02. AS IF HE WERE A COMPUTER

He didn’t know how long he had been submerged in the images of his own mind. When he finally came to his senses, the waiter who had been beside the table was already about to leave. Luckily, Jira pulled himself together in time and tore his gaze away from the strange man to speak frankly to the waiter:

“I won’t want anything else, thanks.”

The waiter nodded understandingly and quickly removed the plate of meat. Jira had no intention of leaving yet. He stayed at the same table, drinking the wine in front of him, not because he wanted to, but because he felt sorry to waste it. However, a deep instinct made him uneasy, a sense of alertness slowly taking shape.

The strange man was still staring at him.

With a mix of irritation and the courage alcohol gave him, Jira gathered all the remaining courage he had. His slender figure rose abruptly from the table and, swaying slightly, he approached the stranger with obvious annoyance. Standing before him, he went straight to the point:

“Why did you order food for me? What do you want from me?”

The man didn’t respond, and the silence between them stretched almost to the point of becoming unbearable. Unable to hold back, Jira slammed the table hard, but the stranger showed no sign of anger, as if he wanted to provoke him.

“Answer, damn it!”

The man’s mysterious eyes scrutinized Jira, taking in every detail of his clothes, from the tight shirt to the slender neck, finally stopping at his face.

“I don’t want anything, I just wanted to take care of you a little. You seem interesting,” he said with a soft voice, slightly hoarse, but with a charm that invited listening. “I always wondered what kind of person would wear clothes like those and, on top of that, look good in them.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Sit down first,” the man replied, dodging the question. Jira, exhausted and somewhat drunk, did not refuse the invitation and took a seat across from him.

“Do we know each other from before or what?”

“No, I just thought you have a peculiar style. Do you always dress this punk?” Without giving him time to answer, the mysterious man continued with a barrage of questions. “And do you always talk shouting?”

“It’s because I’m working, I just follow orders. In short, what do you want from me?” A thick hand slid a glass of water in front of Jira, once again avoiding the question.

“Drink, it will help you clear your head.”

“Is there no normal person in this place? I’m confused.”

Jira took a sip of the water, trying to clear his mind. Although the drunkenness didn’t completely fade, at least he could follow the conversation.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

But instead of getting answers, it seemed like he was now the one being interrogated. “Jira. And what’s your name?”
“It’s not something you need to know,” the man replied in a cold tone, sharp as a knife. Jira clenched his fists while the stranger kept questioning him.

“The work you do-eating here-is that your main occupation or do you have another job?” “Is this a job interview or what?”
“Something like that. If you answer well, we keep talking.”

Jira thought maybe this was the opportunity people had always talked about. Letting himself be carried away by impulse, he decided to sell himself a little.

“I can do everything: paint, act, take photos, be a stylist,” he said, while the tall man rested his elbows on the table and kept asking.

“Stylist? Are you famous?” Jira shook his head. “And what does that acting thing mean?” “Theater mainly, and some commercials.”
“Then what are you really? What do you truly want to do?” Jira felt this man was an expert in asking uncomfortable questions. He didn’t have a clear answer even for himself, so he opted for an evasive one.

“Nowadays, if someone pays, you have to know how to do everything.” “Everything, really? Don’t start shouting like earlier.”
“Then don’t provoke me.”

“Well, you’re exactly the type I like to provoke,” the man replied with a barely perceptible smile, the first one Jira had seen on his impassive face. But seriousness returned quickly. “If I asked you to become another person, could you do it?”

“Without a clear script, I think I could.”

The man seemed satisfied with the answer and decided to test Jira with an important challenge.

He leaned toward him, bringing his face close to Jira’s without warning. When Jira realized, his body seemed to freeze, every nerve tense. Their eyes met, and the man’s lips moved to say, in a low, hoarse voice:

“Look me in the eyes for ten seconds.”

Jira felt as if he were under a spell, unable to refuse despite his confusion. Finally, he yielded and stared deeply into the stranger’s eyes-someone he had met only minutes before.

A whirlwind of emotions churned in his chest: discomfort, nervousness, awkwardness. Without noticing, he swallowed. He had always thought ten seconds was a moment, but with this man, every second felt eternal-almost suffocating.

