Virote’s gold-crowned smirk vanished, replaced by a twitching eye. He stared at Samak, then at the pulpy mess disappearing down his throat. The thugs behind him shifted uneasily, their muddy boots already leaving smudges on the pristine government office floor. Kiet, still clutching his industrial-strength lemon bleach, watched Samak with an expression of profound disgust, as if the very air around the man had become contaminated. “You… you ate it?” Virote finally managed, his voice a low growl. “You just… consumed a legal document?” Samak patted his stomach, a satisfied belch escaping him. “Patent invalid. Eaten, digested, gone. You can’t steal what’s in my gut, boss. And the Lazy Goddess protects her own.” He winked at Naree, who suppressed a sigh. The drama was exhausting. All she wanted was to go home and nap, not navigate corporate espionage and document ingestion. Naree cleared her throat, waving the rather substantial provincial grant check that Inspector Pranee had pressed into her hand. “Well, since the patent is, ah, internally secured, and we have this generous funding, I suppose we can begin operations.” She looked at Kiet. “Do you know where they sell properties with, say, fifteen bedrooms? For maximum napping potential, of course. And maybe a few acres for… stretching.” Kiet’s eyes lit up. Fifteen bedrooms meant fifteen times the scrubbing. Acres meant vast expanses of sanitization. His possessive gleam intensified, not for Naree, but for the potential square footage of pristine tile. “Maximum efficiency. Optimal decontamination protocols. I know just the place. The abandoned ‘Whispering Palms Estate’ on the outskirts of Vientong. It’s been empty for decades. Reputedly haunted. Filthy, I imagine.” He practically vibrated with anticipation. “Haunted means fewer nosy neighbors,” Naree mused, already envisioning a quiet hammock in a forgotten corner. “Perfect.” Within a week, the grant check had transformed into a deed for a sprawling, wildly overgrown mansion. Its paint peeled like sunburnt skin, its windows were opaque with grime, and ancient, gnarled vines clawed at every wall. To Naree, it was paradise. So many rooms, so many nooks, so many quiet corners ripe for a deep, undisturbed slumber. Kiet, however, saw a battlefield. He emerged from his newly acquired utility shed, a vision of domestic warfare. Clad in a makeshift hazmat suit fashioned from a thick, rubberized rain slicker and an upside-down bucket with eyeholes cut out, he brandished a commercial-grade steam cleaner like a weapon. A full tank of bleach solution sloshed in a backpack sprayer. “The grime is a formidable foe,” Kiet declared, his voice muffled but resolute from within the bucket-helmet. “But I shall conquer it. Room by room. Wall by wall. This mansion will know true cleanliness.” Naree watched him march towards the main hall, a cloud of steam already billowing around him, and sighed in contentment. He was truly in his element. She, on the other hand, had a more pressing mission: find the ideal outdoor napping spot. The gardens, neglected for years, were a riot of tropical foliage – hibiscus, bougainvillea, and creeping ferns formed a dense, fragrant jungle. Perfect. She ambled past a crumbling stone fountain, its basin choked with moss, and followed a barely visible path through a thicket of flowering jasmine. The air here was heavy with the scent of blossoms and damp earth, a natural lullaby. Just as her eyelids began to droop, a rustling sound jolted her awake. It wasn’t a bird, nor the scuttling of a lizard. It was too… human. Too furtive. Peeking through a curtain of ferns, Naree blinked. There, amidst the overflowing refuse bins they’d temporarily placed outside, was a figure. A man in an expensive silk shirt, now streaked with dirt, was frantically sifting through a pile of discarded banana leaves and half-eaten sticky rice. His face was familiar, pinched with an air of entitled desperation. It was Charn, Maliwan’s supposed tycoon-in-waiting husband, supposedly soaring to untold wealth. He held a crumpled greaseproof packet to his nose, sniffing it intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. “My, my,” Naree drawled, stepping out from the foliage. “Lost something, Mr. Charn? Maybe your dignity?” Charn yelped, dropping the packet and spinning around, blood rushing straight up his neck. “You! What are you doing here? This is… this is private property!” “It’s my private property now,” Naree corrected, leaning against a sturdy mango tree. “And it seems you’re rummaging through my private trash. A strange hobby for the province’s future richest man, wouldn’t you say? Looking for inspiration for a new dish? Or just hungry?” His face twisted. “Don’t be absurd! I merely… lost a valuable cufflink. It must have fallen into your… refuse.” He gestured vaguely at the bins, avoiding her gaze. His clothes, though fine, were wrinkled, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Maliwan’s timeline was clearly as broken as a cracked porcelain doll. Naree smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. This was too good an opportunity to waste. “A cufflink, you say? How unfortunate. And how incredibly lucky for me. Because, you see, I found a very interesting piece of paper in there. Looked like a recipe sketch. Very valuable, I’d wager. Maybe it’s best if some things remain… un-discovered.” She patted her pockets, pretending to search. Charn’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of avarice replacing his embarrassment. “What paper? You wouldn’t dare. That recipe is… it is vital for my commercial endeavors.” “Oh, I dare,” Naree purred. “But I’m a reasonable woman. Surely we can strike a deal. A non-disclosure agreement, if you will.” She plucked a discarded cardboard scrap from the ground, smooth on one side, and pulled a charcoal stick from her hair. “You wouldn’t want word getting out that the esteemed Mr. Charn, future titan of industry, was dumpster diving for culinary secrets, would you? The shame! The scandal!” She mimed gasping. Charn’s face blanched. The implications of such a rumor in gossipy Vientong were dire. “What… what do you propose?” “Simple,” Naree said, sketching out rough lines on the wrapper. “You’ll agree to keep silent about anything you’ve seen here today. And, as a sign of your commitment, you’ll dedicate your considerable talents to maintaining these magnificent gardens. For one month. Unpaid, of course. Consider it… a groundskeeping internship. For prospective tycoons.” She held out the makeshift contract. “Sign here.” Charn hesitated, torn between his pride and the crushing fear of public humiliation. He looked at the vast, tangled expanse of the gardens, then at Naree’s nonchalant, knowing smile. Finally, with a sigh of defeat and a muttered curse, he snatched the charcoal stick and scrawled his name on the scrap. “Excellent,” Naree beamed, snatching the ‘contract’ back. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Charn. Your first task: clear that jasmine thicket. And maybe find that cufflink while you’re at it.” She was already planning her next nap under a newly manicured shade tree when a deafening crash echoed from the mansion. The patio doors burst open, spraying splinters into the overgrown lawn. Kiet stood there, still in his hazmat suit, the bucket-helmet now askew. He held a glittering, ornate object in his gloved hand. It was a chandelier, ripped clean from the ceiling. Dangling from its twisted wires, shining ominously in the afternoon sun, was a tiny, perfectly scrubbed radio microphone. “Naree,” Kiet announced, his voice muffled and devoid of emotion, “the Syndicate is listening.”

The Mansion of Madness