05. THE MYSTERIOUS MAN

The life of a young computer prodigy, who had been at the peak of his career, collapsed spectacularly. After a year of hard work, standing out for his skills and attracting all attention, he allowed himself to dream big and bought a brand-new, outrageously expensive car. But he realized fate had deceived him just as he was about to be fired, with the car payments stretching for years to come.

To get ahead, Marwin didn’t want to wait to be dismissed and waste time. He immediately began looking for a new job.

If anyone asked why he hadn’t quit earlier, the answer was simple: severance pay.

His finances were far from stable. Between car installments and condominium rent, he was cutting expenses wherever possible. Luckily, a close friend offered a helping hand, and Marwin didn’t hesitate. He packed his things quickly and moved into Pheem’s apartment.

“Is this everything?” asked the owner of the place. Marwin nodded.
“Yes, help me tidy up a bit.”

Belongings were scattered across the floor after a full day of moving. Marwin wiped the sweat from his brow while Pheem, hands on his hips, observed his friend.

The young man lived in a seventy-five-square-meter condo, with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a fully equipped kitchen, and all modern comforts. Inviting Marwin to live there wasn’t an issue. Plus, with similar personalities and tastes, Pheem thought it would be nice to have time to chat and unwind on stressful days.

“You handle your things. I’m going out,” said Pheem. “Where to?”
“To the Burnout Bar.”

“Your case must be serious. Was Ko so harsh that you need to blow off steam?” Marwin joked.

“Ko is part of the problem, but the main one is you.”

“Dying here! I thought I was the least of your worries,” Marwin replied playfully. He had always believed that if there was a problem, you had to attack its source. And in this case, the source was Ko.

“What if we rebel and fire the whole department? If I leave, you go too.” “I can’t do that. He still needs me.”
“Are you sure he needs you? I think you need him more.”

“Don’t act like you know everything.”

“Maybe I don’t know him as well as you, but I know you enough. You’re too attached to your comfort zone. But believe me, what holds you could be hell.”

Perhaps Marwin was right. Pheem stayed silent, struck by the clarity with which his friend saw him. He wasn’t an innocent or a flawless saint. He had done extreme things, both good and bad, but no matter how capable he seemed, he had never been able to stand alone.

Pheem always needed someone to lean on to live. And Ko was that someone-the damned friend he both loved and hated but couldn’t let go of.

“Stop criticizing me.”

“I’m not criticizing. I just don’t want you to keep enduring this.” “Clean up the room. When I get back, I want it spotless.”
Pheem dodged the topic, shot a playful reproachful look at his friend, grabbed the car keys, and left.

…

The Burnout Bar, even on an ordinary night, was packed with young professionals occupying every table, looking for someone to ease their souls. Since there were no free tables, Jira sat at the bar to chat with Ben, the bartender, while waiting for someone.

In truth, the bar hadn’t been part of his plans. But after an exhausting day working for Ko and impulsively quitting, a wave of negative emotions overwhelmed him.

“Here I am,” said Jira.

“What’ll you have?” Ben replied with a charming smile. “I don’t know yet.”
“Not ordering a drink? You’ve been sitting a while.”

For nearly ten minutes, Ben pretended not to ask. He greeted Jira briefly and turned to make cocktails for other customers. He noticed the furrowed, irritated expression on Jira’s face and didn’t dare speak, waiting for him to start the conversation.

“I have a meeting with someone. Can I wait here?” said Jira. “Oh, so I don’t have to play matchmaker today. What a relief.” “Something like that.”
“And? Did you solve your problems?”

“Actually, I got a new job, but it seems heavier than the last one.”

Jira’s face darkened. At the mention, Ko’s image and voice seemed to echo in his mind, sending shivers down his spine. He shook his head to push the thoughts away.

“Why?”

“The boss is capricious and loves giving orders. But I’ve already quit.” “Wow! And they approved?”
“Do you know what I hate most? I hate that he acts like he really knows me. He even challenged me, saying I have no way out and will end up begging him.”

