Chapter 1: a dead body
Bangkok never sleeps
It only pretends to.
Bangkok smelled like wet concrete and burnt oil when I arrived. The kind of smell that stayed in your clothes even after you washed them, the kind that followed you
home. Red and blue lights pulsed against the walls of the alley, stretching shadows until they looked like they were trying to escape. I ducked under the tape and one of the officers glanced at me before looking away again, as if my presence had already been approved by the city itself.
"คุณคือคุณธนากรใช่ไหมครับ" the young officer asked.
(You're Mr. Thanakorn, right?)
"Yes," I said. "Thanakorn Wattanachai."
"ผู้กองรออยู่ข้างในครับ"
(The inspector is waiting inside.)
Inspector Anurak stood near the far wall, arms crossed, his face unreadable. He didn't turn when I approached.
"You're late," he said.
"I came as fast as I could."
"เร็วของคุณกับเร็วของผมไม่เหมือนกัน" he replied.
(Your 'fast' and my 'fast' aren't the same.)
I ignored that and looked past him. The body lay a few steps away, partially hidden by a forensic sheet. Only her feet were visible. Bare. Clean.
"ผู้หญิง?" I asked.
(A woman?)
"ใช่" Anurak said. "ยี่สิบปลายๆ"
(Yes. Late twenties.)
I crouched slowly, careful not to cross any lines.
"ชื่ออะไร"
"พวีนี รัตนกร"
(Phawinee Rattanakorn.)
The name landed heavier than it should have. I didn't react. I never did, not immediately.
Somsak, the young officer, shifted his weight nervously.
"ไม่มีร่องรอยการต่อสู้ครับ"
(No signs of a struggle, sir.)
"No blood on the walls," I said. "No mess."
"คุณคิดอะไรอยู่" Anurak asked.
(What are you thinking?)
"That she trusted whoever was with her."
Anurak looked at me then. "คุณชอบสรุปแบบนี้ตลอด"
(You always jump to conclusions like this.)
"And I'm rarely wrong."
A woman's voice cut through the alley. "ฉันบอกไปหมดแล้วนะ"
(I already told everything.)
Aunty Malee stood near the stairs, arms folded tightly against her chest. Her eyes flicked between us like she was counting exits.
"ช่วยเล่าอีกครั้งได้ไหมครับ" I said gently.
(Could you tell us again?)
She sighed. "ฉันนอนตอนสี่ทุ่มครึ่ง ทุกคืนเหมือนกัน"
(I sleep at ten-thirty. Same every night.)
"ไม่ได้ยินอะไรเลย?"
(You didn't hear anything?)
"ไม่ได้ยิน"
(Nothing.)
"No footsteps?" Anurak asked.
"ไม่มี"
"No voices?" I asked.
She hesitated. Just a fraction. "ไม่มี"
Somsak frowned. "แล้วคุณเห็นใครขึ้นลงบ้างไหมครับ"
(Did you see anyone coming or going?)
"เห็นผู้ชายคนหนึ่ง"
(I saw a man.)
Anurak straightened. "ตอนไหน"
(When?)
"ก่อนเที่ยงคืน"
(Before midnight.)
"ลักษณะยังไง" I asked.
She shook her head. "จำไม่ได้"
"เสื้อผ้า?" Somsak pressed.
"มืดเกินไป"
I nodded. "ขอบคุณครับ"
(Thank you.)
As she walked away, Anurak said quietly, "เธอไม่ได้โกหก"
(She wasn't lying.)
"No," I said. "She was choosing."
We stood in silence while the forensic team finished their work. The zipper sound felt too loud, like it was ripping something open instead of closing it.
Somsak broke the quiet
. "คนร้ายจะกลับมาไหมครับ"
(Do you think the killer will come back?)
Anurak shrugged. "บางคนชอบดูผลงานตัวเอง"
(Some people like to admire their work.)
I said nothing.
"แล้วคุณล่ะครับ" Somsak asked me. "คุณคิดยังไง"
"I think," I said slowly, "that some people don't need to look back."
