- POV Frame -
There is a cruel irony in using a workstation as expensive as a luxury car to edit a video of a boy in his pajamas arguing with a Moh Hoong Khao (rice cooker).
On the 15th floor of the Apex Studios building, the air conditioning kept the room at a precise eighteen degrees, as sterile as an operating theater. The blue light from my three 8K monitors glowed... it was the exact kind of light ophthalmologists warned me to avoid, yet it had been the only light I'd known for the past six hours.
My name is Frame. In the credits at the end of a Lakorn Lang Khao (prime-time soap opera), I am the Head Editor. But in an incognito browser window, I am "Take"—the mysterious freelancer who edits the chaotic videos for the FilmZ_Official channel.
"Pull yourself together... Passakorn," I muttered to the screen, calling him by the real name I saw on the bank transfer slips.
In the raw footage, Film was filming in his apartment's living room. It wasn't a dump, but it was an apartment-studio of less than 30 square meters, where the kitchen was just two steps from the bed. Behind him, a pile of parcels from Shopee and a drying rack stood as silent witnesses that the life of a C-grade influencer wasn't glamorous at all.
He was performing a dramatic scene for a Reel, likely something he wrote himself in his phone notes... it was quite cliché. The plot was about being dumped via text.
"You said you loved me, but..." he began, staring into the phone lens propped against a stack of books.
Suddenly, he stopped, frowned, broke character, and looked up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh.
"What a piece of trash script... this was clearly written by AI. I should've watched some Lakorn with Yai (Grandmother) to get some references," he complained to the empty room in a natural, deep voice—a far cry from the nasal tone he usually adopted for short clips. "And anyway, no one talks like this in real life, right? Who gets dumped and says, 'You said you loved me'? They just block you and disappear, and that's that."
He took a deep breath, brushing back his unstyled hair that fell over his eyes in a way that was annoyingly handsome, then looked back at the lens.
"Okay... ad-libbing now, P'Take. Please handle the edit. Cut the first part out."
He closed his eyes for two seconds.
When he opened them, he was no longer the complaining kid in a cramped condo. His eyes welled with tears, his chin trembled. It was a physical transformation in the blink of an eye.
"So, this is it?" he said, his voice cracking, letting out a dry, painful laugh. "You're just going to block me? After two years, am I only worth a 'Block' button?"
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. There was no sad background music, no black-and-white filter. There was only him... in a crumpled t-shirt, with a raw talent that pierced through the LCD screen and punched me right in the gut.
I was about to start color grading when the automatic door of the editing suite hissed open with a hydraulic sound.
"Frame, have you seen the Metrics report for..."
The voice was fast and hurried. Krit Assawaraj—or P'Thorn, as he liked the long-time employees to call him to create an "accessible" image—walked into the room, his fingers tapping furiously on his phone. At 32, he was the heir to the Apex empire, dressed like he was headed for brunch in Silicon Valley: a linen blazer over a white t-shirt and sneakers that cost more than three months of my salary combined.
Thorn wasn't the type of boss who shouted. He was the type who looked at you, calculated the ROI in his head, and decided if you were worth the oxygen you were breathing.
I scrambled to minimize the Premiere Pro window.
"P'Thorn, Sawasdee Krap. I was just..."
"Engagement for the Moonlight series dropped 4% in the second break," he said without looking up from his iPhone. "People are skipping the dialogue scenes. We need to cut three minutes from tomorrow's episode. Try some new camera angles and tell the sound department to cram in more funny sound effects."
Finally, he looked up, and his gaze caught the main monitor I hadn't closed in time. The image of Film—eyes bloodshot, wearing the shattered smile of someone who'd just been dumped—was frozen on the 60-inch screen.
Thorn paused. He locked his phone and dropped it into his pocket.
"And... who is this new kid?" he asked. His tone was casual, but I knew his body language. He tilted his head slightly... that meant interest.
"No one, Krap. Just a personal project. I was just testing skin tones."
