The night in Zurich had grown colder after the award ceremony.
Snow drifted in slow, deliberate swirls beneath the streetlights, as if the sky itself was exhaling.
Anurak stepped out of the grand hotel, the weight of a thousand congratulations still clinging to his shoulders.
He'd smiled, shaken hands, and accepted yet another award for Excellence in International Business.
But beneath his perfect composure, there was a quiet ache — the same one that always returned on nights like this.
He pulled his coat tighter and looked down the street, where Arthit, his long-time assistant and closest friend, stood beside the car.
> "Ready to leave, boss?" Arthit asked with a grin. "Or should we wait until the snow turns to ice and traps us here forever?"
> "Let's go," Anurak said, exhaling a soft laugh. "And stop calling me 'boss.' I hear it enough during the day."
Arthit raised a brow. "Then let me drive, khrap. You've had champagne, speeches, and exactly three forced smiles too many."
Anurak hesitated — normally, Art drove everywhere — but something restless stirred in him.
> "Mai pen rai, I'll drive tonight," he said. "I need air. Silence. A bit of control."
Arthit gave a small shrug. "Okay, Rak. But if we crash into a snowbank, I'm telling the board you murdered me, na khrap."
They climbed in. The car purred to life, headlights slicing through the veil of snow. The streets were nearly empty, Zurich's polished calm replaced by the hush of midnight.
For a while, only the hum of the tires filled the silence.
Art leaned back, half-asleep, while Rak's thoughts drifted — back to the man he'd met earlier that evening.
Krit Chansiri.
The small business owner from Thailand. Soft-spoken. Sincere. A face that looked like it had known both dreams and disappointments.
> "He reminded me of my father," Rak murmured.
Art stirred. "Hmm?"
> "Krit. He spoke about building something honest. Something that lasts."
"You liked him," Art said, smiling faintly.
"Maybe that's why it hurts," Rak whispered.
He didn't know why he said it — only that the feeling wouldn't leave him.
And then — the world changed in a single second.
A shadow crossed the headlights.
A figure.
A blur.
> "Rak!" Art shouted.
Rak's body reacted before his mind could — he slammed the brakes, the car swerving violently on the slick road.
A dull, heavy thud echoed through the night.
Silence.
The tires screeched to a stop against the curb. Steam hissed from the hood. Snowflakes drifted lazily across the fractured windshield.
For a heartbeat, Rak sat frozen.
The air smelled of metal, rubber, and blood.
> "Oh god—" Art gasped, already fumbling with his seatbelt. "Someone's—"
Rak stumbled out, his knees weak. The snow crunched beneath his polished shoes as he saw the shape on the ground — a man, sprawled in the street, barely breathing.
The faint light of a nearby lamp illuminated his face.
And Rak's world stopped.
Krit.
The same eyes that had met his hours ago.
The same voice that had said, "Some dreams aren't meant to be rescued."
> "Krit…" Rak whispered, kneeling beside him. His hands trembled violently. "Please—don't move. Help is coming."
But Krit's voice came faintly, his breath fogging the air.
> "You… said cold keeps everything clear…"
His words faded into the snow.
Rak's throat tightened. The sight of blood against the white street… it was too familiar.
Memories slammed into him — the screech of tires, shattered glass, his parents' car twisted under moonlight.
He'd been sixteen. Helpless. Watching red spread across white snow.
And now— again.
> "Rak, we have to go!" Art shouted, voice cracking with panic. "People will see, we can call from somewhere else, chai mai?"
Rak didn't hear him.
He was staring at something glinting near Krit's open hand — two silver rings, identical but inscribed differently.
He picked them up. One was engraved with "Krit" in neat cursive.
The other read "Kawin."
Rak felt the world tilt again.
A name. A promise. A future that wasn't meant to end here, under his headlights.
His fingers shook as he clutched the rings, their coldness seeping into his skin.
> "He's… engaged?" Art whispered. "Rak…"
Rak didn't answer. His voice was gone. His chest felt hollow — not from shock, but from something deeper.
The faint sound of sirens began to rise in the distance, still far, still mercifully distant.
> "Rak, please," Art urged, tugging at his arm. "You can't stay— they'll think—"
But Rak couldn't move. His body refused. His eyes were locked on Krit's still face, on the diamond rings glimmering like frozen tears in his palm.
Art's voice blurred into the storm.
The snow kept falling — quiet, merciless, endless.
And for Anurak, the night became the same as that night years ago —
when glass shattered, and love, once again, slipped through his hands.