When the ten seconds ended, the man checked his watch and asked: “What did you feel?”
Jira took a deep breath, recovering the lost oxygen. The alcohol had probably amplified his reaction.

“To be honest, I got tense.”

“It doesn’t matter, that can be trained. But it’s fine-you’re the one.” “The one for what?”
“You’re perfect because I don’t feel anything for you.” “What?”
The man was an enigma, unpredictable in his words and actions. Jira couldn’t decipher him easily, and the stranger offered no further explanation, leaving him even more confused.

“There are too many people here, I don’t feel comfortable. If you want details about the job, come with me to the hotel and we’ll talk in private.”

The word “hotel” hit Jira like a blow.

He began to process the events: the man had ordered food for him, showed interest in his clothes, interrogated him like an interview, asked him to become another person, made him look into his eyes, then asked about his feelings. Everything fit together: this guy wanted to hire him for an intimate service. Lack of emotional attachment was probably one of the conditions. The problem was that Jira had never done something like that; he wasn’t prepared. However, the man’s mysterious aura drew him in.

“How much is the pay?” he asked, testing his luck.

The man took out his phone, typed something, and showed it to him. The screen revealed a figure that left Jira speechless: hundreds of thousands of baht.

“Did you add an extra zero by mistake?” “It’s correct.”
“And how do I know it’s real? I haven’t seen the money.”

With so many scammers around-from call centers to romance fraud-it was better to be cautious.

“Believe me or not, you decide.”

Without offering more answers, the man signaled the waiter to bring the bill. After paying, he put on black sunglasses and stood up, showing a height that surpassed Jira by several centimeters. Before leaving, he added:

“I’ll give you time to decide. If I leave, we won’t see each other again.”

Jira watched the man’s figure-dressed in a black T-shirt and dark pants-walking away from the restaurant step by step. When a luxurious Italian car stopped in front of the place, Jira reacted and ran after him.

The vehicle, with an elegant design and a logo that indicated a value of no less than ten million baht, drew every gaze. The driver handed the keys to the man, who, after tipping him, walked around the car and got behind the wheel. Just as the engine roared to life, Jira banged frantically on the window. The man lowered it halfway.

“Fine, I’ll do it!” Jira shouted, panting after running.

The man assessed him with a look before saying, “Get in.”

From the moment Jira settled into the luxurious interior of the car, he couldn’t help observing every detail. The driver, however, remained silent-without talking or putting on music to ease the tension. Jira decided to break the ice:

“Nice car. Must cost more than my life.”

He expected a reaction, but the man said nothing. He tried again:

“Can I ask directly? What is my job? Why do we have to talk in a hotel?” Although he suspected the intentions, he wanted to confirm.
“And what do you think the job is?” the man finally replied, in a tone that confirmed Jira’s suspicions.

“Do you do this often?” Jira asked. “What do you mean?”

“Taking someone you like with you.”

The man took his eyes off the steering wheel and looked at him. “I don’t like just anyone that easily.”
He accelerated, making the car surge forward at high speed.

“Do you like doing intense things?” Jira asked, hinting at something beyond just driving. “To prepare myself.”
“Intense or not, it depends on how much you can handle.”

Jira swallowed hard when he saw the man’s gaze, loaded with intention. “And will I be able to handle it?”
The man glanced at him from the corner of his eye, while Jira, sweating, wiped his forehead. “You don’t like intense things?”
“Don’t make me define it, but let’s say it can be intense in moderation. No kissing. If you want anything more, say it now.”

The man looked at him again, eyebrows furrowed, but did not respond. Exhausted, Jira gave up and stayed silent until they reached their destination.
The car stopped in front of a five-star hotel, decorated with a classic Western style mixed with modern Eastern touches. The lobby, with marble floors and a hanging chandelier, was so luxurious that Jira couldn’t imagine affording even one night there.

A hotel employee approached quickly. The man, wearing his sunglasses again, guided Jira through the lobby toward the elevator. He used a card to select the top floor, which surprised Jira even more.

“You live here?” Jira asked.

“Only temporarily. My house is still under construction.” “Damn, the rent must cost a fortune.”
As always, the man didn’t answer.

