- POV Film -
The hallway leading to the Marketing and Social Media department of Apex was located on the 10th floor, but it felt like it belonged to another universe. If the executive floor was a temple of ice and silence, the 10th floor was a literal Pah Dip Chuen (tropical rainforest).
The moment P'Frame pushed open the glass doors, I was overwhelmed by a cacophony: the relentless ringing of phones, the frantic clatter of keyboards, and someone shouting about the color temperature of a photo.
"Welcome to the zoo," P'Frame muttered, tightening his bag strap. He looked rigid, his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed strictly forward as if trying to ignore the chaos.
We walked past an editing island where monitors glowed brightly, displaying the faces of famous actors being retouched in real-time. People scurried about with clothing racks, tripods, and coffee cups as if they were fleeing a fire.
P'Frame stopped in front of a desk that looked like it had been hit by a tornado of paperwork and expensive gear.
Behind that desk sat a woman with her feet propped up on a stack of magazines. She was staring at a vertical monitor while chewing gum aggressively. She wore oversized cargo pants, a vest overflowing with pockets, and a backwards baseball cap.
"Manow," P'Frame called.
She spun her chair around, her eyes scanning me with a biting, evaluative gaze.
"Oh... so the editing suite zombie finally agreed to leave his cave, Haq?" (polite particle mostly use by tomboy community in Thailand instead of kha/jah) she said in a husky, charming voice, blowing a gum bubble until it popped. Pop! "And he even brought 'fresh meat' with him."
She stood up, straightening her vest.
"So this is the new kid? The 'Resurrection' Project, Haq?"
"His name is Film," P'Frame corrected, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a hint of... a slight threat. "Film, this is P'Manow. She'll be handling your social media."
"Sawasdee Krap, Khun Manow," I said, offering my most polite Wai.
"Oiy... no need for such formalities, kid. Just call me P'Manow. But don't come asking me to take photos of you with a cat unless that cat is willing to pay a fee, Haq." She picked up a heavy DSLR camera from the desk as if it were a light toy. "Go, go! Where is the other Siamese twin? Peach!"
From the back of the room, behind a rack of shimmering sequined clothes, a young man appeared. He looked to be around my age, or perhaps just a year or two older. He was slender, wearing a branded silk shirt with a unique bow and ruffles. His nails were meticulously groomed, he wore a small ring, and he clutched an iPad to his chest like a protective shield.
"I'm right here, you mean old giant!" he grumbled, sashaying toward us. "I was trying to find the right light angle for Nong Sky, but his aura today is so grey. Absolutely hideous!"
He stopped in front of me and gasped, his hand flying to his chest.
"Ui! Khun Pra (Saint Monk)!" His eyes sparkled. "Is this him? My new baby?"
"Yeah," Manow sighed. "Peach, this is Film. Film, this is P'Peach."
P'Peach began circling me, assessing me as if I were a mannequin in a display window.
"Hmm... interesting bone structure," he murmured, using icy fingers to touch my chin. "But this skin... Tho-ei (Oh my goodness)! Manow, look at these pores!"
"Uh... I'm still standing right here," I tried to protest, feeling embarrassed.
"Hush, Nong," P'Peach smiled, but it wasn't a bad smile; it was professional. "P'Peach will take care of you. We need to go for an emergency Banho de loja (makeover) immediately. Now, tell me, what is your Lakkhana (Ascendant sign)?"
"Leo, Krap," I answered, confused.
P'Peach clapped his hands loudly. Clap!
"Fire element! Lert! (Fabulous!) Drama! Passion!" He turned to P'Frame. "P'Frame, you have a real eye for this. Great casting. This kid has 'it'... but he needs a lot of polishing. It's going to be a long refinement process."
Manow rolled her eyes and held out her hand to me.
"Phone. Hand it over"
I quickly handed her my phone. Manow plugged my old device into her computer and her fingers began to drum against the keyboard.
"Peach, the Instagram username has to change. No numbers. It needs to look clean."
As they debated my new name as if I weren't sitting right there, I glanced at P'Frame. He was leaning against a pillar, watching the events in silence. He looked like he didn't belong in this chaotic atmosphere at all. His crossed arms were like a wall separating him from the outside world.
"Done," Manow announced, handing me an unsealed white box. "A brand new iPhone. Everything's set up. As for your old accounts... I've already handled the 'Sanitization' process."
I took the box. It was heavy and cold.
