Niran's POV
By the time dinner ended, I had already decided I was going.
Not because it was a good idea.
Not because I trusted anonymous strangers with aesthetically pleasing emotional damage.
Mostly because the alternative was staying in my room alone with my thoughts.
And lately, my thoughts had become an unsafe environment.
I waited.
The television downstairs turned off first.
Then came the sound of my father locking the front gate.
A few minutes later, my mother washed the last dishes.
Water running.
Plates clinking.
Cabinet doors closing.
Normal family sounds.
The kind that should have felt comforting.
Instead, they felt far away.
Like I was already leaving.
I checked my phone.
8:41 PM.
Still early.
I sat on my bed, staring at the conversation.
Friday. 9:00 PM. Old gym storage room.
No name.
No profile picture.
No context.
Honestly, this was how people ended up on crime documentaries.
At 8:47, I stood up.
Hoodie.
Phone.
Wallet.
Keys.
A questionable amount of bad decision-making.
Before leaving, I hesitated at my desk.
My textbooks were still stacked there.
Mathematics.
Science.
English.
A small mountain of personal disappointment.
For a second, I stared at them.
Then turned away.
Not tonight.
I slipped out quietly.
Shoes in hand until I reached the staircase.
Then downstairs.
Then out.
The air outside was humid, warm even at night.
Bangkok never really slept.
A motorbike sped past.
Someone laughed somewhere down the soi.
A nearby convenience store glowed under harsh white lights, probably still full of students buying snacks and pretending their futures weren't actively collapsing.
My school was only fifteen minutes away.
Rattanakosin Wittaya School looked completely different at night.
Wrong, somehow.
Schools were supposed to be noisy.
Bright.
Chaotic.
Not silent and watching.
The main gate was locked, obviously.
However, most students knew about the broken section of the wall near the drainage canal behind Building C.
Not exactly a secret.
More of a long-term maintenance failure.
I climbed through carefully.
Nearly tore my hoodie on exposed metal.
Very elegant entrance.
The campus was dimly lit.
Tall buildings stood in silence.
Classroom windows reflected weak yellow lights from nearby streets.
The basketball court looked abandoned.
The flagpole stood motionless.
Even the air felt still.
I walked toward the old gym.
Each step made me more aware that I was absolutely doing something insane.
The old gym sat near the back of campus.
Separated from the main buildings by a narrow walkway and several neglected trees.
It looked older than the rest of the school.
More tired.
Like it had quietly accepted irrelevance.
Behind it was the storage room.
The door was slightly open.
Of course it was.
Because apparently subtlety had been collectively abandoned.
I stood outside for a moment.
This was my last chance to leave.
Go home.
Sleep.
Pretend I had never sent a star emoji to what was potentially an emotionally unstable cult leader.
Instead, I pushed the door open.
The smell hit immediately.
Dust.
Old wood.
Metal.
Humidity trapped inside forgotten walls.
A single standing lamp lit the room.
Warm yellow light spilled across shelves lined with old trophies, medals, plaques, and sports equipment.
Football championships.
Debate awards.
Academic competitions.
Regional science fairs.
Achievements frozen in time.
No longer important.
Something about that made my chest tighten.
There were already people inside.
Four of them.
Seated in a loose circle.
No one was talking.
That was somehow the worst part.
Not awkward silence.
Intentional silence.
Like this was part of the experience.
Everyone looked at me when I entered.
I immediately wanted to evaporate.
A girl with sharp eyes and unnervingly perfect posture studied me from across the room.
Prae, probably.
She looked like she alphabetized her trauma.
Next to her sat a boy leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, expression permanently irritated.
Tom.
He had the energy of someone one inconvenience away from arson.
On the other side were two boys sitting close enough to suggest either emotional intimacy or a complete lack of personal boundaries.
Win and Kao.
One gave me a tired smile.
The other nodded politely.
At least two people here seemed mildly human.
And then...
Him.
He sat slightly apart from the others.
Not enough to seem excluded.
Just enough to feel deliberate.
Black hoodie.
