- POV Film -
The scent of Nom Khon Wan (sweetened condensed milk) and roasted coffee has been my alarm clock for the past seven years. But on this Tuesday, that aroma seemed to carry a strange sense of urgency.
"Film! Refill the ice for Table 4!" Yai (Grandmother) Mon shouted, her voice cutting through the hiss of the vintage espresso machine that was sputtering steam.
"On my way, Yai!" I shouted back, balancing three thick glass tumblers on one arm while my other hand used a stainless steel ladle to quickly scoop crushed ice.
This is what my life is like. Before becoming "FilmZ" in the internet world, I was just the grandson of Yai Mon, the owner of "Moom Oliang" (The Black Coffee Corner)—a small coffee shop that has stood its ground against the urban expansion of this neighborhood for a very long time. The shop is tucked away in a bustling alley, serving Oliang (Thai iced black coffee) and Cha Thai (Thai tea) to office workers and students who hurry past.
I love this atmosphere. The cacophony, the heat, and the rhythm of serving food that feels like a dance. It's real... unlike in my videos where I have to pretend to be four unique people. Here, I am just myself: a grandson helping out and saving on rent by living in a cheap apartment so I don't have to ask for money from my parents back in Phetchaburi.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, hanging between a Chinese calendar and a royal portrait of His Majesty the King.
11:15 AM.
My heart skipped a beat for a second, before racing to an extreme high-speed Technobrega rhythm.
"Chiiia..." I cursed under my breath, nearly spilling the evaporated milk.
Yai Mon appeared beside me, wiping her hands on an apron stained with tea. She pursed her lips, painted in her signature bright red—which never lacked, come rain or shine—and squinted at my panicked state.
"What's with that face, Loog? Did you see a ghost or something?"
"The time, Yai! I have... I have business near Kaset (Kasetsart University) at two o'clock."
Yai's eyes sparkled with the kind of cunning only the older generation possesses. She smirked until the wrinkles around her eyes became more pronounced.
"Oh... 'business,' is it?"
She made air quotes with her fingers, a gesture that was both hilarious and slightly intimidating.
"It's a job interview, Yai!" I tried to excuse myself while quickly untying my apron.
"Job... sure, I believe you. It's not that you're going to see that kid named Take you talk to all the time, is it?" Yai nudged my ribs with her elbow. "Dressed so handsome, wearing perfume too... just so you know, Ta (Grandfather) and I don't mind. As long as he's rich and keeps you well-fed, that's enough."
"Yai! I'm going to a production company of an acquaintance of P'Take! They want... I don't know, to see my face, I guess."
"If you go there looking like someone who just fried Pa Tong Go (Thai fried crullers) in yesterday's oil, they won't want to see anything at all," Yai retorted, pushing me toward the back door of the shop. "Go on! Don't let 'the future' keep waiting. And go take a proper shower; you smell like sour milk."
I gave Yai a loud peck on the cheek. She smelled of baby powder and mint. I waved goodbye to Ta, who was so focused on washing glasses that he didn't even notice I was bolting.
"I'm off! Love you all! I'll come back to close the accounts later!"
I ran to the apartment which, luckily, was only two blocks away. But the moment I yanked open the wardrobe with its stiff doors, reality slapped my face harder than the scent of overripe durian.
I didn't have a single outfit that looked like "a successful person."
In my closet, I had:
Three floral dresses (Pa Porn's costumes).
A fake motorbike taxi vest (costume from Skit 4).
T-shirts from bands that had already broken up.
Jeans that I had cropped myself by hand.
"No, no, no..." I groaned, tossing the clothes onto the bed.
Khun Thorn, that CEO, looked like the type who wore socks more expensive than all the furniture in my room combined. If I appeared there looking like a starving art student, the meeting would be over before it even began.
I grabbed the cookie tin I used for emergency savings. The rent money was kept separate, but there was a stack of hundred-baht notes I'd saved to buy a new microphone.
"Sorry, Mike..." I whispered to the void. "Today, we have to invest in the image first."
I burst out of the house at 11:45 AM.
