01 MARVELOUS STRANGER

A Wave 100 motorcycle with a powerful engine stopped in front of a somewhat old apartment building, but whose great advantage was being located in the heart of the city. Although the rent was a little expensive, it was worth it for the convenience to get around.

Jira got off the motorcycle with an agile movement, although with his legs numb after the trip as a passenger.

“One moment, Phi, hold out your hand,” he said, while he searched for money in his pocket and placed some coins in the driver’s palm.

“You can pay through the app or with card, nong,” the driver replied.

Jira lifted his gaze, embarrassed. Of course he wanted to pay, but…

“I don’t have enough balance. Better in cash, Phi. Let’s see, how much was it? Sixteen, seventeen…?”

Such is life.

The sound of the motorcycle’s exhaust pipe faded into the distance. Jira pressed the elevator button to go up to his apartment, number 69, a number that invited risqu thoughts.

Upon opening the door, his eyes came across a pile of objects scattered across the floor, mostly art materials. He didn’t feel like tidying up at that moment, so he put music on his phone, took off his work clothes and threw them on the bed, staying only in light boxers.

His thin figure went to the desk where he had a half-finished drawing. His big eyes fixed on the illustration: a man with soft lines, who conveyed a mix of sweetness and strength. Jira thought that it could sell, so he took a brush, dipped it in paint and retouched some details to finish the piece.

Once finished, he scanned the image and uploaded it to an art-sale group, putting a price of two thousand baht. But before posting, he changed his mind and reduced the price to one thousand baht. He lifted the phone and held it up like an offering, almost begging.

At that moment, a notification sounded. Jira opened his eyes wide, unable to believe in the power of the sacred.

“I love this drawing! Can you lower it a little?”

The message from a woman appeared in his inbox, accompanied by a painting he had uploaded the previous week.

If she was interested and dared to haggle, he was ready to negotiate. Quickly, he wrote a reply:

“How much do you offer?”

Without making him wait, the adorable customer proposed a price that almost knocked him out: exactly three hundred baht. Jira felt tears threaten to spill, bit his lip, and reflected.

A minute later, he had an answer. Whatever, let’s negotiate! If he sold, he would have money immediately; if he hesitated, he would earn nothing.

With that idea in mind, he accepted quickly and sent her the account number for the transfer.

The previous week, he had been very proud of that piece. He had worked so hard and had put it at a reasonable price of three thousand baht. In the end, he only got three hundred.

With his heart weighed down by the day’s disappointments, he decided to ease his sadness by watering the plants he cared for on the balcony. Among them, there was a lucky orchid that, in the whole year, had never had the fortune to blossom. While watering, he spoke to the plant:

“I take such good care of you, give me a little luck, okay? And bless me so I’ll get work.” Even though it was the same plea he had repeated for a year.
…

“Fresh in every drop, sparkling in every glass, full of dreams and energy.” “With more freshness, please! This sounds fake.”
At the beginning of the following week, Jira finally had the chance to show his skills in a job that Ing had gotten for him. He got up early, dressed stylishly, combed his hair carefully, and prepared for a casting for a fruit soda drink commercial.

Besides researching and analyzing the product’s image thoroughly, he had Ing, his close friend, who held the position of casting director. Jira smelled success; he was sure they would accept him from the first moment.

But where was that success?

He was already on the tenth take, or something like that.

When he regained awareness of what he was doing, he realized he was in front of the camera, under the fixed gaze of Ing and the team, who watched him without blinking.

“Once again, please.” “Okay! Three, two, action!”
“Fresh in every drop, sparkling in every glass…”

Besides reciting the script prepared by the team, Jira held the drink bottle with a wide smile, trying to show how refreshing it was.

“More natural, please!”

But it was never enough. Jira frowned when Ing interrupted him. He took a deep breath, tried to show a fresh expression as instructed, looked at the camera with his big eyes, counted to three in his mind, and smiled again.

“Fresh in every drop, vibrant in every glass.”

“Sparkling in every glass, idiot! You got it wrong again!”

Ing shouted so loudly that Jira jumped, completely losing his composure. It was then he realized he really wasn’t made for this kind of work.
He lowered his gaze, his eyes trembling to the point of blurring from the tears that were gathering. He had failed again, after facing an endless number of problems he could no longer absorb.