"Peach will brief you on social media after you get back from the clinic," Manow said, sitting back down. "Go now. Dr. Pim hates people who are late."
I walked out of the Marketing department feeling lightheaded. The sound of telephones faded as the glass doors closed.
P'Frame walked me to the lift in silence. We stepped into the empty car, accompanied only by the hum of the motor. He pressed the buttons for the 12th and 13th floors. The lights on the panel lit up in sequence.
"P'... aren't you coming down with me?" I asked, clutching the phone box to my chest like a shield.
P'Frame shook his head without looking at me. He stared at his distorted reflection on the metallic lift doors.
"My work is in the editing suite upstairs. What happens on the 12th floor... is not my responsibility."
There was something in his voice. It wasn't coldness, but a sense that he'd rather be anywhere else but in this metal box with me.
"They seem very talented," I said, trying to break the awkward silence, referring to P'Manow and P'Peach.
"They are," P'Frame said, adjusting his glasses and sighing. "Just... do as they order, Film. If... if it starts to become too much for you to handle..."
The lift began to slow down. Ting. The doors opened on the 12th floor. The air that rushed in was freezing, smelling pungently of alcohol and chemicals.
"I think... I'll be fine, Krap."
Finally, P'Frame turned to look at me. For a split second, I saw a gaze that looked... concerned. But he just adjusted his glasses again.
"Good luck. And welcome to Apex."
I stepped out of the lift. The doors slowly closed, severing my eye contact with P'Frame.
If the 10th floor was a zoo, the 12th was a literal laboratory.
The moment the lift doors closed behind me, silence draped over my shoulders like a heavy cloak. The floor here wasn't carpeted but made of white marble polished so bright I could see the reflection of my old sneakers. The air was kept at a temperature that could probably preserve a corpse, smelling of a restless mix of rubbing alcohol and expensive Mali (jasmine) scented candles.
I walked to the rounded reception counter made of white synthetic material. Behind it, a receptionist was tapping on a silent keyboard. Her skin was so flawless she looked like she had been created by AI.
"Khun Passakorn, yes?" she said without even looking up to see if it was me. "Dr. Pim is waiting. The changing room is to the left. Locker 04, the code is your birthday."
She reached out a pale hand and placed a thick, soft robe and disposable slippers on the counter.
"Please remove all clothing and store your personal items in the locker. Enter Room 1 wearing only the robe."
I obeyed, feeling like a freak in this temple of perfection. In the changing room, as I took off my "Executive Beige" shirt from Pratunam, I noticed the mirrors had special lighting—a harsh circular glow that showed no mercy to anything. I saw the fat at my waist that Yai Mon used to call "healthy," I saw the birthmark on my thigh, I saw the body of an ordinary young boy about to be handed over to science.
I put on the robe. It was soft, heavy, and smelled of industrial fabric softener.
I walked into Room 1.
It was a spacious room with a massive reclining chair that looked like a spaceship captain's seat in the center. Around it were laser arms, monitors, and trays of surgical tools gleaming under LED lights.
Dr. Pim was standing with her back to me, tuning a device that emitted a low hum.
She turned around.
I had never seen skin like that in my life. It looked translucent—no pores, no spots, not even a natural human skin texture. She looked like she was made of glass and silicone. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight that her expressionless almond eyes seemed slightly slanted back.
She didn't say "Sawasdee" and she didn't smile.
"The chair," she ordered, pointing with a finger clad in a black latex glove.
I slumped into the seat; the leather creaked. She stepped on a pedal and the chair reclined until I was forced to stare at the white ceiling. A large circular lamp was pulled down to my face until my vision blurred for a moment.
I felt the rubber glove touch my skin. It was icy.
She didn't touch me with tenderness. She handled my face as if she were picking out fruit at a market—pinching my cheeks, pulling my eyelids, pressing my chin until it hurt.
"Combination skin, T-zone oily tendency," she told the air, and I only just noticed a tiny microphone attached to her collar to record every word. "Enlarged pores, Acne scars on the left temple. Slight jaw asymmetry."
Every word was like a knife cutting down lightly. I knew well enough I wasn't an idol, but hearing my flaws detailed with such coldness made my chest feel tight.
"And this fat under the chin..." She pinched the skin beneath my jaw. "Too many simple carbohydrates and excessive sodium. Clearly the face of someone who survives on instant noodles."
"Well, my grandmother's cooking is delicious, Krap..." I tried to explain, my voice trembling.