On the drive away from the scene, Anurak kept his eyes on the road. "คุณดูเหนื่อย"
"I didn't sleep."
"คุณควรหยุดพัก"
"Not yet."
"คุณเอาเรื่องพวกนี้กลับบ้านทุกครั้ง"
(You take these things home every time.)
"Someone has to."
Back in my apartment, the city noise faded into a distant hum. I locked the door, then checked it again. The mirror in the hallway reflected a stranger who looked calm enough to fool me. I washed my hands in the sink, watching the water spiral down the drain.
I sat at the table and opened my notebook. The page was already creased, like it had been opened before.
I wrote carefully.
Victim calm. Scene controlled. No resistance.
I stopped, pen hovering.
Outside, a motorcycle passed. Somewhere, someone laughed.
I added one more line.
Verify the timing.
I stared at the words, unsure why they mattered so much.
Then I closed the notebook and turned off the light.
Bangkok kept breathing in the dark.
So did I.
The air in the apartment felt heavier than it should have. Not humid charged.
My senses refused to shut down, every sound sharper, every smell layered on top of another. Oil from the street below. Old wood. Soap on my own skin. And something faint I didn't want to name.
Stress did that to omegas.
Pulled memories forward.
Made the past leak through cracks you thought you'd sealed.
I checked the lock again.
Habit.
Control mattered.
Especially for someone like me.
The suppressant patch on my neck itched.
I resisted the urge to touch it.
I'd replaced it that morning, routine and precise, like everything else in my life. No room for mistakes. Not in my work. Not in my biology.
I poured water, drank half, set the glass down untouched.
The notebook waited.
I told myself I was done for the night.
I wasn't.
I opened it.
Victim calm.
Scene controlled.
No resistance.
I frowned and crossed out controlled.
Allowed, I wrote instead.
"An omega knew the difference."
Trust wasn't always emotional. Sometimes it was instinctual your body making decisions before your mind caught up.
You learned to recognize it early or you learned it the hard way.
I turned the page.
'Witness selective.'
Man visible by design.
My pen paused.
Scent memory was unreliable to non-omegas.
To us,
it lingered.
A trace in the air.
A pressure behind the eyes.
The alley had been too clean. Too neutral.
Like someone had made an effort.
I closed the notebook and pressed my thumb to the edge until it hurt.
Pain grounded me better than denial.
Sleep didn't come.
Instead, my body stayed alert, tuned too finely, listening to the city like it was waiting for something to break. Somewhere below, laughter rose and fell. Somewhere else, an alpha shouted, voice sharp with authority even through concrete and distance.
I exhaled slowly, counting
.
My phone buzzed
.
I stiffened before I even reached for it.
Unknown number.
"You were right to look at the time."
The words settled into me uncomfortably,
like a scent that didn't belong.
I typed,
erased,
typed again.
"Who is this?"
The reply came after a pause.
"Someone who noticed what you did."
I swallowed.
"About what?"
Replied came
"About the hour nobody is admitting exists."
Between eleven and one.
The time when control slipped. When routines ended.
When people trusted the wrong instincts.
I locked the phone and set it down, breathing carefully through my nose
. My suppressant wasn't failing but stress blurred edges. Made everything feel closer.
The phone buzzed again.
"She left the café at 11:17."
That number landed hard.
"She wasn't alone."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Then why didn't anyone see them together?"
The response took longer this time.
Because
he knew where the light stopped.
I closed my eyes.
The alley. The shadows. The stairs.
Aunty Malee's hesitation replayed itself
not fear, not confusion. Calculation. The kind people used when they knew how dangerous attention could be.
"Meet me"
the message continued.
"Tomorrow. Same café. Noon."
"Why should I trust you?"
The answer came immediately.
"You shouldn't. But you will."
I set the phone down slowly.
My heartbeat had changed not faster, just heavier. Instinct murmured beneath reason, warning me without offering explanations. That was the curse of being an omega in a job that demanded certainty.