…

White smoke rose into the air, the smell of nicotine spreading around him. His thin figure sat with slumped shoulders on a long bench in front of his friend’s casting studio. That place, which had always seemed vibrant to him, now looked lifeless.

The studio was part of a small project in the city center, an old decades-old building that had been renovated and divided into shops: a caf , an art gallery, a theater, and even a hostel. In front of the building, there was a wide courtyard with a path decorated with leafy trees.

Jira watched the workers carefully transporting paintings to prepare an exhibition in the studio. He put out the half-smoked cigarette when he saw Ing come out.

“How was it? Did you finish everything?” Jira asked in a dull voice.

“Yes, but speaking seriously, what you did in the casting didn’t pass,” Ing replied. Because she cared deeply for her friend, she didn’t want to give him false hope.
“Even if I wanted to be kind, you looked… without energy. You seemed desperate. I can’t sell that tape to the director.”

“Hey, how cruel! Sell me a little, help me, can’t you?” Jira begged. “You understand I have to make professional decisions, right?”
“Yes, I understand. I was only joking,” Jira said. How could he not know? With that performance, even the neighbor next door would win the lottery before he would.

“Are you okay?” Ing asked. “It’s nothing,” Jira replied.
Ing noticed how Jira seemed to shrink after so many rejections. She reached out, patted him on the shoulder, and said with concern:

“You look down. Wait a moment, I’ll be right back.”

Ing returned to the studio and came back with a coffee in a paper cup. Jira accepted it so as not to hurt her feelings, took a small sip while his gaze remained lost.

Finally, he couldn’t hold his emotions anymore and broke into tears. “Hey! What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Ing exclaimed.
“I heard people say it was hard, but I didn’t think it would be THIS hard,” Jira replied in a trembling voice. Seeing Ing’s panicked expression and feeling her soft hand gently rubbing his back to comfort him, he cried even harder.

“It was your first casting for a commercial. It’s not strange that you didn’t get it,” Ing said.

“It’s not just the casting… It’s that I feel like I can’t achieve anything. My drawings don’t sell, I can’t get work in castings. Am I that useless?” Jira lamented.

Hearing that, Ing felt his pain and hugged her friend tightly.

“Truly, you’re very talented. You’re not useless. There are things you do that I couldn’t,” she comforted him.

“Really?” Jira asked.

“You do things with passion, and that’s good. But I think you need to find your identity soon and focus on a job you really love,” Ing suggested.

“I don’t know what to focus on,” Jira admitted, while the tears kept falling. He sobbed like never before, embarrassed, but unable to stop himself.
“I think that right now you don’t need a job, you need to heal your heart first,” said Ing.
“Heal? To heal I need money. I haven’t even paid the electricity bill!” exclaimed Jira.

Ing, moved, took five thousand baht from her wallet and put them in her friend’s hand. Jira did not reject them. He wiped his tears clumsily and looked at Ing with hope.

“Ing, can I ask you for a little more money?”

In that moment, dignity wasn’t as important as money for food. Upon hearing the plea, Ing looked at him intensely, as if she could see through his intentions.

“Wow! To borrow money you didn’t need to put on this whole crying drama,” said Ing.
“It was the moment, I’m not acting. I just want to pay my credit card,”

explained Jira.

“How much do you need?”

Ing, in “generous mother” mode, thought that it wasn’t the moment to be stingy. Jira decided that this loan would be a push to earn money and pay it back soon.

“I have to close three cards, with interest, it’s like a hundred thousand,” said Jira.
“All right,” answered Ing quickly, but Jira continued. “And I need about twenty thousand more for expenses.” “Okay, one hundred twenty thousand,” said Ing.
“There are also the water, electricity, and rent bills.” “One hundred thirty thousand?” asked Ing.
“Better round it up. Could it be one hundred fifty thousand?” “Oh my God, how exaggerated!” exclaimed Ing.
Jira pretended tears again, and she sighed resignededly. “Fine, I’ll transfer it to you. Pay me back whenever you can.”
“Thank you very much, really…” said Jira, with such a weak voice it was barely heard, raising his hands in gratitude. Ing, unable to stand the pathetic scene, cut the conversation.

“Enough! Since we’re at it, I’m assigning you a job,” announced Ing. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” answered Jira, ready to give everything.
“The one hundred fifty thousand are so you heal your heart first. There’s a club called Burnout Bar, a place to cure exhaustion. I think it can help you.”