Dark hair.
Straight posture.
Hands resting loosely in his lap.
Still.
Too still.
Like, movement was optional.
This had to be Akin.
He wasn't what I expected.
Not older.
Not obviously broken.
Not dramatic.
No dark circles.
No tragic posture.
No visible signs of internet-induced emotional collapse.
He looked… composed.
Annoyingly composed.
Like someone who should have been class president, not running a suspicious organization for emotionally compromised teenagers.
His face was calm.
Unreadable.
His gaze landed on me and stayed there.
Not aggressive.
Not warm.
Just observant.
Clinical, almost.
Like he was quietly categorizing me.
"You came," he said.
His voice was softer than I expected.
Calm.
Measured.
No surprise in it.
As if he had already assumed I would.
"I was curious," I replied.
A pause.
Then something shifted very slightly in his expression.
Not quite a smile.
More like the idea of one.
"Sit."
Not rude.
Not welcoming either.
Just a simple instruction.
So naturally, I obeyed.
Which was probably psychologically concerning.
I sat in the only empty chair.
The meeting began.
With silence.
Again.
Actual silence.
No introductions.
No small talk.
No "thank you for joining our emotionally questionable community."
Just quiet.
Several full seconds passed.
Then Akin spoke.
"One rule," he said.
His tone was even.
"No lying."
That was it.
No elaboration.
No explanation.
Just a rule delivered with enough seriousness to make it feel ceremonial.
Prae nodded once.
Tom stared at the floor.
Win and Kao exchanged a glance.
And somehow, no one questioned it.
People began speaking one by one.
Not full life stories.
Just fragments.
Observations.
Things they probably couldn't say anywhere else.
Tom talked briefly about anger.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just tired anger.
The kind that had already calcified.
Prae spoke next.
Her tone was almost academic.
Like she was presenting a case study on her own emotional deterioration.
Something about parental expectations.
Academic performance.
Exhaustion.
Very relatable content.
Win and Kao mostly spoke together.
Finishing each other's sentences.
Quietly talking about wanting somewhere to exist without explanation.
No one interrupted.
No one gave advice.
No one tried to fix anyone.
That was what unsettled me most.
No motivational speeches.
No fake optimism.
No "things will get better."
Just listening.
Just presence.
Just permission to be awful in peace.
It was deeply comforting.
Which was probably a terrible sign.
Eventually, the meeting ended as strangely as it began.
No conclusion.
People simply stood and began leaving.
Quietly.
Like this was normal.
As I got up, a voice stopped me.
"Niran."
I froze.
Turned.
Akin.
Of course.
The others filed out.
Soon, it was just the two of us and several decades of abandoned achievements.
He studied me for a moment.
Less detached now.
More curious.
"You're quieter than I expected," he said.
I crossed my arms.
"You expected a paragraph?"
"You sent one emoji."
"That was efficient communication."
A pause.
And then...
There.
A very small smile.
Brief enough that I almost thought I imagined it.
Dangerous.
Highly dangerous.
Akin stood and walked toward one of the trophy shelves.
His fingers brushed over a tarnished medal.
"Do you know why we meet here?" he asked.
I glanced around.
"At night? In a room straight out of a horror film?"
"That too."
His voice was dry.
Unexpectedly so.
Then he looked at the shelves.
"At some point," he said, "all of this mattered to someone."
I followed his gaze.
Dust-covered trophies.
Peeling gold paint.
Names no one remembered.
"And now?" I asked.
"Now they're stored here."
Forgotten.
Unused.
Outgrown.
Something in my chest tightened.
Because I understood exactly what he meant.
He looked back at me.
And for the first time that night, his expression softened.
Only slightly.
But enough.
"See you next week," he said.
Not a question.
Not even really an invitation.
Just certainty.
And somehow, that certainty made my pulse skip.
I should have found that alarming.
Instead, I found it comforting.
Which felt significantly more alarming.
As I left the storage room and stepped back into the humid Bangkok night, one thought followed me all the way home.
This was a terrible idea.
I was definitely coming back.