Night comes early in Bangkok when the rain decides to fall.

Neon lights bleed into wet pavement, stretching and breaking under the tires of passing cars. Inside a narrow street that most people pretend not to see, music leaks out from a bar with no sign—only a red light above the door that never turns off.

Pung stands across the street.

He has been there for forty-seven minutes.

He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t scroll on his phone. He doesn’t look like he’s waiting for anyone.

That’s why no one notices him.

On his screen is a live feed from a camera already installed inside the bar—cheap, tilted slightly to the left. He corrects the angle remotely, jaw tightening when the image sharpens.

Copper steps onto the stage.

The noise in the bar shifts instantly. Not louder—focused.

Copper doesn’t need to try. He never does.

Black shirt, loose at the collar. Sweat at his throat from the heat of the lights. When he sings, his voice is low and slow, dragging every word like it hurts to let go of it.

Pung lowers the volume.

He’s not here for the music.

He watches Copper’s habits instead. • The way he grips the mic when he’s tired • How his eyes flick to the back door every third song • How he never drinks the glass left on the piano unless he poured it himself

Pung notes it all.

Copper is cautious.

Good. That makes him interesting.