“With that name? Won’t it make me feel worse?” joked Jira. “I’ve gone several times, it works wonderfully,” insisted Ing. “Fine, I’ll try,” said Jira.
He took a sip of water, looking at Ing with reddened eyes. He didn’t know how much he could heal his wounded soul upon entering that place, but he was sure nothing could be worse than his current situation.

 

At nine thirty at night, Jira’s thin figure arrived on a motorcycle at the Burnout Bar. According to the reviews, many called it the “Ten Bar.” Finding the entrance took him a good while, but upon pushing the door, he felt as if he had entered another world.

Maybe it was because of the slow-rhythm music playing in the background, combined with a relaxing environment and warm-toned neon lights with motivational phrases on the walls.
Jira stopped often to observe every detail.

The place wasn’t very crowded. The clients occupied their own silent corners, without interacting beyond their tables. But what caught his attention the most was the long bar counter, where a bartender was stationed. That was all Jira processed in a few seconds.

“First time? What’s your name, nong?”

The bartender’s voice echoed in his ears. Jira sat on a high bar stool and began chatting with the stranger.

“My name is Jira. I’m burned out, my friend recommended I come,” he said. “I’m Ben, the one in charge of the bar,” the man replied.
Ben, an Asian man of about thirty, dressed elegantly, with a calm and friendly attitude. Even so, Jira noticed a tattoo on his arm that peeked out from under the white shirt.

“Do you want to order a drink?” offered Ben. “Yes, give me the menu, please,” said Jira.
Since it was his first time, he showed some clumsiness. Of course, every one of his movements was under Ben’s attentive gaze.

A large hand handed him the menu. Jira looked through it carefully and noticed that each drink was described with emotions and feelings. If you were sad, the alcohol percentage was higher.

“The names are curious,” commented Jira.

“When customers don’t know what to order, they usually choose according to their mood,” explained Ben.

“Then this is mine,” said Jira, pointing at a cocktail called She no longer loves you, but life without money is worse.

Ben read the name and smiled.

“Perfect for you. It seems sweet, but it’s very strong,” he said, while preparing the drink with vodka and tequila.

“I don’t know if it will be as bitter as my life now,” joked Jira.

“Bitterness is also a flavor,” answered Ben, sliding the glass toward Jira along with a card with the table number.

“The rules are simple: you order a drink, we assign you a table, and then we match you with another client who is also burned out.”

“Can’t I choose who?” asked Jira.

Ben shook his head, keeping his friendly smile.

“You’ll talk with a stranger who is also burned out. That way, both can help each other heal by listening to each other’s sorrows,”

he explained, taking a pile of cards from a tall glass.

Jira nodded, thanked him, and headed to table number seven, which was empty. While waiting for his conversation partner, he took a sip of the drink.

“Yuck!” he exclaimed, almost spitting because of how bitter it was. “Is life really this bad?” he thought.
“Good evening,” said a voice, pulling him from his thoughts.

It was the worst possible moment. He had tried to maintain an elegant posture, but just when he relaxed, someone approached him. Luckily, he didn’t spit the liquor everywhere.

Jira wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lifted his gaze toward the man standing at his table. In one hand he held a card with the number seven, and in the other, a glass with a red drink, probably wine.

“May I sit?” asked the man.

His voice was slightly hoarse, and his height-estimated at about 190 cm-together with a face that drew stares, made Jira lose control. He couldn’t take his eyes off him.

He was handsome, hot, and although he wore glasses, he had a bad-boy air that Jira loved.

Maybe it was the black shirt and matching pants, which made him look mysterious. Finding someone so much his type in front of him seemed like a dream too good to be real.

“Khun? Khun?”

The finger snap brought him back to the present. In an instant, the tall and slender man was already sitting in front of him.

Jira regained his composure and introduced himself. “I’m Jira, you can call me Ji.”

“I’m Pheem. Nice to meet you,” answered the man with a calm smile, very different from what one would expect from someone just met.

“How old are you?”

Jira answered without hesitation. “Twenty-eight.”
“Hey, we’re the same age! First time here?” asked Pheem. “Yes, I’m a little lost. And you?”
“It’s my third time,” said Pheem. Jira nodded, but instead of continuing talking, an uncomfortable silence took over the atmosphere. There were many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t find the words. He ended up taking another sip of his bitter drink.

