmur.
Est almost said it. Almost gave him the last piece of himself. But the rule echoed in his head. No names. “Does it matter?”
A faint, approving smile touched William’s lips. “No.” He lifted a hand, and his fingers brushed against the pulse hammering in Est’s throat. The touch was electric, startling in its gentleness. Est flinched, a full-body shudder he couldn’t control.
William’s smile widened. “Nervous?”
“No,” Est lied, his voice hoarse.
“Liar.” William’s thumb stroked the line of his jaw. “It’s all right. I like it.”
Then his hand slid around to the back of Est’s neck, firm, possessive, and he pulled him into a kiss.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. William’s mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to taste him. The whisky on his breath, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him—it short-circuited Est’s brain. All the anger, the frustration, the endless noise of the day, shattered into a thousand glittering shards. There was only this. The pressure of William’s mouth, the scratch of his stubble, the solid wall of his chest against Est’s.
Est’s hands came up, gripping William’s biceps, whether to push him away or pull him closer, he didn’t know. A low, ragged sound escaped his throat, a surrender.
***
The taste of him was better than any whisky. Dark, complex, with that underlying sharpness of defiance. William felt the man’s resistance, the fine tremor in the muscles under his hands, and it ignited something primal in him. This wasn’t submission; it was a struggle. A conquest.
He walked him backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed, and Est sat down with a soft grunt, looking up at him with wide, dark eyes, his lips already swollen. William stood over him, drinking in the sight. The carefully constructed control had cracked, revealing the raw, wanton need beneath. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in years.
He reached down and began to unbutton Est’s shirt, his movements slow, deliberate. Each button released was a tiny victory. He pushed the fabric aside, revealing a chest dusted with dark hair, taut skin, the flat planes of his abdomen clenching with each breath. William placed a hand on his sternum, feeling the frantic beat of his heart.
“Lie back,” he commanded, his voice rough.
For a second, he saw the flash of rebellion in Est’s eyes. Good. Let him fight. But then it faded, replaced by a dazed, hungry acceptance. Est leaned back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
William stripped off his own shirt, tossing it aside. He knelt on the bed, straddling Est’s thighs, and leaned down to capture his mouth again. This time, the kiss was deeper, wetter, more intimate. He could feel Est’s hardness against his own through their trousers, a delicious friction. He rocked against him, drawing a choked gasp from the man beneath him.
His mouth left Est’s and traveled down—the strong column of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone, a nipple that peaked instantly under the swipe of his tongue. Est’s breath hitched, his hips bucking involuntarily.
“Please…” The word was torn from him, a ragged whisper.
The word had escaped him.
A plea — hoarse, unguarded, needy.
William lifted his head. “Please what?”
Est’s eyes were glazed, his pupils blown wide. He shook his head, as if ashamed of his own need.
It shamed him the moment it left his mouth.
Est was supposed to be in control. That was the role he played, the armor he wore. He was sharp edges and careful calculation, always one move ahead, always composed. But under this man — under William’s hands, his mouth, his unrelenting presence — control wasn’t just out of reach.
It was a joke.
Est was unspooling.
Unmade.
Coming apart at the seams with every stroke of William’s fingers, every word murmured like a command branded into his skin.
William’s hand cupped him through his briefs — just pressure at first, no movement, but enough to make Est’s hips jerk involuntarily. His head fell back, neck arched, breath catching in his throat as a sound tore from him — a moan, raw and trembling.
“God…”
“Not God,” William murmured against his stomach, lips brushing damp skin. His voice was low, rich, with just enough edge to make Est’s whole body tighten. “Just me. Now tell me what you want.”
Just me.
It shouldn’t have done anything. It shouldn’t have had that effect. But the directness — the quiet, unquestionable authority in it — cracked something in him open.
Est gasped, chest heaving. His hands clutched helplessly at the sheets beside him, knuckles white.
“Touch me,” he whispered, then louder, ragged “Just… touch me.”
William obeyed.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of Est’s trousers and briefs, dragging them down in one smooth, practiced motion. The fabric slid over skin, dragging against his thighs and hips, baring him inch by inch until Est felt the cool air hit his flushed skin, a sudden, shocking contrast.
He flinched — not from fear, but from want. From the unbearable sensitivity.
And then William’s hand was on him — bare, warm, real — wrapping around him without hesitation.
Est cried out.
The sound punched out of him before he could stop it, before he could think. The contact was too much — the sudden heat, the slick glide of fingers along already-throbbing flesh, the rhythm deliberate, devastating. His spine arched off the bed, his hips jerking into William’s hand before he could stop himself.
His eyes squeezed shut. His fists clenched into the sheets so tightly his fingers ached. He was unraveling by the second — dignity gone, breath gone, mind gone.
And then William moved again.