“Do you have a Plan B?”

“Plan B?” Jira looked at the bartender. “Honestly, I didn’t think beyond the moment. I let my emotions get the better of me.”

“Can I suggest something?” Jira nodded, eager for advice to light up his storm. But when Ben leaned on the bar and spoke seriously, his words hit hard:

“I think you should only quit when you’re sure you have a solid option. Don’t let impulse guide you now, trust me.”

“And if my ideas and the boss’s don’t match? Should I endure it?” “Good point.”
“Wow!” Jira thought he’d found an ally, but it turned out to be tricky.

“If you quit and can live without problems, eat well, sleep peacefully, and have the energy to start again, fine. But if not…”

Before Ben could finish, the bar door opened, interrupting the conversation.

From Ben’s perspective, a tall figure, almost six-foot-three, entered. His striking appearance drew every eye in the bar. Jira, noticing Ben and the others’ reactions, turned curiously to follow their gaze.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Pheem, approaching quickly and apologizing. “Relax! Ben kept me company.”
Ben raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the comment coolly. Pheem smiled at the gesture and looked at Jira. Beyond his attractive face, what caught his attention was the well-tailored suit he wore, very different from the ones he had worn before.

“Just got off work? The suit looks good on you.”

Jira remembered it was the suit Ko had commissioned for him and, without thinking, took it off immediately, leaving Pheem puzzled.

“Why take it off?” “Hot.”
“Already ordered anything?” “Not yet, I was waiting for you.”
Ben, sensing the chemistry between them, gave them space to talk alone and cut the conversation to take the order.

“What will you have, guys?”

“I’ll take the most bitter drink you’ve got,” said Jira.

“I’ll have the same as him, but double the bitterness,” said Pheem.

Ben nodded, grabbed the shaker, and began making a strong, punchy drink.

The clock read past nine in the evening. The bar remained crowded, no free tables. Sitting at the bar offered no privacy, so Ben suggested another option: the rear area of the place.
Originally meant for patrons who wanted to chat while smoking, over time, it was transformed into a small garden using wine bottles as planters.

In that area, there was a single marble table. Jira sat and placed his strong drink, burning his throat, near him. Pheem followed suit, taking a sip and savoring the intensity. With similar ingredients, the only difference was the red wine added to Pheem’s glass, giving it a seductive color and an aroma that invited intoxication.

“Hey, what you said the other day… you got almost everything right,” Jira began, breaking the silence. After a moment of thought, he didn’t want to waste another second.

“Really? What did I get right?”

“A job that’s both a blessing and a curse. The money’s good, but it’s a disaster.” “Classic! And you’re putting up with it?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking if it’s worth it. This job is something I’ve never faced before, and it caught me off guard.”

Just recalling the previous events made his anger flare again, ready to explode.

“What kind of job is it? Can you tell me a bit so I can help you think?” Pheem asked, genuinely concerned.

“It’s not much different from being a con artist. You trick others to gain benefits.” “Wow, that’s heavy!” Pheem bit his lip, his eyes darting as if pondering.
“So, you’ll have to decide whether to go for the money or quit for your sanity.”

“Exactly. But I already told the boss I would resign.” “Then you’ve made a decision.”
“Yes…” Jira murmured softly. Perhaps the reason for his unease was that he didn’t fully trust his own decision.

From the start, it was clear that quitting was the solution if he didn’t want to push himself too far. But thinking it over, with such a high salary… where would he find something equal in a year? Even if Ko was an irredeemable villain, the one undeniable advantage was his wealth.

Jira didn’t know which choice was best in this bewildering situation. Maybe he needed to stop thinking for two or three minutes. He shifted the topic and asked about Pheem.

“I’ve only talked about myself. And you? How’s work going?”

“It’s heavy. I have to fire my close friend and the whole department.” “Wow, that’s intense! And how are you handling it?”
“I have to do it. But what kills me is that my friend invited me to quit together, to start something new. And I… damn it… I couldn’t.”

Pheem took a swig of his fiery drink, downing half, before venting.