Pheem understood Jira’s state. He was also somewhat nervous, so he tried to break the ice by taking a card from the table.

“If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?” he asked.

“To where… With my budget, probably to Thonglor,” Jira answered without thinking. Thonglor was close to his friend Ing’s studio.

“Good answer. Most people say Japan or Europe,” Pheem commented.

“Just thinking about it gives me chills! I have no money. Thonglor has its charm. Right now there’s a queer art exhibition. I could go see it in a couple of days.”

Because he didn’t have a job.

“Really? I’ve never been. I’ll try it,” said Pheem. “And you, where would you go?”
“If it’s to save money, to a street-food stall near my house,” Pheem replied. “How is that different from mine?” Jira joked.
“Actually, I have a place in mind,” said Pheem, hesitating whether to continue. For someone who was just passing by, maybe it wasn’t worth sharing so much.

“I don’t want you to think I’m some extremist crazy person.” “Extremist? Like a macho fighting in the street?” Jira asked.
Normally, Pheem didn’t care what others thought of him. If he didn’t connect with someone, they simply went their separate ways. But looking at Jira, he wanted to make a good impression. It was incredible how just a few sentences could make him open up so much.

“No, no. When I’m stressed, I want to go to a Rage Room. Have you heard of that?” Pheem explained.

“No, what is it?”

“It’s what the name says. You pay for a package, they take you to a room full of things for you to destroy.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Jira.

“Sometimes you want to break something. It’s better than waiting for a psychiatrist appointment and healthier than alcohol. Though it sounds like a red flag, right?” said Pheem.

“Red flag, but attractive,” Jira replied.

Pheem let out a laugh. The initial nervousness disappeared in an instant. “You didn’t tell me you like bad boys,” Pheem joked.
Pheem wasn’t arrogant. He opened up easily to others, but not with everyone did he reach such a deep level. Jira was breaking that barrier effortlessly.

Like a natural seducer, Pheem didn’t waste the opportunity. He pulled out his best tactics to conquer his prey.

“Do you want me to read your hand?” he offered. “Read my hand? Like fortune-telling?” Jira asked. Pheem nodded, and Jira accepted.
“All right, go ahead.” “Give me your hand?”
Jira extended his hand slowly, but Pheem was faster. He moved his chair to sit beside the smaller one, with an excuse.

“I just learned how to read hands, and from this angle it looks better. The light isn’t good from the other side,” he explained with bright eyes and a soft voice that made Jira feel intoxicated.

“You have soft skin, and your hand too.”

Pheem complimented him as he traced the lines of his palm, and Jira answered flirtatiously. “Your hands aren’t that soft, but I like them,” he said.
“Hey, you leave me speechless like that!” Pheem exclaimed.

Used to seducing left and right, finding someone who disarmed him was new for him. He tried to return to the topic of palm reading.

His eyes, under the glasses, fixed on the lines of Jira’s hand. After a moment of reflection, he spoke seriously.

“It seems you’re facing problems you can’t solve.”

Jira nodded vigorously. More than problems, it felt like karma. That he got one thing right wasn’t a big deal, but he had already gained his trust. Jira opened up without holding back.

“It’s true. I don’t know why problems chase me. Nothing I do seems to be my path,” he confessed.

Pheem lifted his gaze, putting aside his seductive attitude. “Can I ask what you do?”
“I’m a creative, but I’m still looking for my place,” Jira said. Remembering the last years of work almost made him cry.

“I don’t know what I’m good at. I do everything, but nothing turns out well. It’s sad, isn’t it?” “If you can do everything, it’s not that you’re bad,” Pheem replied.
“Bad? Look at my face!” Jira exclaimed.

Pheem smiled, not mockingly, but tenderly at the sight of tears in his new friend’s eyes. “You’re adorable,” he said.
“Ha,” Jira laughed dryly, changing the subject. “And you? What do you do?”
“I’m a software engineer, I develop apps,” Pheem replied. “Wow, then you’re rich! What apps do you make?”
“It’s a secret,” Pheem said with a mischievous smile. Jira looked him up and down, noticing his clothes, the watch on his wrist, and the scent of his perfume. It was obvious he wasn’t someone ordinary.

“And what has you burned out? You seem much calmer than I am,” Jira asked.

“Work. Everything is going well, but my teammates aren’t the best. It seems they don’t accept my ideas,” Pheem explained.