Est felt the shift of weight on the mattress, the soft exhale of breath against his stomach… and then—
Then the wet, hot heat of William’s mouth closed over him.
Est screamed.
There was no other word for the sound that left him. It wasn’t refined. It wasn’t composed. It was animal — desperate and stunned. His whole body convulsed, muscles locking as his mind blanked.
The suction was skilled, merciless, perfect.
William’s tongue moved with devastating precision — slow licks, maddening flicks, a rhythm that escalated until Est couldn’t tell where his body ended and the pleasure began. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room: slick, slurping, hungry, echoing off the walls in the quiet. Each one seemed louder, filthier, paired with the soft hum of William’s voice low in his throat — not words, just possession.
Est’s thighs trembled. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow gasps.
It was too much.
“Wait…” he choked, voice shaking. “Stop… I’m going to—”
His hands reached down, weakly pushing at William’s head, fingers tangled in his hair, but he had no strength. He might as well have been touching marble.
William didn’t stop.
He swallowed him deeper instead, moaning around him like he liked the way Est was falling apart. Like he wanted to drag him across the edge and watch him shatter.
And Est shattered.
He came with a broken, guttural cry — one that seemed to rip straight from his spine. His back arched violently off the bed, every nerve alight, his body trembling like a live wire. The orgasm tore through him like a wildfire, white-hot and overwhelming, and for a second, he couldn’t see, couldn’t think. There was only light, and pleasure, and William’s mouth holding him through the storm.
When it finally ended, Est collapsed back into the mattress like a man dropped from a great height. His arms flopped boneless at his sides, breath heaving, his entire body slick with sweat and shaking in the aftermath.
He felt raw.
Ravaged.
Completely, utterly undone.
The room was spinning. His skin tingled with oversensitivity. His eyes were closed, but the darkness behind them pulsed.
He’d never come like that before. Not from just someone’s mouth. Not like that.
He felt exposed.
Opened.
Claimed.
And even as his heart raced, as his chest rose and fell in desperate pants, a single, treacherous thought curled through the haze in his mind:
I’d let him do it again.
William rose slowly, the bed shifting beneath him as he moved to his knees above Est’s body, looking down at him with that same unreadable calm that somehow felt like both a threat and a promise. His hands moved to the button of his jeans — not rushed, not showy. Deliberate.
Est watched, breath held, muscles still trembling from the aftershock of his release. There was something dangerous in the way William peeled his jeans down. Like he wasn’t just undressing. Like he was revealing something. A ritual, not a routine.
The denim slid over his hips and down his thighs, and his cock fell free — not fully hard, but heavy, thick and hanging low between his legs. Even semi-hard, it was intimidating.
Est’s breath caught.
His eyes widened before he could stop himself — a flicker of real, startled awe cutting through his usual guarded poise. It was… big. Veins traced its length like something sculpted, a kind of masculine brutality he’d never been confronted with like this. Est had seen plenty of cock in his life — but this wasn’t about size. It was the presence of it. The sheer, effortless command it seemed to carry, even before it was hard.
William saw the look on his face and smiled — not cruelly. Almost softly. Like he already knew what Est was thinking.
Then he leaned forward, one hand braced beside Est’s shoulder, the other moving to grip the base of his cock, stroking it once, lazily.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
Est blinked.
No one — no one — had ever command him like that. It was never like this. Never real. Never from someone who looked at him and meant it.
Like it wasn’t a request.
Like it wasn’t a game.
Est stared up at him, lips parted in something between protest and disbelief. His pride flared, instinctive and raw. He wanted to snap back, to scoff, to say something sharp — anything to regain footing. But the words never came.
Because underneath the shock… was something darker.
Something deeper.
Desire.
His mouth opened.
Slowly. Reluctantly. But obediently.
William’s gaze never left his as he shifted forward, guiding himself to Est’s mouth, resting the thick head against his lower lip. He didn’t push. Just let it rest there — heavy, warm, the faint taste of salt already on Est’s tongue.
“You can stop any time,” William said quietly. But it wasn’t soft. It was controlled. Steady.
Est didn’t stop.
His mouth opened wider. He leaned forward and took him in — slowly, almost reverently, feeling the weight slide across his tongue, the silky-soft skin growing firmer as it entered him. Inch by inch. Stretching his jaw. Testing his limits. The taste was subtle: warm, musky, male. Him.
William exhaled, the sound sharp and restrained, as his cock thickened between Est’s lips.
And Est could feel it happening — the way it filled, pulsed, hardened. Like William’s body was responding not just to his mouth, but to his submission. To the image of Est — proud, closed-off Est — on his back, willingly taking him in.
William’s hand slid into his hair — not to guide, but to anchor. His fingers tightened slightly, grounding them both, his breath catching as Est adjusted his lips and took him deeper.