Dr. Pim paused. She stared deep into my eyes for the first time, but it was as if she didn't really see me.
"Your grandmother isn't the one signing your checks, Khun Passakorn. The 8K camera is. And that camera hates bloat."
She turned away to pick up a syringe from a metal tray. The liquid inside was clear and viscous.
"What is that?" I asked, gripping the chair's armrests.
"Fat-dissolving enzymes. It will help dissolve the fat in your cheeks and jowls. It will sting a bit. Do not move under any circumstances."
Before I could take a deep breath, the needle sank in.
It wasn't just once; it was twenty times.
She worked with the speed of a sewing machine. Prick-sting-prick-sting. The liquid burned under my skin as if she were injecting pure lime juice into my face. My tears fell automatically, soaking all the way to my ears.
I wanted to scream, wanted to beg her to stop, but the image of the contract and the salary figures danced in my head. 'Endure it,' I told myself. 'For the new AC, for the shop renovation.'
"Wipe your tears," she said without stopping her hand. "Salt interferes with the laser."
She set the syringe down and picked up a device that looked like a high-tech pistol. She placed dark goggles over my eyes. The whole world went black.
"Fractional CO2 laser. We are going to resurface this sandpaper-rough skin. There will be a burning smell, because it is your skin evaporating into vapor. Breathe through your mouth."
ZAP!
A loud crack like a whip sounded by my ear. Pain happened instantly—sharp and searing.
ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!
The scent hit my nose. The smell of burning protein. The smell of singed hair. The smell of me being burned alive.
It was high-tech medieval torture. Every time the flash fired, I felt like a layer of 'Passakorn' was being ripped away to make room for 'Film of Apex.'
The process felt like an eternity. I forgot to count the shots, forgot about time. In my head, there was only pain, the nauseating stench, and Dr. Pim's mechanical breathing above me.
Finally, the humming stopped.
I felt something cold and heavy placed on my face. It was a mask.
"Seaweed and hyaluronic acid mask to reduce inflammation," Dr. Pim's voice sounded distant; my ears were still ringing. "Lie still for twenty minutes. Do not speak. Do not smile. Do not frown. Moving now could cause wrinkles on your sensitive skin."
I heard footsteps walking away. The sound of a door opening and closing.
I was left alone in the darkness of the goggles. My face throbbed as if it had been rubbed against hot asphalt. I tried to swallow, but my throat was bone dry.
My hands fumbled for the armrests. I was shaking—not from the cold, but from shock.
Under the icy mask, I tried to imagine my grandmother's face, tried to remember who I was when I woke up this morning. But all I could feel was the chemical burning and the scent of my own burnt skin still stuck in my nose.
I was being resculpted... and no one had warned me: to become a piece of art, you first had to be destroyed.
A taxi dropped me at the mouth of the alley at 7:00 PM.
The Bangkok sky had darkened, and neon lights from shop signs fought against the smoke from food stalls. The moment I stepped out of the car, the humid air embraced me, but for the first time in my life, that embrace felt suffocating.
My face stung under the black surgical mask. The smell of Moo Ping (grilled pork) from the cart at the corner, which usually made me salivate, now made my stomach churn. Everything felt too intense for senses that had just been assaulted.
I walked into the alley, avoiding puddles and parked motorbikes.
In the distance, I saw the faded red awning of the "Moom Oliang" shop. The shop was closed, the rolling steel door pulled down halfway, but the yellow light inside told me my grandparents weren't asleep yet.
I walked in, ducking my head under the steel door.
"Surprise!"
Yai Mon stood in the middle of the shop with a spatula in her hand like a queen's scepter. Beside her sat Ta, smiling shyly.
The center table—our dining table—was covered in food. There were piles of sauce-glistening Moo Ping, a giant plate of Khao Pad Poo (crab fried rice), and a plate of crispy, oily Khai Jiao (omelet).
"Yai made a huge feast!" she announced cheerfully. "To celebrate our executive grandson getting a job in an office!"
I felt a lump in my throat so big I nearly choked.
They had actually spent money on crab. They'd bought high-grade meat to feed me.
"Ai Film?" Yai's smile started to fade slightly. "Why are you still wearing a mask and a hat inside the house, son?"
I raised a hand to touch my face, feeling the black fabric covering the red, swollen skin.
"Uh... the dust, Yai," I lied, my voice muffled. "The pollution was terrible today. And I think I'm allergic to the AC in the new building too. My face looks a bit rough today."
