Johan POV

The convoy was supposed to be clean. Three cars, no delays, no detours.

But halfway down the coast, just past the turnoff to the old industrial zone, my lead SUV coughed once—then died like a shot deer.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered, slamming the door open and stepping out. The salty wind from the sea blew hard, flapping my coat. I stared at the hood like I could intimidate the engine into life.

Tiger was already calling in backup, pacing behind me like a caged animal. Arthit stayed in the rear car, fingers flying across his tablet, rerouting the whole convoy. Professionals. Efficient.

Still, it pissed me off.

“I’m not waiting twenty minutes for another vehicle,” I growled. “I’ll get there myself.”

Tiger raised an eyebrow. “Boss, this isn’t—”

“I said I’ll handle it.”

I threw off the coat and pulled on a hoodie from the trunk—plain, dark gray, with a baseball cap to shadow my face. In minutes, I looked like any other man in the city. A man no one would look at twice.

I walked up the nearest road, blending with the crowd, until I saw it—a dusty bus stop packed with university kids. Laughter, backpacks, the sound of cheap earbuds leaking tinny music. No one looked up. No one suspected the man who had blood under his fingernails just an hour ago.

The bus groaned to a stop in front of us. I slipped into line, hands in pockets, eyes down.

Then—

“Hey, wait—!”

A voice rang out behind me.

A blur of movement. A thud.

Someone slammed into me, shoulder first, nearly knocking me back a step.

The crowd gasped. The bus driver cursed.

I turned sharply, instincts flaring like gunfire.

The boy stumbled back—wide eyes, breathless, hair tousled from running. Maybe twenty. A canvas messenger bag hung off his shoulder, the strap frayed and nearly tearing.

For a moment—

Time. Stopped.

The noise faded. The movement dulled.

And all I could do was stare.

There was something about him.
Not just his face—though that alone could stop traffic.
But the way he looked at me.
Like he saw me. Not Johan Armani, the name whispered in fear across borders—but the man underneath. The man buried in blood and silence.

He blinked, breathing hard.

“I—I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was soft. Real. “Didn’t mean to—"

I couldn’t respond.

For the first time in years, my body didn’t obey. My tongue, my mind—silent.

The bus doors hissed open behind us.

The boy turned, cheeks red, and climbed aboard.

I stood there as it pulled away, engine rattling into the distance.

Tiger’s voice buzzed in my earpiece:
“Boss, you moving or what?”

But I didn’t answer.

I was still watching the road where the bus had vanished.
Still replaying the moment.
The eyes. The voice.
The feeling.

I didn’t know who he was.

But I would find out.

Even if I had to burn this city to the ground to do it.

__________

I didn’t believe in fate.

Fate was for men with no power.

But there was no rational reason that moment should’ve stuck in my mind like a splinter in the skin.
I had killed men without blinking. Ordered entire families erased.
And yet—

His face wouldn’t leave me.

That boy.

That look.

Like he’d seen through my skin, my muscles, straight into whatever was left of my soul.
Like he knew I was wearing a mask—and didn’t judge me for it.

No one had looked at me like that in years.
Not even my own reflection.

Back at the penthouse, I sat at the table alone, the city stretching far beneath the glass.

I didn’t sleep.

Instead, I traced the bus route by memory. I remembered details most men wouldn’t: the university crest on a student’s jacket. The stop number painted in chipped white on the curb. The brand of the notebook the boy had nearly dropped.

Small things. But to me, they were enough.

“University district. Bus route 14,” Arthit said the next morning, sliding a tablet toward me. “Public transport logs say that specific line services six schools, three libraries, and one medical campus. I already narrowed it down by estimated boarding time.”

On the screen: surveillance stills. Blurry figures. Names. Timetables. The city’s nervous system, reduced to data points.

“You pulled transit data from the public net?”

Arthit shrugged. “I also paid two drivers in cash and hacked a maintenance feed. If that wasn’t enough, I would’ve just bought the bus company.”

Smart. That’s why he was still breathing.

I stopped the scroll on one frame.

There.

Him.

Clearer now. Running, mid-stride. Hair falling into his eyes. The messenger bag bouncing against his side.

Timestamp: 07:42 A.M.

Location: Stop 27. Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences.

I leaned back in my chair.

So he was a student.

A boy surrounded by philosophy majors and coffee shops. A world of cheap textbooks, dorm parties, and debates about identity.

He didn’t belong in my world.
But now, he was in it.

And whether he knew it or not, I was already inside his.

“Do you want him found?” Arthit asked, careful. Neutral tone.

I looked at him.

“Not yet.”

Tiger, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

I picked up my cigarette, lighting it with the gold-plated lighter my father left me—one of the only things I hadn’t sold, broken, or burned.

“I want to know everything.”

I took a drag.

“His name. His friends. What time he wakes up. What kind of music he listens to. How he takes his coffee.”

Arthit nodded slowly. “You think he’s a threat?”

“No,” I said.
I looked out the window.

“I think he’s a question I don’t know the answer to.”

Surveillance begins.

Footage is gathered.
Photos snapped.

The boy is spotted again—exiting a lecture hall. Eating alone. Reading in the park under an old elm tree.

He’s quiet. Smiles easily. Talks little.

No signs of criminal ties.
No evidence he knows who I am.

Still... I don’t believe in coincidences.

Because when someone like me notices someone like him?

Something is about to change.

And change is dangerous.

For everyone.

____________

I wasn’t sleeping.

Not because I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t want to.

Sleep left me vulnerable to dreams.
And lately, they all led to the same place—

A boy on a crowded bus stop.

His shoulder against mine.

His breath.

His eyes.

It was stupid. Insane.

I had interrogated traitors. Slaughtered men in backrooms. Built an empire from blood and blackmail.

And yet—

I found myself staring at grainy surveillance footage like it was art. Watching it over and over. Slowing it down frame by frame.

As if I could understand the moment where everything shifted.

Arthit entered my office just past 11:00 a.m., holding a single envelope.

No digital trail this time. He knew better.

He set it on my desk without a word.

I didn’t ask if it was about him.
I knew it was.

I opened the envelope slowly.

One photo. One short report.

Name: North Irawan.
Age: 21.
Student ID #07054.
University major: Comparative Literature.
Lives in a shared flat. Works part-time at a bookstore downtown. No criminal record. No known associations. No ties to law enforcement.

North.

The name hit like a knife twisted in my chest.

North.

It didn’t sound like a real name. It sounded like a direction. A compass point. Something always out of reach.

I read it again.

North.

The obsession flared—unwelcome but unrelenting.

I hated how it made me feel. Unbalanced. Pulled.

I had executed men for less than what I was feeling now. And still—

I whispered the name aloud. Just once.

“North.”

It tasted strange on my tongue. Familiar. Important. Like I’d known it long before I’d ever heard it.

I pressed the photo flat on the desk, staring at it.

Smiling. In profile. A paper coffee cup in his hand.

He didn’t know he was being watched.

He didn’t know he was wanted.

I walked to the window, the city below me like a chessboard of insects.

I should’ve ordered the file burned. Should’ve forced myself to forget.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I looked at the photo again.

This isn’t normal, I told myself.

This isn’t you.

But that was a lie.

Because if I wanted something badly enough, I always took it.
And now?

I wanted to know everything about North Irawan.

What made him laugh.

What made him lie.

What made him look at me like he could see my name written in blood behind my eyes—and not flinch.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

I was afraid.

Not of him.

But of what I was becoming because of him.