I was stumbling through the sticky heat of a Bangkok night, barely sober enough to realize I wasn’t alone. Beside me walked Gandalf — yes, the Gandalf — in full grey robes, staff in hand, beard flowing down to his belt like he'd stepped straight out of a movie. He looked completely at ease, as if Bangkok’s chaos was just another stop on his long journey.

Somehow, we were headed to an ATM. Gandalf didn’t have a credit card — apparently wizards don’t carry those. My head pounded as I tried to remember how I got here. Last thing I recalled, we were drinking something called “dragon fire” on a rooftop bar.

Then came Nicha and Mali.

They were striking — tall, elegant, with long brunette hair, white t-shirts hugging their forms, and denim shorts that caught the glow of the neon lights. They smiled like they knew exactly what they were offering. "5000 dollars each," they said. “We’ll give you a night you won’t forget.”

I hesitated.

Gandalf turned to me, serious yet serene. “You shall pay,” he said, nodding toward the ATM. “And I shall repay you in due time, my friend.”

I stared at him, wondering if I was dreaming. Or dead. Or just drunk beyond belief.