“I don’t dare quit. I’ve built my life around this. This job is so ingrained, it’s part of my identity now.”

“The problem is you don’t dare leave your comfort zone.”

“Probably. The lines on my hand aren’t very good. If I quit, I’m afraid things will get worse,” Pheem admitted.

“Seriously? What lines?”

Jira leaned forward, and Pheem cooperated, extending his palm for examination.

“It’s the work line.” Pheem pointed to a line on his hand. Jira paused for a moment before extending his own hand to compare.

“And what would a good line look like to excel at work?”

“Like this, more or less.” Pheem indicated a more pronounced line.

“Not bad!” Jira grabbed a pen from a “Conversation Opener” box and started drawing on Pheem’s palm. Confused, Pheem stayed still, letting Jira trace lines as if giving a lesson.

“It’s not that hard. This is the money line, right? Look, now I’ll fix it so it’s even better than mine.”

“Does it really work like that?”

The blue ink traced a line from one point to another, making it look genuinely prosperous. With such a standout line, Pheem could grow enough to compete with Google.

“Of course! Maybe you’ll get a new job too, a blessing and curse like mine.” Jira laughed, escaping from a tiger only to fall into a crocodile’s jaws.
“You’re a genius at making things complicated. You know you’re the best gift I’ve gotten this year?”

“Is it your birthday today?”

“No, it passed a few days ago.”

“Happy belated, then! But I don’t have a gift for you.” “Doesn’t matter, you didn’t know.”
Jira felt a twinge of guilt. Normally, for someone important’s birthday, he sought an unforgettable gift-even a year later. Pheem was one of those people. Although they hadn’t known each other long, he wanted to give him something, however small.

“Wait, I’ll go with Ben for a moment.”

In that instant, he could only think of asking the bartender to make a special drink as a gift. But the strong alcohol burned his throat, making him stagger. As he tried to stand, his legs wobbled, and he reached out to steady himself.

However, the motion went wrong. Instead of touching the marble table, his hand knocked over Pheem’s glass, spilling the liquid over the young man’s white shirt, soaking it completely.

Jira regained his senses and shouted, “Shit!”

Pheem froze, speaking softly between laughter and pity: “You’re really a disaster…” “I’m so sorry!”
The red wine, the main ingredient of the drink, left a prominent stain on the white shirt. “It’s okay.”
Pheem stood, ready to head to the bathroom, but Jira, quicker, grabbed his wrist. “First, we need to blot it with paper.”
Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind.

“Come on, clean me a little,” Pheem said coquettishly.

Jira quickly grabbed a napkin and began rubbing. The scene felt familiar, like d j vu. Pheem’s shirt was like Mr. Thames’ suit, stained with wine.

“That’s so weird. Today at work, I saw a wine-stained suit exactly like this. But somehow… it looked good.”

“Really? And my shirt looks good?” Pheem asked. Although Jira didn’t answer, his expression said it all.

“So… it doesn’t look good?”

“Yes, but I read that white wine can remove red wine stains. Wait a moment.” “White wine is expensive. Better wash it for me.”
“What?”

“What do you mean?”

Pheem took off his shirt and handed it to Jira, who held it and studied it for a moment.

“If you leave it longer, it’ll be harder to clean. Or do you want me to paint the shirt? I promise it’ll look nice, but I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

Pheem chuckled.

In reality, it wasn’t a big deal. A stained shirt wasn’t worth the effort; he would just throw it away. But this time it was different-because it was Jira. He wanted to keep this shirt, no matter its condition.

“Make it amazing, show your talent. Let it be my birthday gift.” “Give me your address. I’ll send it when I’m done painting.” “Perfect, send it via Line.”
“And what will you wear without a shirt?”

“I’ll order one for delivery, have it brought by a courier.” “What a life!”
With the initial problem solved, Jira’s restlessness partially eased. He focused back on what was in front of him.