The elevator reached the top floor, and after a short hallway, they entered a penthouse suite. Jira was amazed by the size of the room, but his attention shifted to the mess: plates, wine glasses, computer parts, mechanical keyboards, soldering tools, pliers and tangled cables. Everything clashed with the luxury of the place.

“They don’t clean your room?” Jira asked.

“I don’t like people snooping around without need.” “And bringing a stranger like me is necessary?” “Enough questions.”
Without another word, the man headed to the bedroom. Soon, the sound of running water relaxed Jira for a moment-until he saw the man cross the room with only a towel over his shoulders, barely covering his naked body.

“Come.”

Jira swallowed hard as he watched the man’s broad back disappear into the bathroom. He hesitated, but having come this far, he decided to follow. He found the man relaxed in a bathtub, acting unconcerned.

“Let’s begin.”

Although nervous, Jira approached the bathtub and awkwardly began to remove his shirt. “If I do anything wrong, I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.”
The man looked at his body.

“You’re fine, but put your shirt back on.” “You don’t want… to do it without clothes?” “Nonsense. Sit here.”
Confused, Jira obeyed and sat after putting his shirt back on. Silence ruled for a moment, allowing him to observe the man more closely. Although attractive, he had deep dark circles under his eyes.

“Your eyes look tired. Do you sleep little?” “I don’t sleep well.”
“With that much money and you still have trouble sleeping?”

The man sighed, ignored the question, and went straight to the point: “Enough talking about me. What did you study?”
“Communication arts.”

“Do you work with a team?”

“I change jobs often, I couldn’t tell you.”

“And close friends? Do you use social media a lot?”

Jira became defensive; the questions seemed too personal.

“You’re not planning to kill me, right? I already told a friend I’m with you.” “Don’t say nonsense. Answer.”
“I have one close friend. I don’t use social media much; seeing other people’s perfect lives stresses me out.”

“Can I see your social media?”

Jira hesitated, but for the money, he handed him his phone.

The man scrolled through posts full of complaints about life and exhaustion. “You complain a lot.”
“Clients are a disaster.”

“Which ones? What company?” Jira sighed, too tired to lie.
“I helped a friend with a catalog for a library.” “Of games?”
“You know them?”

“He’s a nationally recognized designer.” Jira nodded enthusiastically.
“What do you think of him?”

“He’s talented, his work is unique.” “Is that politeness? Tell me the truth.”
“His ideas are good, but sometimes I don’t agree with his decisions. The industry changes, and he doesn’t adapt.”

“So you don’t like him?”

“That’s not it. I’ve answered you a lot already. Now you: what’s your name, what do you do, and why did you bring me here?”

The man stayed silent, and Jira, exhausted, lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Answer something, please.”
“Fine. My name is Ko. Is that enough?”

That tiny piece of information eased Jira’s tension. His eyes lit up, and when Ko noticed, he stood up from the bathtub.

Jira, unintentionally, saw his naked body, full of defined muscles, and quickly looked away. “You passed the interview. Give me your Line ID. I’ll call you when the job starts.”
“And today?” “You can go.”
Stunned, Jira watched as Ko, still naked, grabbed a towel and walked away. He left the room in a daze, leaning against the wall to process everything.
Back in his own room, number 69, Jira collapsed on the bed, exhausted. He stared at the white ceiling, where Ko’s image began to form.
He tried to shake off the thoughts, but couldn’t.

He removed his clothes to relieve the heat he felt, but his body only burned more.

He paced around the room restlessly until his eyes landed on a canvas with a half-finished drawing of flowers. He grabbed a brush and began painting a new face: Ko’s.

Every stroke reflected the emotions that had flooded him: the man in the bathtub, his movements, his indifferent gaze.

Everything stirred something inside him.

When he finished, he looked at the portrait, feeling an intense heat and overflowing emotions.

That same night, Ko, unable to sleep, got up after waking from a brief dream.

At his drink station, next to bottles of expensive liquor, there were bottles of sleeping pills. He took one, swallowed it with water, and returned to bed, covering himself with the sheets. Despite the perfect conditions, he closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come.