Niran's POV
I should not have come back.
That was the thought repeating in my head as I climbed through the broken section of wall behind Building C for the second time in one week.
Not:
I'm making a mistake.
Not:
This is dangerous.
Just a quiet, exhausted certainty.
I should not have come back.
And yet, here I was.
The night air was thick with humidity, clinging to my skin as I crossed the empty school grounds. Somewhere outside the campus walls, a motorbike sped past. A dog barked once, then again.
Everything else was quiet.
Too quiet.
The old gym looked exactly the same.
Dark.
Tired.
Slightly offended by its own existence.
The storage room door was already open.
Of course.
By now, I was starting to suspect this Society had a sponsorship deal with dramatic entrances.
I stepped inside.
The smell of dust and old metal greeted me like an old friend I had never asked for.
More people were here tonight.
Not many.
Seven, including me.
Enough to make the room feel less accidental.
Still small enough to feel intimate in a way that made me vaguely uncomfortable.
Prae was already seated, posture perfect as always.
Tom sat slouched in his chair like he had been personally wronged by furniture.
Win and Kao sat close together, shoulders touching.
Pim and Lita had joined tonight too.
Both girls looked quieter than I expected, though not timid.
More like carefully measured.
Like they had learned to ration vulnerability.
Akin sat in the same place as last time.
Same black hoodie.
Same infuriatingly calm posture.
Same expression that gave away approximately nothing.
He looked up as I entered.
Not surprised.
Just observant.
"You came back," he said.
Not a question.
"Apparently."
A faint shift in his expression.
Not a smile.
Just recognition.
"Sit."
Again with the commands.
Very cult leader of him.
I sat.
The meeting began in the usual deeply concerning silence.
At this point, I was almost getting used to it.
Which felt like a personal red flag.
Akin glanced around the circle.
Then reached beside his chair.
He placed a stack of papers on the floor.
The sound of paper hitting wood somehow felt louder than it should have.
Everyone in the room visibly noticed.
Even Tom sat up slightly.
Interesting.
So this was new.
Akin picked up one sheet.
Held it between his fingers.
"The contract," he said simply.
No dramatic buildup.
No ominous soundtrack.
Just two words.
And suddenly, my stomach tightened.
Prae accepted the first paper without hesitation.
Of course she did.
She looked like she signed emotionally binding documents recreationally.
The papers were passed around one by one.
Eventually, one reached me.
Cheap printer paper.
Slightly crooked formatting.
No fancy design.
No logo.
Just black ink on white paper.
For some reason, that made it more unsettling.
I looked down and read.
THE STARLIGHT SOCIETY AGREEMENT
Rule 1: No lying.
Rule 2: No disclosing the existence of The Starlight Society to outsiders.
Rule 3: No false promises of recovery, rescue, or salvation.
Rule 4: No interfering with another member's personal decisions.
Rule 5: Attendance is voluntary. Departure is voluntary.
By signing below, I acknowledge that my choices are my own and my life remains my responsibility.
That was it.
No direct mention of death.
No explicit danger.
No crime documentary material.
Just something somehow worse.
Because it looked reasonable.
Almost ethical.
Almost harmless.
Which made it infinitely more disturbing.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered.
Tom snorted.
"Then don't sign."
Helpful.
I looked up at Akin.
"So what exactly is this?"
"A boundary."
His tone was calm.
Measured.
Like he was explaining something obvious.
"For what?"
"For honesty."
That was not a real answer.
I narrowed my eyes.
"This feels suspiciously like joining a cult."
A few people actually laughed.
Win covered his mouth.
Even Kao smiled.
Excellent.
Glad my emotional deterioration was entertaining.
Akin, however, remained composed.
"If we were a cult," he said, "we'd have better chairs."
That caught me off guard.
A tiny laugh escaped before I could stop it.
Traitorous behavior.
Then his expression shifted slightly more serious.
"Not everyone who messages gets invited here."
That made me pause.
"What?"
The room had gone quieter.
Akin leaned back slightly.
"The post is public. The Society isn't."
Something cold slid down my spine.
"How do you decide?"
His eyes landed on me.
Direct.
Steady.
Careful.
"I look for patterns."
Not unsettling at all.
"What kind of patterns?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"People who are tired enough to stop performing."
That sentence hit harder than it should have.
Before I could respond, he continued.
"Most messages are loud."
He glanced briefly at the others.
"Anger. Panic. Desperation. Explanation."
Then back to me.
"You sent a star."
Heat rose embarrassingly fast to my face.
"That was not meant to be memorable."
"It was honest."
Something about the way he said it made my chest feel strange.
Not fluttering.
Nothing cute and romantically irresponsible.
Just… noticed.
Dangerously noticed.
I looked back down at the paper.
Rule 4 stared back at me.
No interfering with another member's personal decisions.
That was the real rule.
The core of all this.
No saving.
No stopping.
No rescue.
Just observation.
Just permission.
Just shared surrender.
I should have hated it.
Instead, I understood it immediately.
That was the most frightening part.
Akin placed a pen beside me.
Simple blue ink.
No ceremony.
No pressure.
Just an object.
And somehow it felt heavier than anything in the room.
"You can leave," he said.
His voice was quiet now.
Not performative.
Not manipulative.
Just factual.
"No one is forcing you."
I stared at the contract.
Then at the pen.
Then at my own name printed in neat blank space below.
The room was silent.
Waiting.
Not pressuring.
Just present.
And somehow, that made the choice feel even more personal.
This was stupid.
Deeply stupid.
Emotionally catastrophic, probably.
I picked up the pen.
Signed.
Niran Vichit.
The moment the ink dried, something shifted inside me.
Not relief.
Not certainty.
Just the unsettling awareness that I had crossed something invisible.
And could no longer pretend I hadn't.
I placed the paper down.
Akin took it from me carefully.
Glanced at my signature.
Then folded it once.
Neatly.
Like handling something fragile.
Or important.
The meeting ended shortly after.
People stood.
Gathered their things.
Left in quiet pairs or alone.
Soon, it was just Akin and me again.
Apparently, it is becoming a pattern.
He stacked the signed contracts methodically.
Too methodically.
"You organize emotional instability very efficiently," I said.
A pause.
Then...
That almost-smile again.
"You noticed."
Unfortunately.
I adjusted my bag over my shoulder.
"So what now?"
Akin looked at me.
His expression was unreadable again.
"Now," he said, "you decide whether you meant it."
I frowned.
"I signed it."
"That wasn't what I asked."
Annoying.
Profound in a way I did not consent to.
I turned toward the exit.
Then paused.
"Can people really leave?" I asked.
For the first time, Akin didn't answer immediately.
The silence stretched just slightly too long.
Interesting.
Finally, he said:
"Rule five says they can."
Not what I asked.
Not even close.
I looked at him for another second.
Then left.
Outside, Bangkok felt warmer than before.
Heavier.
The contract was no longer in my hands.
But somehow, I could still feel its weight.
I had signed something tonight.
Not my death.
Not exactly.
Something harder to explain.
Permission, maybe.
Or surrender.
Either way...
This was definitely not something emotionally healthy people did on Friday nights.
And yet, as I walked home through the humid streets, one truth sat quietly inside me.
I didn't regret it.
That scared me more than anything else.