Pheem’s bare torso was like a canvas, covered in artistic lines at every turn. Under his clothes, he hid an impressive tattoo that caught the eye. Pheem was no ordinary man. From the beginning, his charisma, charm, and seduction were evident-but this time, it surpassed all expectations. A “hot boy” remained a “hot boy” capable of making one surrender.

The tattoo, inspired by Joan Mir *, covered his chest, wrapped along his sides, and extended to his waist. With free-flowing lines, circles, dots, and wavy shapes, it was initially hard to interpret. Yet it radiated a surreal, playful, unrestricted vibe-all fused into one person.

Joan Mir : Spanish artist known for his surrealist style, abstract forms, and vibrant colors.

“What’s wrong? Something bothering you?” Pheem asked softly and coquettishly, aware he was being watched.

“You’re not suited for it at all,” Jira said, without taking his eyes off the tattoo. “And do you like it?”
“Of course I do.”

After those words, they stared at each other in the bar’s private area. Everything was silent, no movement or distracting noise. The only thing resonating strongly was the beat of their hearts, calling to each other, drawing them in. Jira wasn’t sure what feeling it was, and neither was Pheem.

It wasn’t love, of that they were certain.

But it was too soon to search for answers about the hidden emotions stirring between them. For now, a simple “I like it” seemed enough.

 

Sunlight broke through, disturbing the slumber of the slender figure in bed. Jira turned over, covering his head with the sheet to escape the brightness. Minutes later, the blaring alarm forced him out of bed despite his resistance.

He rubbed his eyes repeatedly and realized he had forgotten to close the curtains the night before, allowing the light to pour through the sliding glass door.

On the balcony, the roses he had planted competed to bloom in full glory. He gave them a brief glance before looking at Pheem’s shirt hanging on the drying rack. Even from afar, he could see the wine stains he hadn’t managed to remove.

Now officially unemployed, Jira had free time for impromptu artistic projects. He stepped out of bed, grabbed red and blue acrylic paints, and mixed them on a plate until he achieved a shade similar to red wine. Then, he went to the balcony and began painting Pheem’s shirt, letting his imagination run wild.

The design was inspired by Pheem’s tattoo, blended with the fluid lines that were Jira’s personal signature. Though it couldn’t be precisely defined, Jira trusted that Pheem would understand the message behind his creation.

Once finished, he carefully folded the shirt and placed it in a paper bag, leaving a post-it note attached:

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, but I hope you do.”

He smiled at the bag, but a flash in his peripheral vision caught his attention: the finished painting of Ko, resting on an easel.

Then an idea struck him.

The night before, in his drunken state, he had left clothes scattered across the floor. The expensive suit lay at the edge of the bed, and his underwear stuffed inside the wrinkled pants by the worktable. He remembered having written down Ko’s full name, so he gathered all the clothing, placed it in another paper bag, and scribbled a provocative note:

“Returning the suit, Kriwit Kitiwela. Bring me my clothes.”

Jira used an app to have the bag delivered to Ko at the hotel, along with Pheem’s painted shirt, via courier.

Two paper bags, but completely different intentions.

 

That same morning, with time to spare, Jira visited his friend Ing at her studio, bringing Ko’s finished painting.

As he approached the desk, he tossed the tube with the painting to Ing, who was still in front of her computer, watching an indie film featuring a new actor.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Ing asked, pausing the movie and looking at Jira, puzzled. “I don’t want it in my room. It’s in the way.”
Ing sighed, regarding him curiously. Without asking more, she took the painting out of the tube. Unfolding it, she saw the fluid lines-very different from Jira’s previous works.

“Wow! You changed your style?”

“I tried, but I’m not sure it’s really me.”

Jira pulled over a chair, waiting for her comment.

“I think you’re on the right track. This drawing is pure feeling! It’s your style.” “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an honest compliment. Did you draw this from someone real, or is it pure imagination?” “Someone real.”
“Who?”

“The owner of a shady business.”

Ing’s eyes widened in disbelief. She looked between the painting and Jira, incredulous. “Wow! Why did you paint him if he’s so shady? Do you like him?”
“I don’t like him. I just followed my emotions.”