The stretch was sudden.
He gagged, just once — reflexive — but didn’t pull back. His throat fluttered around the intrusion, eyes stinging. His fingers clutched the sheets, hips tensing, body struggling to stay relaxed. But he wanted to. God, he wanted to. Something in him burned for the challenge, for the humiliation of it. For the permission to fall apart.
No one had ever commanded him like this.
Not in bed. Not anywhere.
Every man before this had bent around him, softened for him, handed him control on a silver platter and called it power. But William wasn’t bending. He was holding steady. Letting Est choose to yield — and that was worse. That was better. That was ruining him.
William drew back just enough to let Est breathe — then pushed forward again, slow, deeper, his hips rocking with practiced restraint.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, breath uneven now, fingers brushing over Est’s cheekbone. “Look at you.”
Est’s cheeks were flushed. His lips stretched wide. His eyes brimmed with water, but he looked up anyway.
That was the moment William groaned aloud — a low, wrecked sound.
Because Est didn’t look broken. He looked defiant. Tearful, flushed, mouth full of cock—and still meeting his gaze like he wanted to be challenged. Like he wanted to be taken further.
“Fuck,” William breathed, hand tightening in his hair. “Just like that.”
Est moaned around him — a helpless sound, muffled and wet, sending a vibration straight through William’s body. His mouth worked him in slow, learning strokes — not expert, not polished, but eager. Messy. Hungry. Spit pooled at the corners of his lips, slicking William’s cock, dribbling down his chin.
William began to thrust, shallow and controlled, pushing deeper each time. His eyes stayed locked on Est’s face — on the twitch of his brows, the way his throat bobbed, the frantic clench of his hands in the sheets. He was falling apart already, and William hadn’t even gotten started.
“God, you look good like this,” William whispered. “Taking me. Letting me in. No one’s ever done this to you, have they?”
Est shook his head, mouth still full, eyes squeezed shut now.
William withdrew slowly — dragging slick length out across Est’s swollen lips — then pressed back in, deeper, forcing a soft gag and a strangled moan. The sounds were addictive. Wet, obscene, honest.
He leaned over Est’s trembling body, his hand braced on the headboard, hips slowly working. “Open wider,” he said, voice gravel now. “Let me in.”
And Est did.
Not because he had to. But because William asked.
Because something in him needed this. Needed to feel William's control wrap around him like a second skin. Needed to be reduced, not by force, but by choice.
His own cock twitched against his stomach, half-hard again despite how recently he’d come.
He moaned again as William fucked into his mouth with slow, claiming thrusts.
And William watched — eyes locked on Est’s wet, ruined lips, his red cheeks, his trembling jaw. He was watching a man unmake himself for him — and loving every second.
But he didn’t let it go too far.
He pulled out slowly, deliberately, with a wet pop, watching Est’s chest rise and fall in shallow pants, lips slick and open, eyes dazed and blown wide.
William reached down, thumb brushing the wetness from Est’s mouth.
“You did so fucking well,” he said, voice low, praise wrapped in heat. “I could come just from watching you like that.”
Est blinked up at him, raw and silent.
That was when William bent, kissed him hard, and whispered against his lips:
“Now I’m going to make you mine.”
William didn’t rush. He just looked down at Est, still sprawled across the bed, lips wet and swollen from his mouth, chest slick with sweat. The look on William’s face wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was focused. Like a craftsman examining his work before taking the next step.
Est was breathing hard, his pupils wide. He had no mask left. No irony. No distance. He was just a man lying bare beneath another, heart hammering in his ribs, wondering how far this stranger would go — and how far he would let him.
William reached for the bottle of oil again. The cap snapped open with that same, loud click in the quiet room. He poured some into his palm, warming it between his hands before sliding his fingers down the inside of Est’s thighs. His touch was slow but heavy, gliding over tender skin, pushing his legs apart with steady pressure until Est’s knees bent wide.
Est inhaled sharply, the movement exposing him completely, making his breath catch in his throat. He wasn’t used to this. Not being directed. Not being spread open like this, like something to be taken.
William slicked his fingers and drew them lower, stroking between his cheeks, pressing the slickness where Est was tightest. He didn’t push in yet. Just rubbed slow circles, dragging oil over sensitive skin until it gleamed.
Est’s head tipped back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting with a shaky exhale. He felt ridiculous and raw and on fire all at once.
Then William surprised him.
He moved lower, sliding down the bed until his face was level with Est’s hips. His hands gripped the insides of his thighs and held them apart — firm, inescapable. And then he leaned in.
The first flick of his tongue over Est’s entrance made him jolt. His hips jerked up instinctively, a sound spilling from his throat — half moan, half choked-off gasp.