"Oiy, nonsense. No matter how bad you think you look, Yai always thinks you're handsome. Come sit, quickly!" She pulled out a chair. "I made that tamarind dipping sauce you love. And Ta Suthep went to buy extra condensed milk to brew Oliang for you too."
I looked at all that food. Fat, sodium, carbs, sugar. It all looked delicious.
In my pocket, the new phone buzzed—probably a health app reminding me to drink water. Dr. Pim's voice echoed in my head: "A face swollen like a full moon... the camera won't be merciful."
If I ate that, tomorrow my face would double in size. The laser swelling would only get worse.
"Yai, Krap..." I began, taking a step back. "I... I can't eat."
Silence immediately filled the kitchen. Ta Suthep, who was walking in, stopped with a glass of water in his hand.
"What do you mean you can't eat?" Yai frowned. "You haven't had lunch yet, kid. You must be starving."
"I ate at the company," I lied again. The lie tasted like ash. "They... they had a buffet. I'm so full, Yai. Seriously, I can't fit a single bite."
The look on Yai Mon's face broke my heart into pieces. She looked at the table full of food, then back at me. Her shoulders slumped. The spark of pride died out, replaced by a sad understanding that her grandson now belonged to another world—a world she could no longer feed.
"Oh..." she said softly. "Yai understands. Fancy company food is probably better anyway."
Ta tried to clear his throat to break the tension, but he just stared at the floor.
I couldn't stand it.
To hell with Dr. Pim. To hell with the swelling. To hell with the 8K camera. I couldn't leave home with that sadness in my grandparents' eyes.
"But..." I interrupted, quickly sitting on the chair. "You know what? That food was so bland. It didn't have any of the flavor of your cooking at all."
Yai's eyes lifted to look at me.
"Really?"
"Not even close." I pulled the mask down to my chin, revealing only my mouth. "I'm full, but... I think I can fit a little more. Just to wash away the bad taste of office food."
Yai could smile again. Energy returned to her small body.
"I knew it! Eat this, son. This one is grilled until the edges are charred just the way you like."
She placed three skewers of Moo Ping on my plate with a heap of rice.
I ate. Every chew I felt the pain in my delicate jaw, but the taste was the taste of home. It was love, garlic, and pepper. I ate slowly, savoring this farewell.
"And the Oliang?" Ta held the tin of condensed milk in his hand, ready to pour the sweetness into the glass.
I froze. Sugar was the ultimate enemy. My face would bloat instantly. I couldn't reveal that I was breaking my diet in my first hour alone.
"Ta, Yai, wait a second," I held his hand gently. "Not today, Krap."
"But this is your favorite! 'Sweet like life should be,' isn't that what you always say?"
"I know, but... I have to wake up very early tomorrow. The sugar will make me too hyper, Ta knows." I turned to the tea shelf. "Can you brew me some Matcha, Ta? Just pure. With ice and water. No milk, no sugar."
Ta blinked, confused. Pure Matcha was bitter—it was a drink for old people or monks, not a Film drink at all.
"Pure Matcha? You sure, son?"
"Yes. I have to get used to these new tastes."
He nodded, putting the condensed milk away with a sigh so soft I could barely hear it. He prepared the strong green tea, the powder dissolving in ice-cold water, two glasses.
"I'll drink with you then. I like it. If I knew you'd drink this today, I would've opened the Japanese Matcha tin that just got delivered." He smiled.
When I drank it, it tasted grassy, cold, and astringent. It washed away the grease of the Moo Ping, but it left a void in my mouth. It was the taste of my new life... luxurious, healthy, and entirely joyless.
"Thank you," I said, forcing myself to smile with my eyes.
After dinner, I went up to the bedroom in the shophouse next to the store.
The neon light on the ceiling flickered when I flipped the switch. The room was small, a bit stuffy. The walls were covered in old movie posters and Post-its with script ideas. It had a private entrance stairway outside; Ta and Yai lived on the ground floor.
I dragged my suitcase out from under the bed.
I started packing. Not just clothes, but memories.
I opened the desk drawer. Inside was a wig—a short bob made of cheap synthetic fibers for my Pa Porn character.
Flashback: I was adjusting the wig in front of my phone camera, sweat dripping down. "Hello neighbors! Who stole my sweet mangoes?!" I laughed alone in the room, feeling a rush of happiness. Because in that moment, I wasn't broke Passakorn; I was a superstar.