I jumped onto Bus No. 8—the legend of Bangkok's streets, rumored that the drivers think they're in a Fast & Furious movie—heading toward Pratunam. The bus had no AC, only windows open to the wind and ceiling fans whirring lazily, carrying the heat and dust of the capital. I had to use one hand to hold my hair so it wouldn't get ruined and look like a scarecrow while the bus zoomed and swerved through traffic.
Pratunam was my territory. A wholesale market where you can buy the whole world for five thousand baht if you know how to haggle.
I disappeared into the crowd of tourists and vendors. The air was so hot it was almost suffocating.
"P'Sao (Big sister)! How much for this linen shirt?" I pointed at a headless mannequin.
"350, Roop Lor (Handsome)."
"O-ho! 350? I'm Thai, P', not a tourist! Can I get it for 150? I'll take it right now."
"200 then, final price."
"Deal, Krap."
I got a cream-colored shirt (I named the color 'Executive Beige') and black slacks that looked well-tailored, even if the fabric was 100% synthetic.
I rushed into a bathroom at Platinum Mall. The floor was soaking wet, the mirrors stained. I began to work my magic there, trying to balance so my new trousers wouldn't touch the suspicious floor. I used water to slick my hair into 'Korean Style Bangs' and sprayed the only brand-name thing I owned: a free sample perfume I got from a promotion.
I looked in the mirror.
The young man staring back didn't look like the 'Film' from the internet at all. He looked... serious. Almost like an adult. The cream shirt complemented my skin, and the slacks made me look taller.
"Alright, Passakorn, you can do this. Just don't open your mouth and use Gen Z slang."
I walked out of the bathroom with the confidence of someone who owned Bangkok. I checked my watch: 1:10 PM.
Kaset was far, very far... A-wa (Screw it), I'll take a taxi.
I walked down to the street, and my 'Owner of Bangkok' smile vanished instantly.
Phetchaburi Road was dead still. It wasn't just 'traffic'; it was an open-air parking lot. Red taillights stretched as far as the eye could see.
"Seriously..."
The BTS Skytrain Sukhumvit line would have been a reasonable choice, but every station was far away—Siam, Chidlom, Ratchathewi... and I knew exactly what the conditions inside the train cars would be like. Crammed, sweaty, rumpled. My 'synthetic linen' shirt wouldn't survive five stations. It would look like it had been chewed by a cow.
I had 40 minutes to cross half the city.
I glanced at the Win Motorbike (Motorbike taxi) stand at the corner. The *P'*s in orange vests were standing around chatting and smoking—the kings of the road who ignore the laws of physics and traffic.
It was risky, it was expensive, and my hair would definitely be a wreck.
But it was the only chance left.
I walked toward the nearest Phi Win. He was wearing reflective sunglasses and had a toothpick in his mouth.
"P' Krap, to Kaset, near the University. Urgent!"
He looked me up and down, sizing up my 'fake rich' outfit and my panic.
"Kaset? From here?" He laughed, adjusting his torn jeans. "200 baht."
"Can you do 150, P'?"
"180 then. And hold on tight, kid, because I'm taking the sidewalk shortcut."
I hopped on the back.
"Go for it, P'. Just get me there in one piece."
The engine roared. My stomach felt weightless as we zigzagged between Benzes and delivery trucks. The wind slapped my face, ruining the hairstyle I'd carefully set for minutes, making it a mess in seconds. I squeezed my eyes shut as we drove just millimeters away from other cars' side mirrors.
I was hurtling toward the future at eighty kilometers per hour on the back of a motorcycle. Sweat was pouring down under my best-looking cheap shirt.
If this beginning wasn't a Greek tragedy, I didn't know what to call it.
When the motorcycle screeched to a halt on the sidewalk in front of Apex Tower, my legs wouldn't stop shaking.
"Here you go, kid. Exactly two minutes to spare," Phi Win announced, spitting his toothpick into a drain.
I got off the bike with as much grace as a sack of potatoes falling off a truck. My legs were wobbling like jelly. I paid the 180 baht with trembling hands, feeling sweat trickling down my back until the 'Executive Beige' shirt was stuck to my skin.
"Thank you, P'!" I muttered.
He revved away without looking back, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
I turned to face the building.