“How serious is it?”

“We clash on everything. We’re always one step away from breaking,” said Pheem. “Why don’t you quit already?”

“It’s not just a coworker, he’s also my friend. We’ve done everything together. I can’t just leave him,” Pheem explained.

“That’s tough, but I think you’ll overcome it,” Jira said, not knowing how, but trying to encourage him.

“Your hand says so too,” Pheem said, looking at the lines on his palm.

“Soon you’ll have a new job, but it will be a bittersweet blessing. It’ll bring some chaos.” “Chaos how? Will there be blood?” Jira joked.
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine. Just trust your feelings,” Pheem assured him.

“According to your reading, I have a very strong emotional line. If you use your emotions, you’ll do well,” he added.

Jira looked at him, confused. Hadn’t he been following his emotions all this time? And still, he kept failing. Before he could ask, Pheem clarified.

“You said you work in art, right? You must be used to using your emotions. Then, take them to the limit.”

“You said so,” Jira answered. “I mean it.”
“I’ll try and apply it. Normally, I always give my everything,” Jira said.

Pheem moved away, returned his chair to its original place, and lifted his wine glass to toast. Jira, receiving that spark of hope-though barely believable-felt the impulse to do something. He took out his phone to check his schedule.

“Tomorrow I have a job interview. I should finish around two,” he said. “For what position?”
“Storyboard artist. I have the feeling I’ll get it. After all, you told me to use my emotions,” Jira said.

“Yes, follow your emotions, but don’t forget to use your heart,” Pheem replied with a sweet smile.

The conversation was interrupted by a notification on Pheem’s phone. When he read the message, his smile vanished, leaving only a cold expression.

“I think my karma is catching up to me,” he said, suddenly standing up, leaving Jira confused.

“You’re leaving already? I hope we see each other again,” Jira said.

“If we meet again, it’ll mean you haven’t healed from the burnout,” Pheem replied. “I don’t think I’ll heal soon, but even if I do, we can see each other, right?”
For the first time, Jira wasn’t playing at being the prey. He knew the road would be bitter, but he didn’t hold back. He was the one who took the first step.

“Can I have your number?” he asked.

Pheem smiled, took Jira’s phone, wrote his ten-digit number, and gave it back to him.

It was a good day, Pheem thought. Even though things with his colleague were a mess, the Burnout Bar had brought him someone interesting.

To thank his good luck, Pheem didn’t forget to say goodbye with a seductive voice and look. “Don’t forget to call me.”
The tall man walked away, leaving Jira enthralled by his actions for about ten minutes.

…

Jira was looking at the tablet in front of him, seated in a clean white room. On the screen, his drawings could be seen, full of lines he had carefully traced. It was a storyboard, the main topic of the job interview.

“Are you finished? Can I see it?” asked a woman from human resources from the interview table.

Jira followed the voice and answered softly. “Not yet, I still need to adjust some details.”
“It’s okay, show me what you have,” she insisted.

The middle-aged woman approached his table. In the end, Jira handed her the tablet. She seemed satisfied with his work.

“It’s very clear. The drawing tests and the line work are good, but you need to make it a little more commercial,” she commented.

“No problem, I can adjust it,” Jira replied.

“I have one more observation. I think you draw a bit slow,” she added. Now there were two criticisms.
“I can train to be faster,” Jira assured.

“I have an important question. The company just changed its policies. Do you know how to use generative AI?”

“AI? Yes, I know a bit,” Jira replied.

“The position is storyboard artist, but with the new policies, the workload will be heavier. If you can use AI for everything, you’ll save time. From your tests, I think you know how to choose adequate images for the job,” she explained.

After hearing that, Jira felt like a hammer hit his head. “If AI does everything, what do I do?” he asked.
“You’ll use your judgment. Once AI generates the images, you’ll do the final touch-ups. With so much work, it’s the most efficient,” she responded.

Silence filled the room. Jira reflected. One criticism wasn’t a problem, two could be adjusted, but the third… not even standing on his head could relieve his stress. AI taking an artist’s job was a hundred times more painful than counting coins to pay for transportation.

In that moment, Pheem’s words echoed in his head: Follow your emotions and you’ll get the job. This was the moment to transform the crisis into opportunity.

“Can I speak frankly?” Jira asked.

