The cool blue glow of the monitor bathes Ohm’s face. He leans back in his oversized leather chair, the kind that swallows a man whole, yet he feels suspended, weightless. Below, the Neon Oasis pulses, a distant hum beneath the thick soundproofing. He ignores it all, his gaze fixed on the screen, replaying the moment. Ing Asavad.
The footage flickers: Ing enters, precise steps on the polished marble. His dark suit, crisp and unyielding. The way his hand, slender and elegant, holds the legal notice. Ohm watches his own flippant smile, his attempt at charm, and then Ing’s jaw, tight and resolute. He sees the flash of something – not anger, but a deep, ingrained weariness – in Ing’s eyes before the lawyer turns, dismissing him with an almost imperceptible flick of a wrist.
Ohm pauses the video. Ing’s profile fills the screen, the faint scar above his left eyebrow a stark line against smooth skin. It’s a detail Ohm hadn't consciously registered during their brief exchange, but now it burns itself into his memory. This man is different. Every other person in his orbit bends, eventually. Ing did not even waver.
A strange smile touches Ohm’s lips, a slow, predatory curve. It’s not the easy, practiced grin he uses on club patrons or fleeting conquests. This smile feels… sharper, an internal recognition of a new, exhilarating challenge. His fingers drum against the armrest, a restless rhythm. He replays the clip, focusing on the lawyer’s voice, the calm precision of each word. Section 75, Section 76, Section 118. It had been like listening to a perfectly tuned instrument, cold and beautiful.
He watches Ing leave, the finality in his stride. The silence Ing left behind had felt louder than the thumping bass of the club. Ohm’s reputation as a playboy, a charmer, a man who got what he wanted, felt suddenly thin, transparent. Ing had seen through it, past it, as if it were a minor inconvenience. This was not a game of flirtation. This was something else entirely. Ohm's breath catches, a spark igniting in his chest. He closes the footage, the blue light vanishing, leaving him in the soft, ambient glow of his office. The desire to know more, to understand the man who dared to defy him, floods his senses.
---
Ohm snatches his phone from the desk, thumbing through his contacts. He needs Ken. Now. The call connects on the second ring, Ken’s voice, usually calm and measured, sounds a little startled. Ohm doesn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Ken, I need a file. Comprehensive. On Ing Asavad. The lawyer from yesterday."
His voice, usually laced with a playful ease, holds an edge of command Ken rarely hears for personal requests. Ohm paces the length of his office, the plush carpet doing little to absorb the nervous energy thrumming through him. He stops by the panoramic window, looking out over the city lights that glitter like spilled jewels.
"Everything, Ken. I mean *everything*. Family background, educational history, every case he's ever handled, every public record. His favorite coffee shop if you can find it. Hobbies, interests, where he eats lunch. Any past relationships. Anything that makes him tick."
He hears Ken’s pen scratching on a pad, a faint, almost imperceptible sound over the line. "Sir, that's… quite extensive. For a legal counsel, usually we just need…"
"No usually, Ken. This is different." Ohm's voice drops, a low growl. "I want it yesterday. And I want it detailed. Cross-reference everything. I don't care about privacy waivers or 'usual' procedures. Get me the dirt, the clean, the mundane. Every single detail."
His demand hangs in the air, heavy and insistent. Ken typically handles business logistics, club permits, supplier contracts, the financial minutiae. This request, for a lawyer who had just threatened them with a lawsuit, felt unprecedented. Ohm grips the phone tighter. "Don't tell me what's usual. Tell me when it's ready. Prioritize this above all else. Clear your schedule."
He can almost feel Ken's hesitation, the unspoken question of *why* radiating through the phone. Ohm doesn't offer an explanation. He never does. He simply expects compliance. He ends the call abruptly, tossing the phone onto the desk. The silence returns, but now it feels charged, expectant. He needs to know more. He needs to know *everything*.
---
Ken sits at his sleek, minimalist desk in the operations room, the hum of servers a constant backdrop. His fingers fly across the keyboard, typing faster than usual, but his brow is furrowed. Ohm’s request gnaws at him. He’d seen his boss fixate before, a new face in the club, a fleeting obsession, a new designer gadget. But this? This felt different.
Past interests rarely warranted such a deep dive, certainly not with this level of ferocity. Ohm never asked for school records, or family histories, or even preferred coffee orders. He usually just charmed his way in, then moved on just as quickly. This time, Ohm hadn't even attempted charm, not really. He'd been challenged, and that seemed to have flipped a switch.
Ken pulls up a database, cross-referencing names, addresses, professional licenses. Ing Asavad. Age twenty-five. Graduated top of his class from Chulalongkorn Law. Specializes in labor law, notably pro-bono cases for marginalized workers. Ken finds a brief article about a contentious settlement Ing secured against a large construction firm a few years back. The firm had tried to bully the workers; Ing had dismantled their legal team piece by piece.