“Fuck—” he stammered, grabbing at the sheets. “Oh—God—”
William didn’t stop.
He licked again, slower this time, dragging the flat of his tongue across him before circling tight, wet strokes around the rim. His breath was hot and humid, his stubble a faint rasp against sensitive skin. He worked him open with his mouth like he had all the time in the world — slow circles, teasing flicks, long, deliberate drags.
Est lost it.
He’d never been touched there like that — never had a man put his mouth there. It was obscene. Intimate in a way nothing else had ever been. His hands flew to his own face, covering his eyes like he could hide from it, but his hips were already rolling up into William’s tongue, desperate for more.
He gasped, moaned, cursed under his breath. “No one’s ever—fuck—no one’s ever done that—”
William hummed against him, the vibration shooting straight through Est’s spine, then pressed his tongue in deeper, just enough to breach, just enough to make him arch off the bed with a ragged cry.
He alternated between licking and pressing slow, slick fingers inside, stretching him gradually, carefully, even as his mouth worked him from the outside. It was too much — too careful, too dirty, too intimate. A stranger shouldn’t feel this good. A one-night stand shouldn’t feel like this.
But it did.
And Est was coming undone under it, panting, moaning, fists twisted in the sheets, thighs trembling in William’s grip.
When William finally drew back, his mouth was wet, his face flushed, his eyes dark and intent. He slicked his fingers again and pressed them in deeper, slow and relentless, twisting just right until Est’s moans broke into little choked-off cries.
“Relax,” William murmured, voice low, coaxing. “Breathe.”
Est’s legs fell wider, hips rocking into the stretch, helpless.
William added a third finger.
Est gasped — sharp, startled — but then his body opened, accepting the intrusion with a shudder. His head rolled back on the pillow, his lips trembling around a broken sound.
“Good,” William said softly. “Just like that.”
By the time William pulled his fingers free, Est was shaking, his body slick and ready, his mind a blur of heat and disbelief. He’d never been prepared like this. Never been handled like this.
He opened his eyes, dazed, and saw William kneeling between his legs, slicking himself with oil now, cock heavy and glistening, veins standing out thick beneath his hand. He was fully hard now, impossibly big, and Est’s breath stuttered at the sight.
They were still strangers. They didn’t even know each other’s real names. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. Everything between them was boiled down to heat, breath, and surrender.
William leaned forward, bracing himself with one arm beside Est’s head, his face close enough for Est to see every line of concentration in his jaw.
“You still want this?” he asked, voice low but firm.
Est swallowed hard, staring up at him. He was terrified. Curious. Aroused beyond reason.
And he nodded.
“Yes,” he whispered.
William shifted forward.
Est felt the bed dip, the warmth of his thighs bracketing his hips, the slick, blunt head of his cock nudging against him again — no longer a tease, but a promise. The pressure alone made Est’s stomach knot, his hands fisting tighter in the sheets.
“Breathe,” William said quietly — not soft, not coaxing, just a steady command.
Est’s chest rose, fell. His legs trembled.
Then William pushed in.
Not all at once. Not even quickly. He pressed forward inch by inch, the stretch slow and unrelenting, giving Est’s body time to open even as it burned. It wasn’t sloppy or rushed. It was deliberate, a controlled invasion, a claiming that was no less brutal for being careful.
Est’s eyes flew open. His back arched involuntarily, a sharp sound spilling from his throat — half gasp, half broken whimper. His hands scrabbled against the mattress, unsure whether to push away or pull him closer.
It hurt.
But it also didn’t. The pain melted into something else — sharper, deeper, like his whole body was waking up under the weight of him.
William leaned over him, braced on his hands. His muscles were tense, jaw tight, eyes locked on Est’s face as he sank deeper, inch after inch, until Est could feel every ridge, every vein, until the heat of him was so overwhelming it stole his breath.
He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, not moving — his cock thick and pulsing inside him, his body trembling with restraint.
“Open your eyes,” he murmured.
Est did.
Their gazes locked. No names. No promises. Just breath and sweat and the slow realization of what they’d both chosen.
Then William started to move.
At first it was slow — a measured, rolling grind, pulling back a little before pressing back in, each thrust deliberate. But with every stroke, his hips hit a little harder, the rhythm deepening, the slide growing slicker and hotter. It wasn’t fast, but it was brutal in its precision, each movement designed to push Est further open, to drive the air from his lungs.
A low, broken moan spilled from Est’s lips, almost a sob. His toes curled. His hands twisted in the sheets. “Oh… oh God—” he gasped under his breath, voice rough, shaking.
William’s mouth hovered by his ear, his own breath ragged. “That’s it,” he growled softly, hips rolling deeper. “Take it. Take all of it.”