The interviewer tilted her head, curious but willing to listen. Jira took the chance to vent, letting out all his emotions as if he had been saving sunlight for a week.

“I want this job to prove myself. If AI does almost everything, I’m not sure it’s still my job,” he said.

“And I like this company because of its artisanal approach. If it loses that value, it would be a shame,” he added.

“So, do you know how to use AI or not?” the interviewer asked, starting to get irritated. Jira gathered courage. If she saw his sincerity, surely they would hire him.
“It’s new to me, but I can learn,” he said. She smiled.
“But, from the heart, I don’t want to do it that way,” Jira added. The interviewer’s smile vanished instantly.
The other two interviewers, who were watching from afar, exchanged looks. The silence was overwhelming. The woman in front of him picked up his r sum and looked it over.

“In your application it says you adapt well. Isn’t that true?” she asked, more like a reproach than a compliment.

Jira decided to go all in. It was now or never.

“Yes, I adapt well. But there are things I won’t adapt to if it means losing my identity,” he stated.

Everyone in the room was stunned. Only Jira kept a smile on his face.

…

He left the interview with his heart racing. He unbuttoned the first button of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his face to calm his anxiety. But it didn’t help; on the contrary, it made him even more restless.

He took out his phone and dialed the number he had saved the night before. They answered quickly.

“Did you finish the interview? How was it?” Pheem asked.

“Ha! A disaster. You said if I followed my emotions I’d get the job. What job? There’s no job!” Jira complained.

“Calm down, calm down. What did you do?”

“I was just honest, maybe a bit rude,” Jira admitted.

“That’s not following your emotions, that’s being big-mouthed. You have to go further! Use your artist soul,” Pheem encouraged him.

Pheem spoke enthusiastically, wanting Jira to keep hope of finding a new job. His words convinced him easily.

“What? Even more?” Jira exclaimed.

“Yes, if this job didn’t work out, try the next one,” Pheem said.

“Thanks, you make me feel a bit better,” Jira replied, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He was about to tell him more when another call notification interrupted him. The name on the screen was clear: Ing.

“I’ll leave you here, I’ll call you later,” Jira said. “Sure,” Pheem replied.
After hanging up, Jira answered his friend’s call quickly. As expected, Ing, fast as lightning, got straight to the point.

“You got a job!” she announced.

“What? What job? I just left an interview I didn’t pass!” Jira exclaimed. “The dinner companion one,” Ing clarified.

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want it? When did you accept it for me?” Jira protested, feeling that his mood, which had begun to improve, dropped again.

“I accepted it. I saw it was good. This way you won’t have to eat rocks,” Ing said. “How good is the pay?” Jira asked, wanting to consider the offer carefully. “Compared to the storyboard job, you don’t earn even half in a month,” Ing explained. “Interesting,” Jira said.
“So, do you take it or not?”

“Yes,” he replied. Even if it wouldn’t settle his whole debt with Ing, this job would give him a breather.

“So, I’ve reached this point? Selling my face to survive month by month?” “If you don’t do it, you die today,” Ing said.
“If you’re free, come by the studio. I’ll give you the details.” “But…”
Before he finished, Ing hung up.

Jira sighed, ran his hand through his messy hair, and left the bathroom to take a motorcycle to his friend’s studio.

When he arrived, he collapsed onto a chair in the middle of the room and fired questions nonstop.

“Who hired me? Where is the dinner? When? How should I dress? And the payment?” Ing looked up, rolled her eyes, and explained calmly.
“It’s tomorrow, stay free. The client has hired you several times. From what I’ve heard, he’s a bit demanding.”

“Demanding enough to humiliate those who serve him. What should I do if I don’t meet his expectations?” Jira asked.

“You can handle it. You’ve acted in theater, so getting into character will be easy,” Ing said.

“If I don’t achieve it, I’ll have to achieve it,” Jira replied, leaning back in the chair, exhausted but determined.

“But they’re asking for a punk style. Research a bit how the punk vibe is,” Ing added. Jira straightened up upon hearing the condition.

“Wow, that complicates things!”

“Don’t worry about the clothes, I’ll help you,” said Ing.

“That worries me more. How many times have we gotten into trouble because of your help?” joked Jira.

“Shut up!” exclaimed Ing, throwing a friendly curse at him. Jira shrugged, unbothered, while watching his friend walk to a coat rack in the corner.