Thorn walked closer, ignoring my lie. He leaned against the edge of my desk, invading my personal space with the scent of expensive citrus perfume and iced coffee.
"Press Play."
"P'Thorn, it's just a video from the internet. The quality is..."
"Nong Frame," he called my name with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Press Play."
I hit the Spacebar and took a deep breath.
The video rolled. Film began to weave his magic. He transitioned from the pain of a breakup to a suppressed rage in seconds. He cursed, kicked a cushion, and then... with the genius of improvisation, he grabbed the rice cooker and started scooping rice into his mouth through tears, filling the void in his heart with carbohydrates. It was tragic and hilarious all at once.
Thorn was dead silent. He didn't laugh. He was analyzing.
"His timing is perfect," Thorn murmured, more to himself than to me. "He understands comedy beats, but the micro-expressions on his face are pure drama. He switches modes without needing a 'Cut'."
"He ad-libbed this scene, Krap," I let slip, feeling a stupid sense of pride deep down. "The original script was garbage, so he rewrote it in his head right then and there."
Thorn clicked his tongue.
"Smart... and cocky. I like that. Actors who just follow the script are boring. Actors who think might be harder to work with, but... they make money."
He turned to me, his businessman's gaze sweeping over my face.
"What's his name? And don't say 'no one' again."
"Passakorn Satcha, Krap," I answered in defeat. "Nickname is Film. He does a comedy sketch channel. He has a solid middle-class fanbase, but he's still niche."
Thorn pulled out his other phone, the folding one and began typing frantically, likely pulling up the backend data for Film's channel.
"'Film'," Thorn repeated, wrinkling his nose. "A bit of a common name, but it works. Easy to remember, easy to spell in English for the international market."
He looked at the monitor again. Film was now using a rice-stained sleeve to wipe his tears.
"Do you know what the problem with our programming grid is right now, Frame?" Thorn asked without waiting for an answer. "Our leading men are untouchable princes. Too handsome, too rich. Gen Z viewers don't vibe with perfection anymore. They want this."
He pointed at the rice cooker on the screen.
"They want a handsome guy crying while eating rice off the kitchen floor. Relatability aspirational."
Thorn pushed off the desk. The decision was made. I could see the gears turning in his head, turning Passakorn into a product, calculating contracts, merchandise, and fan-meeting tours.
"Bring him here," Thorn ordered.
"Krap."
"You have his contact. You edit for him. Don't look so shocked, Frame. I know you take outside work. As long as you hit my deadlines, I don't care what you do in your free time. But right now... I want this kid."
"He's not a professional actor, P'Thorn. Forget it. He's just a normal kid. He likes doing things his own way. He might not... adjust well to the... system."
Thorn laughed, a short, dry sound.
"Everyone adjusts, Frame, once they see the number of zeros on the check. The kid is probably living in a condo the size of a matchbox near Lumpini, eating yesterday's leftovers. He's dying to be famous; otherwise, he wouldn't be crying in front of a phone camera at 3 AM. I'm just giving him what he wants."
Thorn walked toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back.
"Meeting tomorrow at 2 PM. Tell him to wear exactly that outfit. I want to see if he has a real aura or if it's just editing tricks... Oh, and Frame."
"Krap?"
"If he signs, I'll credit you as the Executive Producer for this series. Consider it a promotion... or a punishment. Whichever you prefer."
The door closed.
I was left alone with the hum of the computers. I looked at Film on the screen. He looked so real, so tangible. Tomorrow... he would walk through that door, and Krit Assawaraj would slap a price tag on his forehead.
I opened the LINE app on my computer. Film's icon showed a green "Online" status. He was probably editing a thumbnail or playing games, completely unaware that his life had just been bought by a bored billionaire heir looking for a new profitable toy.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could warn him. I could tell him, "Don't come. Stay in your little room. Be happy being the owner of your own art."
Instead, I typed:
"Film, there's some good news. My friend at Apex wants to meet you tomorrow."
Send.
I had just sold my favorite secret... and the worst part was, I was getting a raise for it.