If my apartment was a shoebox, Apex Tower was a giant's wardrobe. Blue reflective glass soared into the sky. A shiny black car with a driver in white gloves pulled up to the entrance, dropping off someone who looked like they'd just stepped off a magazine cover.
I looked at my reflection in the revolving glass doors.
My hair, which used to be 'Korean Bangs,' now looked like a bird's nest that survived a tornado. The shirt had a black soot smudge on the collar.
"Great job, Passakorn. You look like a natural disaster survivor."
I took a deep breath, tried to smooth my hair with some spit (a desperate act, I know), and pushed through the door.
The shock of the sudden temperature change hit me instantly. The lobby was aggressively air-conditioned, with a scent of wealthy perfume and fresh flowers that made the sweat on my back turn freezing in a heartbeat.
I walked straight to the reception counter, trying to mimic the confident stride I used when playing the "Rich Lawyer" in my videos.
"Sawasdee Krap. I have an appointment with Khun Krit Assawaraj at two o'clock."
The receptionist, whose hair was pulled back so tightly her face seemed stretched toward her neck, didn't even look up from her computer screen.
"Name?"
"Passakorn, from the... uh... FilmZ channel."
She typed the name slowly and then stopped. She looked at my outfit, then at the soot mark on my collar.
"ID card, please."
I handed her my ID. She pinched the card with her fingertips as if it were a germ. After scanning, she returned the card along with a white plastic badge that had "VISITOR" written in large letters.
"Elevator 4, 15th floor. Do not wander to other floors."
"Thank you, P'. You're very kind."
She didn't reply.
I rushed to the elevator before she could call security to drag me out. I pressed the 15th-floor button and leaned against the glass wall of the lift, trying to catch my breath and gather my thoughts.
The lift glided up smoothly. Floor 3... Floor 5...
I was alone in the lift, rehearsing my words in my head: "Sawasdee Krap, Khun Thorn. Thank you for the opportunity. Yes, I remember the script. No, I won't eat the props on set."
Ting!
The elevator stopped at the 10th floor. The doors slid open.
An explosion of color burst into the lift.
It was a woman, or to be more precise, a supernatural state of being. She wore a silk dragon-patterned kimono, multiple strings of beads hanging from her neck down to her navel, and diamond-encrusted sunglasses (even though we were inside a building). The scent of incense and rose perfume flooded the small space, completely drowning out the smell of my sweat.
She stepped inside, pressed the button for the 15th floor with gold-leafed acrylic nails that were at least five inches long, and came to a halt right beside me.
I stood perfectly still, holding my breath without realizing it.
She slowly turned her head toward me and lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose.
Her eyes were sharp, defined by exaggerated graphic eyeliner. She scanned me from head to toe, pausing at my cheap shoes, moving up to the synthetic slacks, stopping at the smudge on my shirt, and finally locking eyes with me.
"Hmm..." she murmured, the sound vibrating in her throat.
She reached into her oversized designer handbag and pulled out... a plastic doll? It was a cute Kuman Thong (spirit doll representing a young boy) dressed in a tiny red outfit.
"What do you think, Nong Lucky?" she asked the doll, completely ignoring the fact that I was standing right there, hearing every word.
I blinked. Should I answer? Should I run?
She leaned her ear close to the doll's mouth as if listening to a secret.
"Really?" she turned back to me, this time with eyes full of curiosity. "Are you sure, Loog (son)? He looks like he just got hit by a Tuk-tuk (three-wheeled motorized rickshaw)."
I cleared my throat awkwardly.
"Uh... Sawasdee Krap, Khun Phuying (Madam)."
She clicked her tongue loudly.
"Wai! Don't call me Khun Phuying. It makes my Botox degrade instantly. Just call me Jae Soda."
"Jae Soda, Krap..." I repeated, giving a respectful but clumsy Wai (traditional Thai greeting).
She moved closer, clearly invading my personal space. She sniffed the air near the crook of my neck.
"You smell like... despair, kid. And... Oliang (Thai iced black coffee)." She wrinkled her nose but then smiled—a mysterious, knowing grin. "But Lucky says your aura is golden. Very bright. So bright it's almost blinding."
"My aura... is golden, Krap?"
"Yes." She tucked the doll back into her bag. "Too bad it's wrapped in these 'dingy' colored clothes."
