The glossy print shimmers under the dim light of Ohm's VIP bar. He traces the image with a finger, a slight tremor in his hand. It's an old photograph, perhaps five or six years, of Ing Asavad, younger, smiling, with an arm slung around another man. The other man's face, however, is a jagged white void, aggressively scratched out with what looks like a penknife. Ohm's jaw tightens. He pushes the photo across the polished surface of the bar towards Ken, who stands opposite him, notepad still clutched in his hand. "What is this, Ken?" Ohm's voice is low, barely above the ambient hum of the Neon Oasis, which tonight feels like a distant, irrelevant buzz. "You said you dug deep. This wasn't in the initial report. This is personal. This is… violent." Ken shifts, his gaze flicking from the photo to Ohm's face, then back down. "It was in a box, Khun Ohm. Tucked away in the very bottom of what looked like old university memorabilia. We only found it on the second sweep, after your specific instructions to go deeper into his personal effects. It's the only one like it. All other photos were carefully curated, professional shots, or with family. This one… it stood out." "Stood out?" Ohm laughs, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "It screams. What happened here? Who is this ghost? And why did Ing react like he did when his phone rang yesterday?" The memory of Ing’s abrupt departure from The Velvet Bean, the sudden tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible flinch, replays in Ohm’s mind. It was a stark contrast to the lawyer's composed facade, a crack in the armor that Ohm couldn't ignore. "We're still cross-referencing, Khun Ohm. It takes time to delve into private history without direct access. But initial findings suggest… a significant relationship." Ken pauses, flipping a page on his notepad. "Ing Asavad, then 20, was living with a man named Phasakorn Ratanakorn. They were together for three years, throughout university and a year beyond. Phasakorn was a year older, studying finance. From all accounts, they were inseparable. Described as devoted. Engaged, even, by some close friends." Ohm leans forward, elbows on the bar, the cool marble a small comfort against the heat building in his chest. "Engaged? And then what? Why the surgical excision from his life, literally? This isn't just a breakup, Ken. This is a deliberate erasure. This feels like… revenge. Or a deep, deep hurt." Ken nods, his expression serious. "That's what the evidence implies, Khun Ohm. We're chasing down financial records now. Phasakorn Ratanakorn’s name appears on several corporate documents linked to a family trust Ing Asavad inherited from his maternal grandmother. The same trust Ing used to fund his early pro-bono work. We’re still piecing together the timeline, but it looks like Phasakorn had significant access, and then… a sudden disappearance." "Disappearance?" Ohm repeats, the word hanging heavy in the air. He looks at the scratched-out face again, a sense of cold dread settling over him. This wasn't just a past lover. This was a wound, deep and festering. Ing’s intensity, his guardedness, his inability to trust – it all started to make a terrifying kind of sense. The chipped mug, the smell of the stairwell, the meticulous detail of Ing's life Ohm knew from Ken's reports, suddenly felt like pieces of a much larger, more painful puzzle. He had to know the full story. --- Ken’s next report arrived via secure email, a meticulously compiled dossier. Ohm opens the attachment on his laptop, the blue light reflecting in his eyes, the clinking of glasses from below a distant echo. The screen displays scanned bank statements, legal documents, and old newspaper clippings. The name Phasakorn Ratanakorn flashes repeatedly. Ohm scrolls, his gaze fixed on the figures. Phasakorn, leveraging his intimate knowledge of Ing’s family finances and the power of attorney granted in what seemed a gesture of trust and love, had systematically siphoned off funds from the Asavad family trust. Not just thousands. Millions. The documents showed a dizzying cascade of transfers to shell companies, offshore accounts, and eventually, a large sum that vanished into a cryptocurrency exchange. The details were clinical, precise, but the story they told was brutal. One article, dated four years ago, detailed the scandal. “Promising Young Lawyer Rocked by Betrayal: Asavad Family Trust Embezzlement Case.” The headline screamed from an old financial newspaper. Ing, then only 21, was listed as the victim, the one who discovered the fraud. The article painted a picture of a publicly humiliated young man, his family’s legacy tarnished, his personal life in tatters. The betrayal wasn't just financial; it was a devastating personal attack, ripping apart the very fabric of Ing’s trust. Ohm feels a cold knot form in his stomach. Millions. From his *family trust*. The pro-bono cases Ing took on, the ones Ohm had admired, suddenly gained a new, darker context. It wasn't just about justice; it was about rebuilding, reclaiming, perhaps even atoning for a perceived failure, a blind spot that cost his family so dearly. The meticulousness, the tenacity, the unwavering ethical stance – it wasn't just a lawyer’s duty. It was a man fighting for his name, his integrity, against the ghost of a past betrayal. He closes the laptop, leaning back in his chair. Phasakorn Ratanakorn, the seemingly devoted partner, the man Ing was reportedly engaged to, had orchestrated a slow, calculated financial ruin. And Ing, so young, so full of promise, had been left