Est’s head tipped back, mouth open, but no name came out. Just sounds — raw, unfiltered, his body jerking up to meet each thrust even as he trembled under it. The noises spilling from him turned into helpless little cries, wet and choked, almost shameful in how much they wanted.
William’s grip on his hips tightened, fingers digging into slick skin, holding him steady as he drove deeper, harder, the controlled pace somehow worse than if he’d been rough from the start. He leaned closer, teeth grazing the shell of Est’s ear. “So tight,” he muttered. “So fucking good like this…”
It was a slow breaking down, a relentless claiming that gave no space to hide.
Est felt it everywhere — the slide of hot skin against his thighs, the drag of veins along his walls, the sound of their bodies hitting, the low guttural noises spilling from above him. He felt split open, filled, wrecked, alive.
And still, through the burn and the shock, through the unfamiliar ache of being taken this way, there was a strange, searing care in it — the way William’s hand slid up his ribs, palm splayed over his chest as if to anchor him; the way his other hand brushed the sweat-matted hair from Est’s forehead without even realizing it.
Every deep thrust was a contradiction: harsh but measured, ruthless but steady, brutal but not careless.
Est’s legs wrapped tighter around William’s waist without thinking, pulling him deeper. A strangled moan tore from his throat, half a curse, half a plea. He couldn’t stop it. His body was moving on instinct now, hips rolling up, chasing the rhythm even as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
William’s head dropped to his shoulder, teeth grazing his skin as he drove in again, harder now, deeper, the force of it rattling the bedframe. His breath was ragged against Est’s neck, his hands gripping so hard they’d leave marks. “You feel that?” he hissed against his ear. “All of me. Right there…”
Est gasped, fingers clawing at his back, and whispered something wordless — not a name, not even a plea. Just sound.
And William gave him more.
Each thrust was a hammerblow. Each pullback a tease. His cock filled him so completely it was almost unbearable — pleasure and pain tangling, the slow, brutal rhythm stripping away every thought until Est was nothing but sensation.
Nothing but this.
Nothing but William inside him, breaking him open with care and force all at once.
And for the first time in his life, Est let it happen.
He didn’t try to take control. He didn’t try to hide. He let himself be ruined.
William drove into him harder now.
Not reckless. Not fast. Just deeper. More deliberate. Each thrust like a sentence being written inside Est’s body — no wasted motion, no hesitation. His rhythm didn’t falter, didn’t grow frantic. He held it there, right at that unbearable edge — brutal in his control, merciless in his patience.
The sound of it was obscene: wet skin meeting wet skin, the slap of William’s hips colliding with Est’s ass over and over, steady and unrelenting. Est could barely breathe, every exhale punctuated by a sharp gasp, a stuttering whimper, an involuntary cry forced out with every deep grind.
His body was burning.
Split open and filled.
Ravaged but worshiped.
William’s hands moved constantly — down Est’s thighs, gripping under his knees to push him wider; up his sides, flattening over his ribs and chest like he was mapping him out by touch alone. He watched him the whole time. Not with tenderness. With purpose. With hunger. Like he wanted to memorize every second of this ruin.
And Est — Est couldn’t hold on anymore.
He was soaked with sweat, the sheets bunched and clinging beneath his back, his chest rising in sharp, desperate pulls of air. His cock was hard again, achingly so, untouched and leaking against his own stomach, twitching with every grind of William’s hips.
He didn’t know how much longer he could take it.
William adjusted the angle, grinding down harder with the next thrust, and Est screamed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t pretty. It was raw, high-pitched, wrecked. His spine arched off the mattress, his fists tightening around the sheets, heels digging into William’s back as his entire body seized.
He was so deep.
Every thrust scraped something raw inside him, something fragile and sacred and never before touched.
“Fuck,” William groaned — the first break in his voice, his control fraying.
He braced one arm beside Est’s head, the other sliding down between them to wrap around Est’s cock at last. The contact was too much — hot and slick and right there, pumping in time with the rhythm of his thrusts.
Est shattered.
He came with a full-body convulsion, head thrown back, mouth open around a voiceless cry, his vision going white at the edges. It was violent. Immediate. His whole body locked, pulsing hard around William’s cock as he spilled between them, streaking both their stomachs, his breath catching mid-release like he couldn’t even scream properly.
William didn’t stop moving.
He rode through it, fucked through it, relentless as Est writhed beneath him, overstimulated and ruined, body twitching and tightening with every final, desperate thrust.
Then William slammed into him one last time — a deep, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt — and came with a strangled groan, his body locking tight as he spilled deep inside him. His weight dropped forward, face buried in Est’s neck, breath hot and ragged against his skin.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Frozen. Breathless. Hearts pounding against each other’s chests. Skin slick and shaking.