The lift chimed at the 15th floor. The doors opened to a hallway even more luxurious than the ground floor.
Jae Soda led the way out, her beads clinking. Before turning the corner, she stopped and looked back.
"Free advice, Golden Boy: think carefully before you sign anything today. The devil might wear Prada, but here at Apex, the devil wears a linen suit and drinks Cold Brew, jha."
And with those "comforting" words, she vanished into a side corridor, leaving behind only an enigma and the faint scent of roses.
I swallowed hard. The main hallway stretched out before me, leading to double frosted-glass doors with a silver plaque engraved: CEO - KRIT ASSAVARAT.
My legs started shaking again.
"The devil drinks Cold Brew..." I muttered to myself. "Great. I hope he likes cheap Cha Yen (Thai iced tea) too."
I took the first step toward the door. No turning back.
I took a second step, reading the sign on the CEO's door more clearly. My stomach felt tied in knots. But before I could take the third step to open that door, a hand covered in large rings grabbed the collar of my 'Executive Beige' shirt from behind.
I was yanked backward with incredible force.
"Ui-ui-ui! Where do you think you're going, jha?" Jae Soda whispered, still gripping my collar tight.
"To a meeting, Krap..." I answered stuttering. "Khun Thorn..."
"Khun Thorn will eat you alive if you go in there looking like a panda that fell down a chimney." She pointed at the black soot smudge on my collar and my wrecked hair.
She looked into her bag.
"What do you think, Lucky? We have to help, right? Think of it as accumulating Bun (merit)... very heavy merit if we help with this job."
She pressed the doll to her ear, nodded seriously, and sighed.
"Okay. Lucky says if you get rejected, the energy of this floor will turn gloomy and ruin Jae's Feng Shui too. Follow me."
Without waiting for a reply, she dragged me along. Not toward the exit, but toward a polished wood side door.
I glanced at the sign on the door. The icon was unmistakable: a female silhouette wearing a skirt.
"Jae Krap!" I braked on the marble floor, almost sliding. "Are you crazy? This is the ladies' room! I'll be arrested before I even get hired!"
Jae Soda didn't even slow down. She used her stiletto heel to kick the door open with a loud Bang!
"Oiy, kid, don't be dramatic." She pushed me inside, into a room filled with the scent of lavender and mirrors with gold frames. "A bathroom is just tiles and drainage pipes. Jae's art has no gender, Golden Boy. Now, shut up."
Luckily, the restroom was empty. She shoved me in front of a giant mirror, and I was nearly shocked by my own reflection.
Jae was right. I really did look like a panda. The cheap mascara I'd used to make my eyebrows look thicker had run because of the sweat from the motorcycle ride, and my hair was defying gravity in all the wrong directions.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a small velvet chair.
"But..."
"Nang loei! (Sit now!)" She and the doll seemed to shout in unison (even though the doll stayed silent, I swear I saw its expression change).
I sat down. Jae Soda opened her magic bag. Out came wet wipes, a powder compact, a small comb, and a can of hairspray that looked like a chemical weapon.
"Close your eyes and shut your mouth."
Then she began her assault.
Starting with cold wipes on my neck, she scrubbed off the motorcycle soot with painful efficiency. Then she patted powder onto my face to erase the shine from the sweat.
"Your pores are decent enough for makeup," she critiqued in a professional tone while pressing the puff onto my forehead. "But these dark circles... don't you sleep, jha?"
"I... sometimes I film videos until 4 AM, Krap," I mumbled with my eyes closed.
"Hmm, night energy. Terrible for the skin."
I felt the comb detangling my hair. She pulled, smoothed, and styled.
"A tip for meeting Khun Thorn," she said while applying hairspray in precise, short bursts. "Don't make him feel like you need him. He's a predator, jha. If he smells fear or poverty, he'll pounce. You have to walk in there like the world owes you a favor."
"But I'm scared out of my mind, Krap," I confessed.
"Then act!" She stopped, tilted my chin up, and turned my face to the light. "Isn't that why you're here? Pretend to be a bored prince who intended to come buy this building and is already thinking about changing his office wallpaper. Not a young man whose entire wardrobe isn't worth the watch he's wearing."