I touched the plastic fibers with love. I placed the wig in the "Donate" box. Pa Porn wasn't suitable for an Apex suitcase.
I picked up the orange fake motorbike taxi vest.
Flashback: I was running around the room, mimicking riding a motorbike, holding a handheld fan to my face for the wind effect. Ta walked in without knocking and saw me. We both laughed until our stomachs hurt.
I folded the vest into the "Donate" box.
I picked up the Ring Light. One leg of the stand was broken and wrapped in silver duct tape.
Flashback: The day I bought this light with the first bit of money I made from YouTube. I felt like Steven Spielberg. The reflection was in my eyes—it was the promise of a glorious future.
I didn't need to pack it. Apex had professional studios. I didn't need tape-repaired lights anymore.
I closed the suitcase. Inside were only plain-colored clothes, toiletries, and the printed scripts Khun Thorn's secretary had given me.
The room was empty now. Only an unmade bed and cardboard boxes full of my old identities remained.
I walked down the stairs with my suitcase. My grandparents were sitting watching TV in the living room.
"Are you leaving already, son?" Yai stood up.
"Grab is almost here," I confirmed.
I hugged them both. Yai's hug smelled of frying oil and baby powder. Ta's hug smelled of tobacco and rain.
"Take care of yourself, son," Yai whispered. "Eat your fill and come see Yai when you have time."
I felt warm tears flowing under the mask. It stung on my laser-treated skin.
"I'll be back soon," I promised, knowing it was only a half-truth. The Film who came back wouldn't be the same person walking out now.
I stepped out into the Bangkok night. The bitter taste of Matcha still lingered on my tongue, reminding me that the sweetness of childhood was left behind, locked away with Pa Porn's wig in that dark room.
The taxi sped along the road, away from the familiar warmth of my grandparents' neighborhood, and headed into the pulsing main artery of central Bangkok.
With every kilometer toward Sukhumvit, the reality outside changed. The warm yellow streetlights turned into LED panels so bright they blurred the eyes, turning night into an artificial day. The Som Tum stalls and the scent of charcoal faded, replaced by the gleaming glass walls of shopping malls that looked like temples built for gods I didn't yet know how to worship.
I leaned my forehead against the icy window glass. The car's AC hummed, creating a bubble of silence, but my eyes drank in the images outside.
Sukhumvit at night was a beautiful beast. It was the city's main stage, and it seemed the show would never end.
I saw tourists in party outfits, laughing loudly, intoxicated by the night's promise. I saw stunningly beautiful women standing on street corners with makeup so flawless they seemed to float above the humidity and pollution. I saw young men my age in lowered sports cars, revving engines at red lights with a confidence I never had. They were the owners of the street, the owners of this world.
I felt a tightness in my chest. It wasn't judgment; it was envy. And fear.
Those people seemed to know exactly who they were. Or at least, they knew exactly how they wanted to be seen. They wore those roles naturally, as if born to shine under neon lights. They were part of that luxury and extravagance.
And me? I sat in the back seat, holding an old suitcase, face stinging from cosmetic procedures, trying to convince myself I was part of it too.
Apex was betting big on me. They were investing to "elevate" my image, polishing away the rough parts. But as I watched the confident crowds in Sukhumvit, doubt gnawed at me: would lasers and expensive clothes really be enough? Or when the spotlight hit me, would everyone see that under the "glass skin" there was still just Passakorn—the kid who served coffee and made corny jokes on the internet?
I felt like an impostor about to crash a party I wasn't invited to.
The taxi stopped in front of a massive black steel and glass building.
The Apex Residence.
The building soared into the sky, elegant and imposing, rising above the smoke and noise of the street below.
"We're here, Khun," the driver said.
I paid and got out. My legs felt heavy.
A receptionist opened the glass doors for me. The hallway was freezing and dead silent. It smelled of white tea and pristine marble—the scent of success, perhaps. I took the private lift to the 25th floor. My ears popped from the rapid ascent, a physical reminder of how high I was going, and how much it would hurt if I fell.
The hallway was long, lit by recessed ceiling lights, looking like a 5-star hotel corridor—impersonal and perfect.
I stopped in front of Room 2504. I swiped the card; the electronic lock played a short melody and clicked open.
I walked inside.
The apartment was a luxury studio with floor-to-ceiling windows showing a panoramic view of the city—millions of lights twinkling below. The furniture was modern, grey, minimalist. Everything was beautiful. Everything looked new.
But it was... empty.