The room was so quiet it almost didn’t feel real — the hum of city lights beyond the window, the faint crackle of air in the vents, the sound of both of them gasping in unison. Est’s body still trembled beneath William, his legs loose now, thighs splayed open, cum drying on his stomach, the ache of being filled settling into a deep, unbearable throb.
William didn’t speak.
He didn’t say a name, didn’t whisper some too-late sweetness.
He just breathed. Still inside him. Still holding him.
And Est lay there, utterly ruined, utterly still, with the brutal, comforting weight of William’s body draped over his own.
He didn’t know who this man really was.
But in that moment, he knew him better than anyone.
****
Est floated in a void of sensation. The weight of the man on top of him was crushing, anchoring, the only real thing in the universe. He could feel the frantic beat of William’s heart against his own, slowing gradually. The smell of sex, sweat, and sandalwood filled his lungs. His body felt used, wrecked, gloriously alive. Every nerve ending sang.
He had never, ever let anyone have that kind of power over him. He had never surrendered. And yet, in that surrender, he had found a shocking, profound relief. The constant, grinding anger was gone. The image of the file was gone. There was only this: the heavy, satiated warmth in his limbs, the dull, sweet ache between his legs, the feel of William’s breath stirring his hair.
He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want this bubble to break. For the first time in longer than he could remember, his mind was quiet.
William shifted eventually, pulling out of him with a soft, intimate sound that made Est gasp. He rolled onto his side, facing him, but didn’t move away. His hand came up, his fingers tracing the line of Est’s jaw, his brow, with a strange, almost wondering tenderness. His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable.
Est didn’t speak. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, he would say something stupid, something true. He just looked back, his own hand coming up to rest on William’s hip, his thumb stroking the skin there, a silent acknowledgment.
Exhaustion, emotional and physical, pulled at him. His eyes grew heavy. The last thing he was aware of was the feel of William’s gaze on him, and the slow, steady circle of his thumb on Est’s shoulder, lulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
William woke to the pale, grey light of dawn filtering through the sole, high window. The room was cold. The lamp had long since switched itself off.
He was alone.
The space beside him in the wide bed was empty, the sheets on that side thrown back, already cool to the touch. The silence in the room was no longer sacred; it was accusing.
He sat up, the silk sheet pooling around his waist. The room was exactly as it had been, pristine and impersonal, save for the rumpled bed and the faint, lingering scent of sex and sweat. There was no note. No scrawled number on a napkin. Nothing.
A cold knot of disbelief tightened in his stomach. He never slept. Not like that. Not so deeply that someone could get up, dress, and leave without waking him. He’d been exhausted, yes, drained in a way he hadn’t been in years, but still. It was a fundamental breach of his own control.
He swung his legs out of bed, his body protesting with a pleasant soreness that now felt like a taunt. He stalked naked to the door and yanked it open, staring out into the empty, silent corridor. Nothing.
“Hey!” His voice echoed, harsh and sudden.
A staff member, the same sharp-faced bartender from the night before, appeared almost instantly at the end of the hall, her expression professionally neutral. “Sir?”
“The man who was with me. When did he leave?”
She didn’t even blink. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I came on shift an hour ago.”
“Get me the logs. The CCTV for this hallway.” His voice was low, dangerous.
“Sir,” she said, her tone infuriatingly calm. “You know the policy. No recordings. No records. What happens at Cipher…”
“...stays at Cipher,” he finished, the old slogan tasting like ash. His own rule, his own goddamn design for absolute privacy, had been turned against him. The irony was a razor blade.
He slammed the door shut, the sound unnaturally loud. He stood in the center of the room, his breath coming too fast. He wasn’t angry at the staff. He was furious at himself. He’d had him. The one interesting thing to walk through that door in a decade, and he’d let him slip away. He’d fallen asleep. He’d shown a vulnerability, a moment of unguarded peace, and the man had vanished into the city like a ghost.
He found his trousers, pulled a cigarette from the pocket, and lit it, the flare of the match stark in the dim room. He took a long, dragging pull, the smoke burning his lungs. He looked at the bed, at the indent on the pillow where a head had lain. He could still smell him on his own skin.
He had no name. No number. No way to find him. The man was a cipher, just like the club. A beautiful, frustrating blank.
The emptiness he’d felt before last night rushed back in, but it was different now. It wasn’t just boredom. It was a craving. A specific, agonizing hunger for a taste he’d only just discovered. The man had taken more than a night. He’d taken William’s equilibrium.
William ground the cigarette out on the polished surface of the bedside table, leaving a black, ugly scar. He dressed quickly, his movements sharp with a simmering, helpless rage. He had to find him. He didn’t know how, but he would.
The hunt was on.