“Your emotions led you to something authentic,” Ing murmured before remembering something.

“Did you manage to get information about him?” “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I quit the job.” “What?! So soon, and you’ve already quit? Why?” “Our ways of thinking don’t match.”
Jira avoided giving details, but Ing, curious, insisted on knowing more to uncover the truth. “It doesn’t matter that you quit, but tell me who he is.”
Jira looked resigned, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote down the name he remembered.

After obtaining the full name, Ing searched online. What she found was so shocking she nearly fell off her chair. The name belonged to the owner of Hive, a clothing platform that failed to deliver on promises, yet was wildly popular.

Ing slammed the desk, excited, and turned to Jira with an astonished expression. “Jira, he’s the owner of Hive!”
After double-checking multiple times, the truth was clear.

“I just found out too,” Jira said, wide-eyed, while Ing returned to the computer, scrolling through the information online.

“It’s real… a genuinely shady business.” “What’s shady about it?”
To clarify, Ing turned the screen toward Jira. It displayed an article with images of a DSI (Department of Special Case Investigation) team and piles of documents. Jira took the computer and read aloud.

“Mr. Kriwit’s lawyer submitted a large number of documents to the DSI for clarifications…” At that point, Jira frowned.
“What does this mean? I’m lost.”

“Don’t you follow the news? Nowadays, those who get rich fast from startups-where do they get the money? There are rumors it’s money laundering, and he’s at the center.”

First, a vague suspicion. Now, a clear certainty.

“Like those young entrepreneurs using dirty money to climb the ladder?” Jira speculated.

Ing, analyzing the situation, added: “The app might be legal, but the money isn’t. According to the news, the investigation seems to have gone nowhere. No clear conclusions. There must be a secret agreement.”

“This gives me chills.”

If asked whether Ko was completely clean, Jira would answer without hesitation: no. Just the job as Mr. K showed that Ko was willing to do anything for personal gain.

“And what is he like in person?” Ing asked. “He seems like a villain.”
“Doesn’t matter if he seems bad. I say you stay with him! He’s way too rich.”

While others would tell him to stay away for safety, Ing, his close friend who knew him well, thought differently. Jira understood that he would have to hate Ko to even suggest something so outrageous.

“No way. Do you want me to risk ending up in jail?” Jira resisted going back. Ing picked up the painting from the desk and held it up.
“Look at this!”

“What else do I need to see?”

“Normally, your drawings don’t have this much soul. This is pure fire. It’s your muse!” “Stop encouraging me. It’s terrifying-I’m not brave enough to take the risk.”
“You have to take a risk! Think about it-it’s a win-win. You’ll get money, and your drawings will improve. Once you’ve earned enough, you can just find a way out.”

In Greek mythology, a muse is a person, object, or idea that inspires an artist to create. It refers to the goddesses who grant inspiration to poets, musicians, and artists.

Jira reflected, beginning to yield to Ing’s arguments. But before he could decide, a notification on his phone interrupted the moment.

He looked at the screen, and his eyes trembled as he saw the amount transferred to his bank account.

It was payment for yesterday’s work-undeniably.

And most importantly: it was a sum in the hundreds of thousands, exactly as agreed. Jira looked up at Ing and swallowed hard.

The doorbell rang.

Ko, working at his computer, answered. The door opened, and the butler entered, pushing a cart with lunch and a paper bag.

“Mr. Ko, this was sent by Mr. Jira,” the butler said, handing him the bag.

Seeing the neatly folded clothes inside, Ko felt a twinge of irritation. After a moment’s thought, he returned the bag to the butler with a clear instruction:

“Take it to be cleaned.” “Understood.”
“Did he leave anything else?”

The butler smiled and shook his head.

Jira wouldn’t be returning, and Ko had miscalculated. With a glance, he dismissed the butler. Then he returned to his computer, a strange unease gnawing at him.

He didn’t understand why he had expected someone like Jira to come back, when countless others were eager to take his place.