The air clung to Lin Chen's skin—thick, humid, and heavy with the sweet, rotten smell of durian. His straw sandals had long since shredded; stones dug into his bare heels, leaving trails of blood that mixed with the mud as he ran. Clutched to his chest was half a ball of coconut rice—sticky, still warm, stolen that morning from a Black Scorpion Gang stall while the guards napped. Now, that small scrap of food felt like a death sentence.
"Catch that thief! Don't let him slip into the mango grove!"
The shout, rough and laced with Thai curses, came from behind. Lin Chen glanced back. Three men in loud floral shirts were chasing him, machetes glinting under the midday sun—sharp enough to split bamboo, and he knew they wouldn't hesitate to use them. He was seventeen, thin as a rubber tree sapling, raised on the kindness of village grandmothers: Mrs. Li's sticky rice, Aunt Mei's fried tilapia, whatever scraps they could spare. His home was a leaky bamboo hut; his father had shaved his head and left for a Chiang Mai temple when Lin Chen was one. His mother? The elders only whispered that she was a "fairy taken by the heavens," leaving him nothing but a small ivory pendant around his neck—carved with a lotus, always colder than his skin.
He had stolen the coconut rice because he had no choice. His rice jar had been empty for three days. He had stood outside the Black Scorpion stall, his stomach growling so loudly he feared the guards would hear, and when he saw a chance—one guard snoring, the other picking his teeth—he grabbed the first thing he could. He hadn't expected Scar Kun to see him.
Scar Kun was the gang's enforcer, a man with a scar slicing from his eyebrow to his jaw (from a fight with Burmese smugglers, everyone said). To village kids, he was scarier than the river spirits they'd been warned about.
Lin Chen tripped over a gnarled mango tree root and fell hard. The coconut rice flew from his hands, landing in the mud—white grains turning brown, ruined. Before he could scramble up, a boot pressed into his back, shoving him into the dirt.
"Where do you think you're going?" Scar Kun's voice was low, cruel.
Lin Chen looked up. Five gang members surrounded him, machetes pointed at his chest. Two of them hauled him to his feet, twisting his arms behind his back. His ivory pendant dug into his chest, sending a faint, cold tingle through him—the same tingle he felt when he was scared. But this time, it didn't make him feel safer. It just made him angrier—angry at being hungry, angry at being weak, angry that his mother was gone and his father didn't care.
They dragged him to a massive banyan tree, its roots coiling like giant snakes across the ground. The trunk was so wide, two men couldn't wrap their arms around it. Villagers had carved tiny Thai prayers into its bark, hoping for protection. Now, it was where Lin Chen would die.
They tied his wrists to a thick branch with rough hemp rope, so tight it cut into his skin. His feet dangled a foot off the ground. Next to the tree stood a cast-iron pot—taller than Lin Chen, used by the gang to boil coconut soup. Under it, a fire blazed, feeding on dry coconut shells and sticks. The water inside bubbled, thin wisps of steam rising, carrying the scent of lemongrass.
"Boss, he's skinny—but boiling him slow will make the meat tender," a scrawny gang member said, prodding the fire with a stick.
Scar Kun laughed, pulling a clay jug of rice wine from his belt. He poured it into a chipped bowl and took a long drink. "Last time we boiled a debtor in this pot—tasted like chicken. This one's a 'fairy's son,' right? Should taste sweeter."
The other men laughed, slapping each other's backs. They sat on rocks, passing the wine jug, talking about robberies and betel nuts and which village they'd raid next. No one looked at Lin Chen. To them, he was just meat.
Tears mixed with sweat on Lin Chen's face. He thought of Mrs. Li, pressing rice into his hands before she died. He thought of the temple monk who had once brought him a Buddhist scripture, saying, "Life is suffering—but you must keep going." He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not boiled in a pot for stealing rice.
The fire grew hotter. The water in the pot bubbled faster, turning from clear to a murky white. Scar Kun stood up, wiping his mouth. "Enough talking. Toss him in."
Two gang members stepped forward. One grabbed Lin Chen's shirt collar; the other reached for the rope around his wrists. Lin Chen kicked, screamed, but it was useless—they were too strong. He closed his eyes, waiting for the scalding water—
Then a wind blew through the mango grove, carrying the faint scent of jasmine.
"Who's there?" Scar Kun snapped, hand flying to his machete.
Lin Chen opened his eyes.
A woman stood at the edge of the grove. She wore a white silk saree, her hem brushing the grass without picking up a single speck of mud. A white veil covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible—clear, calm, like the waters of the Chao Phraya River. She didn't look scared. She didn't look angry. She just looked… there.
"Hello," she said, her voice soft but loud enough to cut through the gang's mutters. "I'm taking this boy."
Scar Kun stared, then laughed. "You're out of your mind! This is Black Scorpion business—leave now, or we'll boil you too!"
The woman didn't move. She lifted her right hand, and for a split second, Lin Chen saw a faint white glow on her fingertip—like moonlight, but brighter. The man holding his collar yelped and let go, staring at his wrist. A red mark had appeared on it, as if he'd been burned.
Scar Kun's smile faded. He drew his machete and charged, screaming. The woman stepped sideways—slow, effortless, like she was dancing. Scar Kun stumbled past her, tripping over a banyan root and falling into the fire. He howled, rolling in the dirt to put out the flames on his shirt.
The other gang members froze. Then one of them yelled and swung his machete at the woman. She pulled a thin silver chain from her sleeve and flicked it. The chain wrapped around his wrist, yanking the machete from his hand. It clattered to the ground.
The rest of the gang backed away. They'd never seen anything like this—she didn't fight like a boxer, didn't swing a weapon. She just… moved. And that glow? It scared them.
The woman walked to Lin Chen. She touched the hemp rope around his wrists. The rope snapped, clean as a knife cut. Lin Chen rubbed his wrists, staring at her. He wanted to ask who she was, how she'd done that, why she'd saved him—but his throat was too tight.
"Come," she said, taking his hand. Her palm was cool, like his ivory pendant.
He followed her into the mango grove, leaving the gang's shouts behind. They ran past trees heavy with green mangoes, past bushes blooming with purple flowers. When they stopped, the woman pulled a banana leaf from her bag—inside was a ball of sticky rice, still warm.
"Eat," she said, handing it to him.
Lin Chen took it, his hands shaking. He took a bite—sweet, creamy, the best thing he'd tasted in weeks. He looked up, hoping to see her face under the veil.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Instead, she pointed toward the north, where the trees thinned. "Three miles that way. There's an old temple. Stay there tonight. The Black Scorpions won't follow."
She turned to leave. Lin Chen grabbed her sleeve—gently, afraid he'd upset her. "Wait. Do you… do you know about my mother? The fairy?"
The woman paused. For a moment, he thought she'd say no. Then, soft enough that he almost didn't hear it, she said: "You'll find out. Soon."
And then she was gone—vanishing into the mango trees, like she'd never been there. Lin Chen stood alone, holding the banana leaf, his ivory pendant cold against his chest. He looked toward the temple, then took a step.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel like he was running from something. He felt like he was running toward something.
⸻