I put my bag on the floor. The sound of wheels on the laminate floor echoed too loudly and then vanished into a response-less silence.
I walked around the room, touching the cold surfaces. A kitchen counter that had never seen a coffee spill. A sofa that had never been used for an afternoon nap.
The silence was the worst part.
At my grandparents' house, silence didn't exist. There was the hum of the old fridge, the sound of the news on TV, Ta's coughing, Yai's dishwashing. There was life. There was warmth.
Here, the silence was absolute, interrupted only by the flat, cold whisper of the central air conditioning.
I walked to the window and looked down. Below was pulsing Sukhumvit, and here I was at the top of the tower, with everything I ever thought I wanted: comfort, status, and opportunity.
But why did I feel so small?
I looked in the bathroom mirror, lit by soft LED lights. I removed the hat and mask.
The face staring back was red and swollen. My eyes looked terrified. I didn't see an idol there at all. Only a boy far from home, trying desperately to believe he deserved to be here.
"You can do this, Film," I whispered to the mirror. "You have to."
My voice sounded faint, swallowed by the soundproofing of the walls.
I sat on the edge of the King Size bed. The mattress was so soft it felt like it would swallow me. I was used to hard mattresses and pillows that smelled like Yai's fabric softener. Here, the smell was "newness." The smell of nothing at all.
A sharp sadness struck me. It wasn't regret—I wanted this, wanted to help my family. But it was the lonely realization that to gain the future, I had to sleep in a solitary present. No "Goodnight" from Ta. No scent of Oliang.
I turned off the light, choosing to stay in the darkness that hid the alien luxury around me.
I curled up in the center of the big bed, hugging my own stinging body, trying to take up as little space as possible. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the sounds of my alley, using memories like a blanket to protect myself from the cold of that perfect air conditioner.
Tomorrow, I would meet my co-star. Tomorrow, I had to become someone great. But tonight... tonight I just needed someone to tell me I wasn't making a mistake.
- POV Frame -
The clock in the corner of my primary monitor read 02:15 AM.
"The Cave"—the name I affectionately used for Editing Suite Alpha at Apex—was submerged in a silence that vibrated with electric tension. The only sounds were the low hum of the servers rendering files and the rhythmic, hollow clicks of my mouse.
Around me, high-definition displays showcased the day's labor: color-grading the skin of a vampire series lead, erasing a blemish from the forehead of a new Lakorn heroine... beautiful lies woven together frame by frame.
But on my main screen, the window currently active wasn't an Apex project. It was the YouTube Studio dashboard.
Channel: FilmZ_Official | Status: Active | Subscribers: 512,403
My hand hovered over the mouse, the cursor trembling slightly over the option: [Advanced Settings > Delete Channel].
P'Thorn's command had been blunt and direct, like everything else that came from him: "Erase it all. The new Film will be born tomorrow. The old Film never existed."
I had done this dozens of times. Purging a newcomer's history was standard procedure. Drunken photos, political posts, vengeful exes... everything swept into the digital bin. It was "Sanitization." It was business.
But this time... it was different.
I clicked on a video titled "Pa Porn teaches how to make Som Tum (and almost burns the house down)."
The video began. The file quality was poor, shot on an old phone with backlighting so harsh it turned everything orange. But there he was... Passakorn. He was wearing a ridiculously cheap wig, dancing with a pestle in his hand, laughing until his eyes disappeared into two crescent moons of pure joy.
I watched. And in the darkness of the editing suite where no one could see, the Head Editor of Apex violated his own iron-clad rule. I let out a smile.
Technically, it wasn't the "perfect" comedy we produced in the studio. The camera angles were crooked, there was wind noise in the audio, but it had a soul. It possessed a raw energy that none of our highly trained actors could ever hope to replicate.
P'Thorn called this "trash." I called it "truth."
And I was about to murder it.
I sighed, the sound echoing against the acoustic foam walls. I opened the deepest locked drawer of my desk. Beneath a tangle of HDMI cables and software manuals I'd never read lay my secret.
A silver 4TB portable SSD.
I plugged it into the USB port. An icon popped up on the screen. I opened a folder containing files that could destroy reputations if they ever leaked—disastrous raw takes, unglamorous blunders, audio slips no one was ever meant to hear. But I wasn't a blackmailer. I was an archivist. I preserved what the world chose to throw away.
I created a new folder. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing:
THE LAST FRAME
I opened the downloader, selecting everything. All 340 YouTube clips, every TikTok of Pa Porn, every Facebook Live where he just sat and chatted with his Yai over dinner.