***
Back in his penthouse, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city he owned, William felt caged. The sterile perfection of the place, usually a comfort, now felt like an insult. He stood at the glass, a fresh whisky in his hand, watching the morning traffic crawl like insects far below.
He’d made calls. Activated a network that could find a single drop of water in an ocean. He’d described the man in minute detail to his most discreet lieutenant: the exact shade of his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slight wear on his right shoe, the way he held a glass.
The reports had come back nothing. Cipher’s security, designed by him, was impeccable. No cameras at the entrance. The token system was anonymous. The staff, trained to the highest standard, had seen nothing, heard nothing. The man had paid his tab with cash from a clip, no wallet shown. He had evaporated.
“He’s a ghost, sir,” his lieutenant had said, unable to mask the confusion. “It’s like he was never there.”
The words fueled William’s obsession. A ghost. A man who could walk into his world, unravel him, and then disappear without a trace. It was unacceptable. It was all he could think about. In meetings, his mind would drift to the feel of the man’s skin under his hands. During dinners, he’d recall the taste of his mouth. The frustration was a constant, low-grade fever.
He had people scouring guest lists of every other high-end club, bar, hotel. They were looking for a face that didn’t belong. It was a needle in a haystack, and William was willing to burn down the entire field to find it.
He was obsessed. Not with a person, not yet—he didn’t know enough to be obsessed with the person. He was obsessed with the absence. With the mystery. With the need to reclaim the one thing that had made him feel something in a decade of nothing.
****
The fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed their familiar, sickly tune. Est stared at his computer screen, the lines of text on a new case file blurring into meaningless glyphs. The air smelled of burnt coffee and despair.
He’d thrown himself into work. Another missing person, another sad story. He should be focused. He should be feeling the familiar burn of righteous anger.
But his mind wasn’t here. It was in a silent, dark room. The memory would ambush him at random moments: the feel of a crisp cotton shirt under his fingers, the shocking heat of a mouth on his skin, the low, commanding voice in his ear. A flush would heat his neck. He’d shift in his chair, the pleasant soreness a constant, phantom reminder.
He’d run. He’d woken in the grey pre-dawn, tangled in the limbs of a stranger, feeling a peace so profound it terrified him. This wasn’t what he’d come for. This was too much. The man—William—was too much. He was a drug, and Est had felt the hook set deep. So he’d extracted himself with the stealth of a criminal, dressing in the dark, slipping out into the waking city feeling like he’d stolen something.
Now, he was back in his life. The right life. The responsible life. But it felt thin and colorless. The anger was there, but it was muted, playing second fiddle to a relentless, throbbing want. He’d catch himself staring into space, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand, replaying those hours in his head.
He’d almost said his name. In the hazy, post-coital warmth, it had been on the tip of his tongue. *Est.* He was glad, so desperately glad, he hadn’t. It was a clean break. A one-night stand. It had to be.
“You okay, Est?” Nam asked, dropping a file on his desk. “You’ve been miles away all day.”
Est jerked back to the present. He looked at his partner, at the concerned frown on his face, and he manufactured a smile. It felt like a crack in glass.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. He picked up the new file, clinging to it like an anchor. “Fine. Just tired.”
He wasn’t fine. He was haunted. He had gone to the club to forget, and instead, he’d found a ghost of his own. A ghost with sea-glass eyes and skilled hands, a ghost that now lived under his skin, a constant, aching reminder of a night that had been too much, and not nearly enough.
***
The briefing room was a tomb of fluorescent light and stale air. Est took a seat at the long, scarred table, the plastic chair groaning under his weight. He’d been summoned with a terse text from Captain Somchai: Conference Room 3. Now. No excuses.
Around him, a half-dozen other detectives from various units sat, their faces a mixture of boredom and low-grade curiosity. Kiet shot him a questioning look from across the table, which Est answered with a slight shrug. He leaned back, trying to project an air of detached professionalism, but his body was a live wire of exhaustion. The ghost of a touch, the memory of a low voice, had haunted his sleep. He’d wrenched himself from bed feeling more drained than when he’d collapsed into it.
Captain Somchai entered, followed by two men in sharp, dark suits who screamed ‘Federal Intelligence’ or ‘Special Branch.’ They had the cool, impersonal gaze of men who dealt in abstractions—national security, organized crime syndicates—not the messy, individual tragedies that crossed Est’s desk.
“Listen up,” Somchai began, his voice gravelly. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “This is a task force. A quiet one. What you hear in this room stays here. Understood?”
Nods around the table. Est kept his expression neutral, his hands folded on the cold laminate surface.
One of the suits took over, clicking a remote. A projector hummed to life, casting a stark image onto the whiteboard. A family tree, intricately woven, names connected by lines of alliance, marriage, and blood. At the top, in bold letters: JAKRAPATR.
