Anurak couldn't move.
The world around him had become soundless — only the shape of the snow, the cold pressing against his face, and the faint red stains that refused to fade.
He didn't even notice the sirens at first — only the light.
Blue and red, pulsing softly through the falling snow like heartbeats.
> "Rak! Rak!" Art's voice broke through the numbness. "We have to go, khrap! Do you hear me?"
Anurak's lips parted, but no sound came. His hands still clutched the two silver rings. The world felt far away — the noise, the lights, the wind — all muffled by the echo of a single thought:
> Again… it happened again.
Art looked around — the sirens were getting louder, maybe only a few streets away. "Rak! Please! If they see us here—"
Nothing.
Art cursed softly under his breath. He grabbed Rak by the shoulders.
"Rak, listen to me, please. We have to go. Now!"
But Rak's eyes were blank, fixed on the snow. His body was stiff — like his soul had frozen somewhere between shock and memory.
So Art did the only thing he could.
He pulled Rak's arm over his shoulder and half-dragged, half-guided him back to the car.
Rak stumbled once, muttering something that sounded like "mai chai… mai chai…" — no, it's not right — but Art didn't stop.
He shoved open the driver's door, pushed Rak inside, and jumped in beside him.
The car started with a trembling hum.
As the first police lights turned onto the street behind them, Art's foot hit the accelerator.
The car disappeared into the maze of snow and silence.
Behind them, Zurich exhaled into chaos.
---
Later That Night – The Accident Site :
By the time the police arrived, the snow had already begun to cover the blood.
The street was a blur of flashing lights and white frost.
Two officers marked the area. A third crouched near the body, checking for a pulse that wasn't there.
Krit Chansiri.
Male. Thai national. Passport in his coat pocket, still dry — as if he'd kept it safe for a reason.
The senior officer, Müller, frowned. "Poor guy. No witnesses?"
One of the younger officers shook his head. "Nein, sir. We asked around. It's late. No one saw a thing."
But standing a few steps away, another officer — his badge reading Sgt. ThanawatLertschneider — stared at the passport a little longer than the others.
He wasn't just another Swiss policeman.
He was Thai by blood, born and raised in Zurich. And when he read the name Krit Chansiri, something in his chest tightened.
> "He's Thai," Thanawat murmured quietly.
"I'll contact the embassy. His family deserves to know."
---
Two Days Later – Zurich Morgue :
The room was cold, sterile.
Outside, the snow hadn't stopped.
An elderly man stood near the glass window, his hands clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed.
His name was SomchaiChansiri, sixty-five. Once a builder, once a father — now only a grandfather who has to bury his own grandson. Behind the glass lay his grandson. Krit. Still, pale, too young to be still.
> "Sawasdee khrap, Phi Somchai," said a voice gently behind him.
Somchai turned.
It was Prasert, his oldest friend — a broad-shouldered man with streaks of gray in his hair.
And beside him stood Prasert's son — Thanawat, the officer who had made the call.
Somchai's voice trembled. "Khob khun, friend. For telling me yourself."
Prasert nodded slowly. "I had to. No one else should give you this kind of news."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the hum of the morgue's lights filled the silence.
Then Somchai's breath broke.
> "First my son… and now my grandson. Do you remember, Prasert? The last time we spoke — I said Krit was the only one who reminded me of his father. He had the same eyes."
Prasert placed a hand on his shoulder. "I remember."
> "He was supposed to come home next month… he said he had something to tell me. " Somchai's voice cracked. "Now I'll never know."
Prasert exhaled slowly, eyes dark with quiet anger.
> "Whoever did this… they didn't even stop. A hit-and-run, in this city — cowardice in its cleanest form."
Somchai nodded faintly, unable to look up. "People here don't see us, Prasert. They see foreigners. Strangers. Just like when my son died in that construction accident. No one cared then either."
Prasert's gaze softened.
> "This time will be different, my friend. My son will find who did this. I promise you that."
Somchai turned, his tired eyes meeting the young officer's. "Thanawat… you will?"
Thanawat hesitated — just for a heartbeat — then bowed his head slightly.
> "Chai, Lung Somchai. I will."
His voice was low but firm.
> "Whoever killed him… I'll find them. No matter how far they run."
Somchai gave a small, trembling nod. "Khob khun, dek. You're a good boy."
Outside, the snow began again — slow, deliberate, merciless.
Inside, the cold stayed behind, heavy and still, like grief that refused to leave.