She stepped back and packed everything into her bag with lightning speed.
"All done. Open your eyes."
I opened them.
The boy in the mirror was still me, but in "HD" version. My skin looked flawless. My hair was styled into a luxurious pompadour (and held as still as plaster by that spray), and the smudge on my shirt was almost gone. I looked... expensive. Or at least like a premium-grade copy.
"Wow..." I blurted out. "Thank you, Jae Soda."
She shrugged, adjusting her kimono.
"Don't thank Jae. Thank Lucky over there. And if you ever get famous, remember who saved your face before the contract signing. Jae accepts payment in brand-name bags, or just offer plenty of Nam Dang (red soda) to Lucky. That's enough."
She pointed to the door.
"Now get out, before someone comes in to pee and we have to explain this is performance art. Go!"
I staggered out of the bathroom, feeling like a new person but confused at the same time.
I returned to the main hallway. The CEO's door was still there, looking just as intimidating as before. But now, with my perfectly set hair and the powder soaking up my nervous sweat, I felt my chances of a heart attack drop by at least 5 percent.
I took a deep breath, remembering the advice of the witch in the restroom.
"A bored prince who came to buy the building."
I straightened my back, adjusted my collar, and pushed those double doors open.
The room was freezing. That was the first thing I felt. Colder than the hallway. Colder than the North Pole.
A giant glass desk stood imposing in the center. Behind the desk, with a panoramic view of Bangkok as a backdrop, was the man.
Krit Assavarat... or 'Thorn.'
He didn't look up when I walked in. He remained focused, signing documents with a pen that looked heavy and expensive.
"Wrong bathroom? Or did you sneak off to touch up your face?" he asked coldly, his hand never stopping. "You're four minutes late."
I froze. My 'bored prince' persona wavered instantly.
"I... there was a technical difficulty with the lift, Khun Thorn."
Finally, Thorn stopped. He dropped the pen onto the glass desk; the sound echoed through the silent room. He looked up, and those dark eyes pierced right through me. He scanned me—perfectly styled hair, flawless skin—and stopped at my eyes.
"Technical difficulty..." he repeated with a condescending smirk. "Jae Soda got her hands on you, didn't she? I can smell her hairspray from here."
He gestured toward the empty leather chair in front of him.
"Sit down, Passakorn. Let's see if your talent can withstand a Close-up without an internet filter."
I obeyed, walking to the chair like I was heading to an executioner's block. But before I could sit, a side door—one I hadn't noticed at first—opened.
"Did you call for me, Khun Thorn?"
That voice was so familiar... calm, deep, and controlled.
I whipped my head around.
A man was standing there. He wore thin-rimmed glasses, a plain black t-shirt, and had the expression of someone who hadn't smiled since 2019. He held a tablet like a shield.
My brain short-circuited for a moment... I had heard a voice just like this before.
The man looked at me. For a split second, I saw a spark of recognition—or was it panic?—in his eyes. But it vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of cold professionalism.
"Ah, Frame," Thorn said, leaning back in his chair like a satisfied emperor. "Come in. I want you to meet our new project."
I looked back and forth between Thorn and the man named 'Frame.'
My cheap freelance editor... was an associate of the CEO of Apex?
I felt like the marble floor beneath my feet had vanished. How did I manage to get a contact this high-level?
"Sawasdee Krap," Frame said. His tone was calculated, but not unkind.
"Sawasdee Krap," I replied.
I reached out to shake his hand. His hand was freezing. He gripped it firmly and professionally, a stark contrast to my palm, which was now damp with nervous sweat.
"Frame..." I repeated his name softly. "So you're the one my friend knows..."
"I am..." He paused for a moment before continuing. "The Chief Editor of Apex." He answered without further confirmation, letting go of my hand and sliding into the chair next to me without meeting my eyes again. He was acting strange. How did P'Take describe me to him?
I felt my face flush.
I'd have to settle this with P'Take later. Did he secretly send videos of me in my pajamas, without makeup, singing off-key during outtakes to this guy?
"Do you two know each other?" Thorn's voice sliced through the air, sharp as a razor blade.
Frame was about to speak, but I was faster.