“Come, try this.”

Jira sighed, followed her, and became a human mannequin. He tried on several garments until Ing handed him a black T-shirt with silver metallic details. He took off the shirt he was wearing and put on the new one.

“Isn’t it too small?” Jira asked.

“Tight” would be the best description.

He took off the T-shirt and grabbed another from Ing’s hands. While changing, he took the opportunity to ask more about the job.

“This dinner is just for eating, right? I don’t have to do anything else, right?”

“You’re only hired for the dinner. If they want anything else, you decide,” Ing replied.

“If the client gets intense, what do I do? What’s the price for that? Do they pay before or after?” Since it was something new, Jira fired questions nonstop.

“It’s not that I want to sell myself, I’m just asking.”

“No one has asked you anything and you’re already nervous! If you want to sell yourself, that’s up to you,” said Ing, looking at the clothes.

“That one is too big. Looks like a truck ran over you instead of being punk.” “Great, you don’t want me to spend money on new clothes, right?”
“That’s why we use Hive,” said Ing.

“You’ve never used the Hive app? Seriously?”

“It’s cheaper than free. And this app is amazing,” said Ing, taking out her phone and opening a bright yellow app called Hive.

Hive was an app for selling clothes, shoes, bags, and accessories with cute designs and fast shipping, very popular in recent years.

“Look, if you want a garment, you just upload a reference,” explained Ing, uploading an image of the design the client had requested. Within seconds, the screen showed several similar garments. Jira was left open-mouthed.

“The AI finds clothes that match the design,” explained Ing. “Crazy!” exclaimed Jira.
“Choose whichever you want and add them to the cart. Try four or five,” Ing suggested. “Okay, it’s cheap, but why so many?”
“Because they don’t always match the image. That’s why I tell you to buy several and try your luck,” explained Ing.

“What am I trusting?” Jira complained.

“Stop complaining. With little money, you have to spend wisely. This one is fine, costs eighty-nine baht,” said Ing, pointing at the screen and ordering it immediately.

“I’ll send it urgently to your apartment, it will arrive tomorrow.”

Just seeing the price and the express shipping option made Jira shiver. He looked at Ing fearfully, praying nothing worse would happen.

…

The package arrived so fast it was alarming. He had ordered it yesterday, and today it was already in his hands, relieving his worry about being ready for the dinner in… two hours?

“Fast as its name!” exclaimed Jira.

Upon opening the box, he saw a Hive logo on a label. Without hesitation, he cut the tape and found the clothes wrapped in paper. The box and wrapping seemed more expensive than the clothes themselves.

Jira inspected the garments and found the quality was terrible, causing him to mutter several curses. He lifted a T-shirt so thin it seemed like toilet paper. When he tried it on, a single movement tore the seams.

“Was this sewn with soluble thread?” he complained.

Seeing himself in the mirror, his heart sank. He ripped the T-shirt, crumpled it, and threw it in a corner. The first garment didn’t pass the test, but the next one might be better. He tried another, but the sleeves were uneven, and the skinny pants were so tight he could barely move.

He sighed, taking off the clothes with difficulty and falling backwards onto the bed. “Tears are about to come. What terrible quality,” he murmured.
Desperation consumed him. Buying on that app was like playing the lottery. If the last garment didn’t work, he’d have to wear something from his wardrobe. Luckily, the last one seemed decent.

It was a long-sleeved satin shirt, soft to the touch, with black details on the collar and buttons, simple but stylish. With some adjustments, it could work. He took scissors, cut the sleeves, and tried it on.

“Fits well,” he thought, looking at himself in the mirror. He decided to wear it.

He entered the bathroom, where he saw makeup, a black lipstick, temporary tattoos, and cheap accessories that Ing had given him. He used them to get as close as possible to the punk style.

He placed the phone in front of the mirror, played punk music, and sang enthusiastically. “Aaaargh!” he shouted, holding back from moving his head while doing his makeup.
Following a punk makeup reference, he lined his eyes, applied the black lipstick, wore several earrings and a heavy choker, finishing with a legendary scream.

“Saaaaaan!”

“I did it. Life is just this,” he told himself, repeating motivational phrases in his head.

…

He entered the luxury restaurant, which was almost empty, with few clients compared to the available tables. A waiter guided him to a table where a man of about fifty, dressed elegantly, was waiting. He exuded slight tension.