He glances at the clock. It’s past midnight. Ohm will expect something by morning, if not sooner. Ken had already received three texts from Ohm asking for updates, each one shorter, more impatient than the last. He clicks through public records, finding a small condo in a respectable but not overly opulent part of the city. No luxury car. No flashy expenditures. Ing Asavad lived a quiet, dedicated life.
Ken prints out a preliminary report, a thick stack of papers. He pauses, looking at a small notation: 'Client Feedback - Consistently Praised for Tenacity and Unwavering Ethical Stance.' It's a bland corporate phrase, but for some reason, it gives Ken a chill. He knows Ohm. Tenacity and unwavering ethics are not usually part of Ohm's playbook. This was going to be an interesting ride. He pushes his chair back, the rollers squeaking softly on the tiled floor. The first draft is ready.
---
The dossier arrives on Ohm’s desk at dawn, a thick, bound document. Ken’s usually precise face looks drawn, but Ohm barely notices. He grabs the file, his fingers trembling slightly as he breaks the seal. The paper rustles, a sound like dry leaves. His heart quickens, a frantic beat against his ribs. This is it. This is the blueprint to Ing Asavad.
He devours the pages. Ing’s birthplace, a small town up north. His scholarship to university. The glowing recommendations from professors, praising his sharp mind and moral compass. Ohm learns about Ing’s unwavering dedication to social justice, his meticulous preparation for every case. There are photos too, official headshots, and one blurry paparazzi shot from a charity event, Ing looking serious, engaged in conversation.
With each detail, a possessive warmth spreads through Ohm’s chest. Ing is not just some pretty face. He is brilliant, principled, unyielding. Exactly what Ohm has never encountered. He finds the details about the unpaid wages: a full remittance is required. Ohm makes a call, barking orders for the transfer. The money is a trifle, a small cost for a second chance to see Ing again. He needs Ing to come back, to see him, to acknowledge him.
Two days later, Ing walks back into Neon Oasis. He's still wearing that dark suit, but his eyes, behind a new pair of sleek, wire-rimmed glasses, hold a sharper scrutiny. Ohm is waiting at the VIP bar, a perfectly chilled glass of water in front of him. "Counsel Asavad, a pleasure to see you again." His voice purrs, dripping with an almost theatrical charm.
Ing offers a curt nod, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Pawat. I'm here to confirm the transfer. I trust the full amount, with interest, has been remitted?" His tone is cold, professional, a shield against Ohm's overture. Ohm grins, leaning forward. "Every penny, and then some. A small price to pay for your captivating company." Ing's lips thin, but he doesn't respond to the bait. He checks his tablet, confirming the figures. He doesn’t even spare Ohm a glance.
"The court date for the initial filing is still scheduled," Ing states, voice flat. "A formality now, to confirm compliance." Ohm’s smile widens. A court date. More time to see him. Ing turns to leave, his duty done. Ohm speaks, his voice a low, suggestive hum. "Such a shame, walking out so soon. I was hoping to offer you a celebratory drink. Or perhaps, a private tour?" Ing just keeps walking, his back ramrod straight.
At the courthouse, the air is stiff with unspoken gravitas. Judges, clerks, other lawyers – all moving with a quiet solemnity. Ing stands before the bench, resplendent in his formal lawyer's gown, his glasses perched on his nose, lending him an air of austere authority. He looks utterly magnificent. Ohm, seated in the gallery, can't resist. As Ing turns slightly to address a point, Ohm winks, a slow, deliberate movement. Ing’s eyes, usually so composed, flash with pure, unadulterated fury. A muscle twitches in his jaw, but he forces his attention back to the judge, ignoring Ohm completely. The hearing concludes swiftly. Ing gathers his papers, his movements stiff with suppressed anger.
Later, as dusk paints the Bangkok sky in hues of purple and orange, Ing walks out of the courthouse, his briefcase swinging by his side. Ohm is there, leaning against a gleaming black Porsche Carrera, a single red rose in his hand. "Counsel Asavad," he calls, his voice soft, enticing. "Allow me to make up for my courtroom indiscretion." Ing stops dead. He looks at the rose, then at Ohm’s impossibly charming face. A cleaning lady pushes a cart past them, a long-handled mop clattering against the pavement. Without a word, Ing drops his briefcase, grabs the mop, and with a swift, practiced swing, brings the wet, soapy head down on Ohm’s pristine white shirt, then again, on his shoulder. Water drips, soaking the expensive fabric. Ohm stumbles back, his eyes wide. He looks down at his ruined shirt, then back at Ing, who stands there, breathing heavily, mop still clutched in his hands. A slow, utterly shameless smile spreads across Ohm’s face. He feels a strange, overwhelming surge of delight, a happiness so pure it almost hurts. This was going to be so much fun. He would make Ing his, no matter what it took, even if it meant a hundred more mop beatings. He just knew it.