"I know a friend of his, the one who edits for my channel."
Finally, Frame looked at me. Behind his glasses, his eyes narrowed slightly... Play along, right?
"Yes... exactly that," Frame said, turning back to his boss. "I've seen... most of his videos... already."
Thorn looked satisfied, or perhaps he was just too lazy to pry further. I hid a small smile, knowing a big name in the industry had watched my videos. P'Take, oh P'Take... your contacts are truly top-tier. Thorn swiveled his chair and picked up a remote, pointing it at the giant screen on the wall.
"Very well. Now that introductions are finished, let's get to the point. Passakorn, look at this."
The screen flickered to life.
It was my YouTube channel. But seeing it here, in a room filled with glass and steel, projected in 8K resolution... my videos looked a bit... shoddy.
Thorn played one of my most popular shorts: "When the neighbor steals the Wi-Fi." On the screen was me, dressed as 'Pa Porn,' wearing a neon pink floral dress, messy lipstick, a shower cap, and screaming at someone while holding a pot.
The voice echoed through the pristine room. My high-pitched, affected screeching sounded incredibly ear-piercing.
Thorn watched with a blank expression, while Frame looked down at his tablet, refusing to look at the screen.
I wanted to die. I wanted to dig a hole in this Italian marble and bury myself along with Jae Soda's doll once and for all.
"Funny," Thorn said, with no humor in his voice. He paused the video exactly on a frame where I was making a hideous face. "For an audience buying instant noodles at 7-Eleven at three in the morning, this is gold. But for Apex? There's a lot of work to do."
He turned to me.
"You have a talent for comedic timing, Passakorn. But your personal image is a mess. You sell low-brow humor, which works to an extent. But Apex sells Desire (ความปรารถนา). No one wants to get laid (เอา) with Pa Porn, right?"
That statement hit the mark so hard I almost choked on my own saliva.
"I... I can play many roles, Khun Thorn. I can do drama, and..."
"Is that so?" Thorn raised an eyebrow. "Frame, show him."
Frame sighed. He tapped his tablet screen, and the image on the TV changed.
It wasn't Pa Porn anymore.
It was the video from last night. The one I filmed in my bedroom pretending to be dumped by a boyfriend. But... it wasn't the same video I had sent.
The yellow light of my bedroom had been color-graded into melancholic blue and grey tones that felt heart-wrenchingly lonely. The sound of the fan in the background was gone, replaced by a heavy silence and a barely audible, soft piano melody.
On the screen, that person didn't look like me at all.
My eyes sparkled with a deep, soulful sadness. The editing had removed the shaky breaths of my nervousness, leaving only pure emotion. The slow zoom on my face as I ate rice through my tears transformed a pathetic scene into a piece of cinematic art.
I looked handsome... no, more than that. I looked... Fragile (บอบบาง). Like someone you wanted to pull into a hug and protect from the whole world.
My mouth hung open. I turned to look at Frame. He was intently wiping a non-existent smudge off his tablet screen.
"Is... is this me?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"This is what Frame sees," Thorn corrected. "And this is what I want to sell... 'The Lost Boy.' The boyfriend who needs saving. That is Apex."
Thorn turned off the screen, returning the room to silence. He slid a black leather folder across the glass desk. It stopped perfectly in front of me.
"This is a five-year exclusive contract, Passakorn. Everything we will do to remodel you is included, with no deductions from your base pay."
I opened the folder. The numbers on the first page made my vision blur. The salary listed was more than the profit Yai made from selling coffee over two years—and that didn't even include the percentages from various advertisements.
It was salvation. It was the money to renovate the shop for Ta and Yai. It was the air conditioning for my bedroom. It was financial freedom.
"What's the trap?" I looked up and asked. Jae Soda had warned me... the devil always demands a price.
"Smart kid." Thorn smiled at Frame, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Clause 4.2," Thorn replied, leaning back in his chair. "Total control over image rights."
Frame cleared his throat and read the text aloud, sounding like a judge delivering a verdict.
"The Artist agrees to grant the Company absolute authority over all social media, public appearances, and the selection of appropriate branding. All previous content deemed inconsistent with the new image direction must be permanently deleted or archived."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Delete?" I looked at Thorn. "You want me to delete my channel? The work I've done for five years? Those five hundred thousand followers?"