Although nervous, Jira summoned courage and greeted. “Good evening, Mr. Don,” he said.
“Wow! You got into character better than I expected. Seeing your photo, I didn’t think you’d reach this level,” said Don, scanning Jira from head to toe, which made him a bit uncomfortable.

“Eh, thanks,” Jira replied.

“Sit down, I’ve already ordered the food,” said Don. Jira sat and formally introduced himself.
“My name is Jira.”

“No, now you’re not Jira,” Don corrected.

Although it seemed strange to him, Jira chose silence. Soon the dishes arrived, but he hadn’t chosen anything. And, since he didn’t participate in the selection, the table was full of food he didn’t like.

“Do you like it? This is the restaurant’s signature dish,” Don asked.

Jira, looking at a rare steak, answered cautiously. “It’s just… I don’t eat raw meat.”
Don frowned, annoyed.

“This is expensive. You should be grateful,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mention it earlier,” Jira apologized.
“Do you understand? This dish, YOU must eat it,” Don insisted, pronouncing each word slowly to make his authority clear.

Don cut the raw steak, from which blood dripped, skillfully. Soon, a piece was in front of Jira’s lips.

“I can’t eat it,” Jira insisted. “You can. Eat,” Don ordered.
Forced, Jira opened his mouth and bit the piece, feeling nauseous. Even so, he chewed it and swallowed with effort, just to make the job go well.

“Can’t you make a face like you’re enjoying it?” Don reproached.

Jira, who had already made an effort, could no longer contain himself. His voice came out with a sarcastic tone.

“I’ll smile until my mouth breaks, but first, let me order my food,” he said. Don, irritated by Jira’s attitude, leaned back in the chair.
“The previous one wasn’t this problematic,” he said.

Jira stayed still, feeling scolded for the umpteenth time this month. Tired and recalling Pheem’s advice to follow his emotions, he decided to provoke Don for fun, not caring whether he got paid or not.

All or nothing.

“It’s good that you love the previous one so much. And where is he now?” Jira asked. “He told me he was busy,” Don replied.
“Busy? I think he got tired of you,” said Jira, clicking his tongue with a mocking expression. “How dare you talk to me like that?” exclaimed Don.
“You dare to ask everything from me,” Jira retorted.

“I’ve never had such bad service. I’m paying you a lot, the least is that you do what I say,” said Don.

“Then, ask me something that isn’t eating raw meat,” replied Jira.

“Enough, I’ve lost my appetite,” said Don, getting up. He took money from his wallet, threw it on the plate full of blood, and pointed at Jira.

“A piece of advice: if you can’t measure up, don’t accept the job. Useless, you waste other people’s time!”

Jira looked at the thousand-baht bills in front of him. Unable to bear the humiliation, he exploded.

“You really like punk, don’t you?” he shouted. “What?” Don, who hadn’t moved far, turned around. “You like punk, right?” Jira repeated.
“Yes, so what?”

Jira jumped up, grabbed the blood-stained money, and threw it at Don with all his strength, screaming as if he had warmed up his voice at home.

“Take your damn money, idiot!”

The few clients in the restaurant turned to look. Jira felt no shame, but Don, humiliated, wanted to disappear. Before leaving, he cursed Jira with vulgar words.

He lost his voice and the money, but gained satisfaction. Although today he was in ruin, tomorrow he would heal.

He sat down again, took a bottle of expensive wine, poured himself a glass, and drank it in one gulp to calm down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a waiter approaching and thought he would be kicked out.

“I know, I’m leaving. No need to kick me out,” he said.

“I’m not here to kick you out. I brought food,” replied the waiter, placing a well-cooked steak in front of him.

“Eh? I didn’t order this,” Jira said, confused.

“The gentleman at that table ordered it for you. He said to eat with pleasure,” explained the waiter.

Jira looked toward the indicated table. An unknown man was watching him.

When their eyes met, the fury in Jira’s heart faded, giving way to curiosity. The man, about 180 cm tall, fair-skinned, with black hair and single-lid eyes, dressed simply, as if he didn’t want to be noticed.

But his cold gaze and expressionless face had a magnetic power. For an artist like Jira, who lived by instinct, this man was different. He had no smiles, no greetings, he was just there, watching him.

And yet, he won… effortlessly.

He drew all of Jira’s attention without doing anything.