to pick up the pieces, not just financially, but emotionally. The scratched-out face in the photograph, the jagged lines, now made a chilling, absolute sense. It was the mark of a hurt so profound it had to be obliterated, erased from existence. Ohm understood Ing’s guardedness now. He understood the walls, the skepticism. And a fresh wave of something akin to protectiveness, mixed with a sharp fear, washes over him. He was a playboy. How could he ever hope to break through that kind of damage? --- The knowledge of Ing’s past betrayal settles like a heavy weight in Ohm’s chest. He paces the empty expanse of his penthouse living room, the city lights a glittering distraction he barely registers. Empathy, a raw, aching kind, churns with frustration. He understands now why Ing carries himself with such a carefully constructed reserve. The world, for Ing, is a place where even the most intimate trust can be weaponized, where love can be a prelude to devastation. This betrayal isn't just a story from a report; it's a mirror reflecting Ohm's own deepest fear: abandonment. He’s never had someone steal millions, but he’s felt the sting of being left, repeatedly. Each significant person in his life, it seemed, eventually walked away. He clutches at people, clings to them, because the thought of being alone, of being discarded, is a constant, gnawing dread. Ing’s story amplifies that fear, twisting it into a new, insidious shape. If someone as seemingly devoted as Phasakorn could do that, what hope did Ohm have, with his notorious past? His reputation precedes him. He knows it. The string of casual flings, the late nights at Neon Oasis, the easy smiles and charming words – they are a shield, a performance. But they are also the very things that will make Ing wary. Ing sees a playboy, another charmer. He sees Phasakorn, perhaps, in a different suit. The thought infuriates Ohm, a hot surge of anger mixed with despair. His intentions, for the first time in his life, feel truly genuine. He’s captivated by Ing, by his sharp mind, his tenacity, even his stubborn resistance. He wants to peel back those layers, to heal those old wounds, to show Ing what real devotion looks like. But how? How does a man with his history convince someone so deeply scarred that he is different? That he isn't another charming facade waiting to reveal a hidden agenda? He slams his palm against the glass of the window, the impact echoing softly in the vast room. The challenge is immense. It’s not just about winning Ing’s affection; it’s about dismantling years of pain, rebuilding a trust that was shattered into a million pieces. The pro-bono cases, the meticulous legal work, Ing’s entire professional persona – it all seems like an elaborate defense mechanism. Ohm needs to find a way to navigate it, to prove that his own loyalty is a green flag, not a red herring. He needs more information, a different angle. Something that shows the man behind the lawyer, the heart behind the hardened exterior. He’s not giving up. He can’t. --- The Grand Hyatt’s ballroom hums with the refined murmur of Bangkok’s legal elite. Ohm, clad in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, feels like an anomaly. He’s here under the guise of exploring investment opportunities in legal tech, a plausible enough cover for a club owner with diverse interests. The air smells of expensive cologne and faint lilies from the centerpieces. He scans the room, a glass of sparkling water held loosely in his hand, looking for familiar faces from Ken’s reports, hoping to glean some insight into Ing’s world. He spots a cluster of older lawyers near the canapé station, their voices slightly louder than the polite din. One man, a prominent corporate lawyer named Somchai, known for his connections to various high-profile firms, gestures emphatically while speaking to a colleague. Ohm drifts closer, pretending to examine a nearby abstract painting. He catches fragments of their conversation, names of firms, recent cases, the usual professional gossip. "…and Asavad & Associates, always so quiet," Somchai says, lowering his voice conspiratorially, but not quite enough. "You’d think after that Samut Prakan factory case, they’d be shouting it from the rooftops. But no. Very discreet. Very… clean. Almost too clean." Ohm stiffens, his hand tightening on his glass. Asavad & Associates. Ing’s firm. He strains to listen, heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. The conversation continues, a rapid exchange of hushed tones. Another lawyer, a woman with sharp eyes, leans in. "Heard there was a substantial payout, though. Not official, of course. For the whistleblower. Kept it all very quiet, didn't they? To avoid any further… complications." Somchai nods, taking a sip of his wine. "Precisely. A very generous 'settlement,' if you know what I mean. Kept the press away, kept the regulators at bay. Smart move. Saved face for the parent company, too. Though I wonder… what exactly was silenced?" Ohm’s breath catches. A discreet payout. To silence a whistleblower. His mind races. This wasn't the image of the tenacious, ethical lawyer he had cultivated from Ken’s reports, the man who fought for the wronged. This painted a darker, more pragmatic picture. Was Ing’s firm involved in something more… ambiguous? The Samut Prakan case, Ing’s brilliance in navigating the corporate veil – it had seemed like a triumph of justice. But what if there was another side? What if Ing’s world, even his professional one, held more shadows than Ohm had imagined?

Chapter 4: The Ghost of the Past