A low murmur went through the room. Even Est felt a prickle of awareness. The name was a legend, a whispered curse. Old money, older influence. The kind of people who owned politicians, judges, and entire police precincts without ever getting their hands dirty.
“The Jakrapatr family,” the suit said, his voice flat. “For decades, they’ve been the untouchables. Shipping, real estate, hospitality—all legitimate fronts. We believe they are the central node for the majority of narcotics, arms, and human trafficking moving through Southeast Asia. They are careful. They are insulated. They have never so much as received a parking ticket.”
He clicked again. A series of photographs appeared: sleek skyscrapers, sprawling ports, luxury hotels. “Their empire.”
Another click. The screen filled with a new set of images. Grainy surveillance shots of warehouse fires, sunken fishing boats, the bodies of known mid-level dealers in alleyways. “The cost.”
Est listened, his detective’s mind cataloging the information, but it felt distant, academic. This was too big, too abstract. He dealt with single victims, single files. This was a war against a shadow.
“Our strategy is surgical,” the other suit said, stepping forward. “We don’t go for the foot soldiers. We don’t go for the old man at the top—he’s a figurehead. We target the operational brain. The heir. The one who actually runs it all.”
The projector clicked one final time.
Est’s blood turned to ice.
Staring back at him from the screen was a high-resolution, professionally-taken photograph. The man was younger, his hair shorter, his expression one of arrogant, bored confidence. But the eyes were unmistakable. Pale, piercing green, like sea glass.
William.
The air left Est’s lungs in a silent rush. The fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder, the room tilting on its axis. He felt a hot flush crawl up his neck, followed immediately by a wave of cold nausea. His fingers, still folded on the table, dug into his own skin, the pain a desperate anchor to reality.
No. It’s not possible.
But it was. The sharp jawline he’d traced with his fingers. The mouth that had kissed him with such devastating possession. It was him. The man from the club wasn’t just some wealthy playboy. He was William Jakrapatr. The target.
The suit’s voice seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel. “…William Jakrapatr. Thirty-two years old. Educated in Switzerland and the UK. Took over operational control of the family’s ‘special projects’ division seven years ago. Since then, their efficiency and ruthlessness have increased threefold. He is intelligent, paranoid, and utterly ruthless. He trusts no one.”
Est’s mind was screaming. The taste of expensive whisky. The feel of crisp cotton under his hands. The low command in his ear: Look at me. This was the man they were describing. The man he’d let…
He forced his breathing to slow, his expression to remain a blank mask. He couldn’t react. Couldn’t let them see the earthquake happening inside him. He dropped his gaze to the file folder that had been placed in front of him, his movements stiff as he flipped it open.
There he was again, on page one. William Jakrapatr. His life laid out in cold, clinical detail. Suspected of ordering over two dozen assassinations. Suspected of masterminding a drug pipeline that had flooded the streets with a new, hyper-addictive synthetic opioid. Suspected of bribing, blackmailing, and terrorizing his way to impunity.
The colleagues around him began to speak, their voices buzzing with a grim excitement.
“—finally going after the big fish—”
“—how do we get close? The bastard’s a ghost—”
“—need someone on the inside. An undercover—”
Est heard the words, but they were meaningless noise. His entire world had narrowed to the conflict raging within him. The cop in him, the man who had stared at the file of a dead girl, should have been feeling a fierce, triumphant fury. This is the source. This is the man who built the system that killed her.
But all he felt was a sick, vertiginous horror. He had shared a bed with this monster. He had begged him for touch. He had found peace in his arms.
Captain Somchai’s eyes scanned the table. “We need volunteers for the deep cover team. Primary role: get hired into his personal security detail. It’s a long shot. It’s the most dangerous assignment any of you will ever take. If he makes you, you’re dead. No extraction.”
Est’s head shot up. His mouth went dry. The idea was insanity. To go back. To stand beside him, to pretend, to lie to those perceptive, terrifying eyes…
Somchai’s gaze landed on him. “Mr. Sangaworawong. You’re quiet. You’ve got the demeanor for it. Cool under pressure. And you’re new enough to Major Crimes that your face isn’t known in their circles. What do you think?”
Every cell in his body screamed NO. He should pass. He should cite another case, claim family issues, anything. It was the only sane choice.
But then he looked back at William’s photograph. He saw the cold arrogance in his expression, the untouchable power. And he remembered the look in his eyes in the dark, the surprising tenderness in his touch. The contradiction was a madness he needed to understand. He needed to see which man was real. The monster in the file, or the one who had held him like he was something precious.
He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking. He gave a short, sharp nod.
“I’m in,” he said, his voice rough but steady.
He signed his name on the dotted line, the pen feeling like a lead weight in his hand. He wasn’t just signing up for a mission. He was signing a contract with a ghost. And with the devil.