I clicked [Download and Save].
The blue progress bar began to race across the screen. Transferring: "Vlog: Trying to cut my own hair." Transferring: "Skit: The Ghost that is afraid of the dark."
I stared at those files as they were copied, feeling a strange heaviness in my chest. Was it guilt? Perhaps. I was the one who helped lead a little deer like Film into the lion's den. I was the editor whose work made P'Thorn decide to sign him. I was the accomplice in the assassination of this kid's freedom.
Saving these files was my penance. It was the only way I could ensure that if Apex ever broke him until he forgot who he was, I would still have a 'backup' for him. I would have evidence that he once knew how to be happy without applause or a billion-baht contract.
[Transfer Complete]
I ejected the drive. The icon vanished. I stashed the SSD back in the drawer and turned the key. The key went into my pocket, feeling heavy and cold against my thigh.
I turned back to the YouTube screen. Now, there was only duty.
I took a deep breath, killing the smile that Pa Porn's video had given me, and clicked.
[Delete Channel] Are you sure? This action is permanent and cannot be undone.
"I'm sorry, Film," I whispered to the screen.
I clicked [Confirm].
The screen flickered for a split second. The space that once held half a million followers and years of memories was now replaced by Google's standard grey text: "This channel no longer exists."
I did the same for TikTok. Deactivated the accounts, changed the usernames to random alphanumeric strings no one would ever find, and locked them down.
The silence in the room seemed to grow even heavier.
It was done. Digitally, that 'FilmZ' was dead. The stage was swept clean, waiting for the debut of "Nong Film of Apex."
I stood up, grabbed my jacket, and switched off the monitors. The entire room plunged into absolute darkness.
Walking toward the lift, I thought of that young man alone in the Apex building. The one without the charm of his grandmother's kitchen, without the scent of familiar pillows and blankets, without the warmth of home. He was likely awake, staring at the ceiling, unaware that his old story was now locked in my drawer.
He would have to trust me. Even if he never knows that I am the only one here who cares about who he used to be, and not just who he is becoming.
I pressed the button for the parking floor. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
- POV Film -
The Alpha Practice Room was located on the 15th floor—the same floor as P'Thorn's office—which increased the pressure on me by about two hundred percent. I didn't know why they sent me here instead of the regular practice rooms on the lower floors, but the soundproofing here was so good I figured even if I screamed for help, no one would hear me.
09:45 AM.
I sat on the polished wooden floor, hugging my knees while staring at my reflection in the massive mirror that spanned the length of the wall.
Thanks to the God of Cosmetics (and P'Peach's assistant, who stormed my room at 7:00 AM armed with green color-corrector and full-coverage foundation), my face no longer looked like a battlefield. The laser redness was hidden beneath layers of intentionally perfect skin. The swelling remained, but strategic contouring helped create the illusion of a jawline I didn't have yesterday.
I looked handsome... but I didn't look like myself.
The silence in the room was suffocating. I could hear the faint hum of the neon lights and the frantic rhythm of my own heart. The script was in my hand, and my palms were slick with sweat.
I'd spent the whole night reading the lines over and over. It was a simple scene—just a first meeting in a café—but every time I read my part, Dr. Pim's voice and P'Thorn's dismissive gaze flickered through my mind.
What if I forgot my lines? What if I accidentally acted too much like Pa Porn? And what if my co-star hated me?
I heard the click of the digital lock.
My stomach churned instantly. I bolted to my feet even though my leg had gone numb from pins and needles. The door slowly opened.
I expected to see an army of staff. I expected to see a producer shouting orders, or P'Frame looking miserable like yesterday, or at the very least, a senior actor in dark sunglasses with a long line of assistants trailing behind with luggage.
But the person who walked in was alone. Truly alone.
He was tall. The first thing I noticed was the "Light"—it looked as if he had a personal spotlight following him at all times. He wore gray sweatpants and an oversized white t-shirt that draped perfectly over his broad shoulders. His light brown hair looked slightly messy (the kind of messy that probably took an hour to set).
Light.
I knew this face well. I had seen this face on highway billboards since I was a teenager. I had seen this face shed tears as clear as glass in the drama "Yart Nam-ta Bua Luang" (The Tears of the Sacred Lotus).
But seeing him in person, the clarity was beyond even 8K.
He closed the door softly behind him. When he turned and saw me, his face lit up with a smile that made the room's freezing AC feel like it had been switched off.