"Followers who love a clown?" Thorn said coldly. "You should know your numbers... every time 'Pa Porn' disappears, your numbers drop. But how far do you think Pa Porn can take you? I'll give it one more year before people get bored. It's starting to plateau. It's hard to write scripts that are different. Everything will start to look repetitive... We will migrate your fan base to a new official channel when you debut. A channel that looks more luxurious, more professional. But as for 'Pa Porn'? She must die today. You cannot be the 'National Prince' and the 'Gossipy Neighborhood Auntie' at the same time. The internet is never merciful, and brands like Chanel don't sponsor comedians who wear feather dusters or shower caps on their heads."
I looked down at the contract, then up at Frame.
In my heart, I wanted the person sitting there not to be him, but his friend... my friend named 'Take.' I wanted Take to say: "No, Khun Thorn. Comedy is his soul."
Frame looked up and met my eyes. Behind those glasses, his gaze was unreadable. It might have been pity, or perhaps boredom. He took a deep breath; I could see it.
"It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Film," Frame said softly. "Few people ever get the chance to expand their horizons like this... to 'rewrite' themselves."
Rewrite... So, all this time, I was just a sketch?
I thought of Yai Mon shouting for ice. I thought of the crowded buses without AC. I thought of the stack of electricity bills sitting on top of the fridge.
Dignity in art and freedom of thought are valuable... but unfortunately, they don't pay off those debts.
I picked up Thorn's heavy pen. The metal felt freezing.
"Goodbye, Pa Porn," I whispered.
I signed my real first and last name: Passakorn Satcha.
The sound of the pen scratching against the paper was the loudest sound in the room.
Thorn smiled. This time, it was a real smile... the smile of a successful predator.
"Welcome to Apex, Nong Film." He gathered the folder back immediately, as if afraid I'd change my mind. "Later, Manow, your personal Marketing Manager, will take your passwords to handle everything. Frame will arrange the practice room schedule with your partner tomorrow."
"Partner?" I asked, confused.
"Yes. You didn't think you'd be shining alone, did you?" Thorn stood up, a signal that the meeting was over. "Every light needs a shadow. Or in your case... you need a bigger spotlight to help draw out your aura."
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.
Frame stood up as well.
"Follow me," he said in a soft voice... did he sound nervous? "I'll take you where you need to go."
I walked out of the room behind Frame. My legs felt heavy as lead. The door closed behind us, cutting off the arctic cold of Thorn's office.
We walked down the quiet, carpeted hallway. When we were far enough away from the boss's room, Frame stopped. He didn't turn to look at me, but kept staring at the end of the hallway.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice warming slightly.
"Sorry? About what, P'Frame?"
He blushed slightly. I didn't understand why.
"Nothing... just... about your channel."
"It's okay... actually, Khun Thorn was right. The scriptwriting was getting harder and harder. Like I've said it all, done it all..." I sighed. "But I think I'll miss being able to do crazy things."
He gave a small smile and finally turned around. Without Thorn there, his shoulders looked much more relaxed.
"The partner Thorn chose for you... is... he's experienced. Technically, he's a very good actor... but he doesn't have your 'Sauce' for ad-libbing. So, try to understand the scripts sent to you well."
"Who is he?" I asked.
Frame adjusted his glasses. In his eyes, there was a warning that went unspoken.
"His name is Light. I don't know how he'll treat you. I don't think he'll be mean, but then again... what goes on inside actors' heads isn't exactly my specialty... Just don't let him 'erase' your identity, that's all..."
Before I could ask what he meant, he glanced at the clock on his tablet and started walking again.
"Let's go. Those two have an appointment in twenty minutes. And I have to finish erasing five years of your life from the internet before dinner."
I followed him, analyzing everything that had happened since I stepped into this building. It all happened at the speed of light. I felt a bit annoyed at P'Take. His friend Frame is a 'big deal' at Apex—knows the owner, has a look that seems expensive, even if he's quiet and stoic.
But now I had a strange feeling... a feeling that told me the hardest part wasn't killing 'Pa Porn,' but surviving someone named "Light."