The car was silent, except for the faint hum of the heater and the crunch of snow beneath the tires.
Anurak sat motionless in the passenger seat, his eyes blank, his hands still trembling slightly.
Outside, Zurich passed by in a blur of frost and dim streetlights.
Arthit gripped the wheel, glancing at him every few seconds.
> "Rak… where should we go?" he asked softly. "Your bungalow or your apartment?"
For a moment, Anurak didn't answer. Then, in a low, hollow voice, he said,
> "Apartment. I don't go to the bungalow anymore."
Art nodded slowly. "Khrap. I understand."
He didn't need to ask why.
Everyone who knew Anurak knew what that house meant — the place where his parents had lived, and where their absence had become unbearable.
The drive continued in silence.
When they finally reached his studio apartment overlooking the quiet lake, Art parked and turned off the engine. He looked at his friend — the man who always seemed so composed, so untouchable — and saw only emptiness.
> "Rak… I'm staying tonight, na?" Art said gently. "You shouldn't be alone right now."
Anurak didn't argue. He only nodded, his voice barely a whisper.
> "Up to you, Art."
Inside, the apartment was clean and minimalist — grey tones, glass, and quiet. It looked like a place where someone lived, but never truly stayed.
Anurak hung his coat, his movements automatic, then disappeared into the bathroom.
When the water started running, Art finally exhaled, leaning against the wall. He rubbed his temples, whispering softly,
> "Chai, Rak… you're strong, but this… this is too much."
---
In the Shower
The water was hot, but it couldn't reach the cold inside him.
As steam filled the small space, Anurak closed his eyes — and the past rushed in.
The screech of tires.
Shattered glass.
The world spinning, white and red blending into each other.
He was sixteen again — sitting by the roadside, screaming for help that never came.
His parents' car twisted like metal bones under the streetlight. His mother's scarf soaked in snow.
> "Mae… Phor…" he whispered, pressing his palms against his face.
And then Krit's voice came — faint, almost overlapping with the memory.
> "You said cold keeps everything clear…"
Anurak's breath broke. He sank to his knees under the spray, the water mingling with tears he didn't want to shed.
> "Phor… Mae… Why again…?"
He stayed like that for a long time, trembling, until the water turned lukewarm.
When he finally stepped out, Art was waiting near the door, a towel in hand.
Without a word, Art guided him to bed, his hand steady on Rak's shoulder.
> "Sleep, Rak. You need to rest. Khun pen khon khang nai, but even steel breaks if it's too cold."
Anurak said nothing. He lay down, eyes fixed on the ceiling, until exhaustion pulled him under.
Art stayed a moment longer, watching the slow rhythm of his friend's breathing. Then he turned off the light and settled onto the sofa.
But sleep didn't come easily — not for either of them.
---
The Nightmare
The sound of metal. Screams.
The snow was red again. Krit's hand reaching out — the ring falling from his palm.
> "Rak…" a voice whispered in the dark, distant, pleading.
Anurak jerked awake, sweat cold on his forehead.
He looked around — the same apartment, the same dim light filtering through the curtains.
But peace was gone.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The city was waking. The snow had stopped, but the silence inside him hadn't.
The Next Morning – At the Office :
The building of Vatanakul International Holdings stood tall and modern, a monument of glass and discipline.
Normally, when Anurak entered the lobby, employees straightened immediately — a quiet respect filling the air.
He was known as a cold, distant CEO. Not cruel, but unreadable.
His calm voice, precise words, and polished demeanor were part of his aura — the kind that made others whisper about him, especially the younger staff.
> "Khun Anurak looks so calm, doesn't he?"
"Like he's carved from ice."
"So elegant…"
But today was different.
When he stepped through the glass doors, his eyes seemed unfocused — his movements slower, his expression unreadable not from control, but from exhaustion.
He didn't even respond when the receptionist said softly, "Good morning, Khun Rak."
Employees exchanged quiet glances.
Whispers followed him down the hall.
At his desk, his secretary — a polite young woman named Mali — entered with his daily schedule.
> "Khun Rak, you have the board call at ten, then the contract signing at—"
Before she could finish, Art appeared at the door.
His tone was gentle but firm.
> "Mali, cancel everything for today. Khun Rak needs to rest. I'll handle the calls."
She hesitated. "Khrap… but the meeting—"
> "I said cancel it. Tell them he's not feeling well."
Mali nodded and quietly left the room.
Art turned back to his friend, who sat staring at nothing — a pen unmoving in his hand.
> "Rak," he said softly. "You don't have to prove anything today. Go home, rest. Forget last night for a while, na?"
Anurak gave a faint, bitter smile. "You can't forget something like that, Art."
Art sighed. "Then at least try not to let it destroy you."
He left the room quietly, closing the door behind him.
---
Flashback – Years Ago
The silence of the office reminded Rak of another silence — the one that came after his parents' funeral.
He had been sixteen, numb and lost.
And in that darkness, vultures had gathered — his father's brothers and sister, smiling with false concern, whispering about inheritance, about the company, about control.
> "He's too young. He can't run a business."
"We'll manage it for him — for now."
But they hadn't counted on two people.
His mother's sister, AuntChariya, who had stepped in like a storm — fierce, sharp-tongued, protective.
And Arthit's father, KhunWichai, the family's legal advisor, a man of quiet integrity who had served Rak's father loyally for years.
It was Wichai who had stood before the board and said firmly,
> "The company belongs to Khun Anurak. I will safeguard it until he is ready."
It was he who had taught Rak how to read contracts, how to understand power without losing humanity.
And when Arthit grew up, he followed in his father's footsteps — standing by Rak not as an employee, but as a brother.
Those memories should have brought him comfort.
But today, they only reminded him how easily everything — life, family, trust — could vanish in a single night.