"Nong Film!" His voice was resonant and warm.
I froze, quickly offering a trembling Wai, bowing so low I nearly reached my waist.
"Sawasdee Krap, P'Light! It's such an honor... My name is Film... I mean, Passakorn Satcha, Krap..."
"Hey, hey..." I felt a hand settle on my shoulder.
I straightened up. P'Light was standing right in front of me. So close... close enough that I could smell a clean, citrusy scent, like lemons mixed with the smell of laundry from a luxury hotel.
"No need for formalities, Nong." He squeezed my shoulder gently; the touch felt firm and steady. "P'Thorn spoke of you like he found a Phet Nai Tom (diamond in the mud). I've been dying to meet you."
I blinked in confusion. P'Thorn spoke well of me?
"Thank you, P'... I... I'm a fan of your work."
P'Light laughed—a light, easy sound that held no arrogance.
"I bought this for you."
He reached out his other hand. In it were two insulated cups from a famous café. He handed one to me.
"Iced Americano, no sugar." He winked. "I heard you just went through Dr. Pim's hands yesterday. I understand the feeling. Drink this; it helps with the swelling and wakes up the soul. Right?"
I took the cup with both hands as if it were a priceless treasure. He knew... he cared enough to know, and he bought coffee for me.
"Thank you, P'Light. Honestly, you didn't have to go to the trouble..."
"No trouble at all." He took a sip of his own coffee, glancing around the empty practice room before meeting my eyes again. "I remember my first day. I was nine years old and I vomited on the director's shoes. Nong Film is doing much better than I did. Just standing here and breathing normally is already a win."
I let out a laugh. it was a bit stiff, but it was sincere. The tension on my shoulders seemed to drop by about two kilograms.
"Shall we sit?" He pointed to the floor. "I hate rehearsing while standing. It feels like taking an oral exam in front of a class."
We sat cross-legged in the center of the room, facing the mirror.
P'Light placed his script on the floor, but he didn't look at the paper at all. Instead, he looked at me. He tilted his head slightly, studying my face with a gaze that looked... affectionate?
"P'Thorn was right," he said thoughtfully.
"About what, Krap?"
"Your eyes. They speak volumes." P'Light smirked. "I don't think it'll be hard to fall in love with these eyes in a scene at all."
I felt my face flush hot immediately—hot enough to burn through the layers of full-coverage foundation.
"P'..."
"May I?" He moved his hand toward my face.
I stayed still as if cursed.
P'Light's long, slender fingers touched my forehead. He gently brushed away a lock of hair that P'Peach's assistant had sprayed into a stiff position.
"There." He adjusted my hair, his touch dragging across my sensitive skin with extreme tenderness. "Now I can see Nu clearly. All of your face." (Nu is a endearment term used to address a younger man/boy but more caring than Nong)
He withdrew his hand but didn't look away. His smile changed; it looked more serious, more like we were on the same side.
"Listen, Film. I know this place is scary. I know P'Thorn looks like a drama villain, and Dr. Pim looks like a heartless robot. I grew up in this building. I know how it feels to be so small in a practice room as big as this."
I swallowed hard, feeling tears prickling my eyes again. That was exactly how I felt.
"But you aren't alone now, understand?" His voice dropped, turning into a promise that felt deeply personal. "We're partners. Your success is my success. I will take care of Nu myself. If there's anything you don't understand, anything you're afraid of, or if someone gives you a dirty look... you just run to P'Light. Deal?"
I looked at his face.
He looked like an angel. Amidst the freezing ice, the laser pain, the loneliness of the empty dorm, and the loss of my digital identity... someone here was reaching out. Someone 'saw' me and wanted to protect me.
The emptiness that had gnawed at my heart last night evaporated completely.
"Deal, P'Light," I whispered.
"Good." He clapped his hands once to break the spell with a burst of energy. "Now, let's read the script. I want to see if Nu is actually as good as P'Thorn brags about."
I opened the script in my hand. The letters might still have been dancing a bit, but my hands weren't shaking anymore.
Beside me, P'Light was smiling—bright and perfect.
I knew nothing about being a professional actor. I knew nothing about camera angles or lighting. But in that moment, sitting on the freezing floor of the Alpha Practice Room, I found confidence for the first time since arriving in Bangkok.
I had hit the jackpot. I had a kind older brother. I had a protector.
The sun had risen inside this windowless practice room, and his name was Light.