I opened the notebook one last time.
11:17
Someone is counting minutes.
Someone understands instinct.
I turned off the light and lay back down, staring into the dark.
The city breathed.
My body stayed awake.
And I understood, with quiet clarity, that this case wasn't just about a dead woman.
It was about timing.
About trust
.
About what people sensed and what they chose to ignore.
Especially omegas.
Sleep came in fragments.
Not dreams sensations.
Pressure behind my eyes.
The phantom echo of a scent that didn't belong to me, sharp and restrained, deliberately muted. Whoever he was, he knew how to keep himself clean.
Alphas who didn't flaunt their presence were the dangerous kind. They understood restraint.
They understood omegas.
I woke before dawn, heart steady but alert, like my body had decided rest was a luxury it couldn't afford.
The suppressant patch had shifted slightly in my sleep. I fixed it without looking in the mirror. I didn't need my reflection reminding me of what the city already knew. An omega investigator in Bangkok was a contradiction people tolerated only because results shut them up.
I showered longer than usual, letting the water burn just enough to drown out instinct.
By the time I dressed, the city outside had lightened into its early-morning gray neither night nor day, a liminal hour that lied about safety.
I checked my phone again.
No new messages.
That didn't mean anything. It also meant everything.
At the café, noon arrived exactly on time. Bangkok respected schedules when it wanted to. The place looked unchanged—same chipped tables, same tired ceiling fan, same faint bitterness in the air that never quite left. I chose a seat near the window. Visibility mattered. So did exits.
I didn't order anything.
At 12:04, someone sat across from me.
Beta. Early thirties. Neutral scent, carefully cultivated. The kind of person who moved through
the world without disturbing it.
"You're punctual," he said.
"So were you," I replied.
He smiled faintly. "I didn't think you'd trust a message from an unknown number."
"I didn't," I said. "I trusted my instincts."
His eyes flicked briefly to my neck. To the patch.
Then back to my face.
"Still sharp," he said.
Not a compliment.
An observation.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Someone who works nights," he said. "And notices who doesn't."
He slid his phone across the table. On the screen was a timestamped image grainy, angled badly. Phawinee, unmistakable even from behind. And beside her, a blurred figure. Taller. Closer than strangers stood.
"11:17," I said.
"Yes."
"Where did you get this?"
"I was there," he replied.
"Across the street. Smoking. Watching nothing in particular."
"Why keep it?"
He hesitated. Not long. Just enough.
"Because she didn't look afraid," he said.
I leaned back slightly. "You expect that to mean something to me?"
"It should," he said quietly.
"You're an omega."
The word wasn't sharp. It didn't need to be.
"You don't say that lightly," I replied.
"I wouldn't," he said.
"Not to you."
Silence stretched between us, thick with things unsaid.
"Who was he?" I asked.
The beta shook his head. "I never saw his face.
But I saw how he stood. Not possessive.
Not aggressive. Protective, maybe.
Or practiced."
"Did he speak?"
"No," he said.
"She did."
My pen was already out before I realized it.
"What did she say?"
He met my eyes.
"She said, I trust you."
The words settled into me slowly, like a bruise forming under skin.
"That's all?" I asked.
"That was enough."
I closed my notebook carefully.
"Why come to me?" I asked.
"Because the police will look for force," he said.
"And you'll look for consent."
I stood.
"Don't contact me again," I said.
"I won't have to," he replied.
"You're already involved."
Outside, Bangkok had moved fully into afternoon. Noise. Heat. Bodies brushing past each other, scents overlapping until they blurred. I walked without rushing, letting the city swallow me again.
Consent.
Trust.
An omega's instincts weren't weakness. They were precision tools if you survived long enough to sharpen them.
By the time I reached my car, I knew one thing with certainty:
Phawinee hadn't been taken.
She had followed.
And whoever she followed had understood exactly what that meant.
The case wasn't asking who killed her.
It was asking why she chose him.
And worse
Why he hadn't needed to force anything at all.