Selma had seen enough.
Whatever fragile curiosity she might have had about this city, whatever tolerance she had stretched to accommodate new faces, new customs, new chaos—it snapped cleanly in that alley. She wasn't going to stay out here a second longer. Not to explore, not to socialize, not to adapt. She wanted walls.
She wanted silence. She wanted distance.
She turned sharply, retracing her steps with hurried strides, trying to orient herself, trying to remember which way she had come from.
The streets twisted into one another, neon signs bleeding into shadows, unfamiliar words glowing overhead like warnings she couldn't read. Bangkok at night no longer felt vibrant—it felt too close, too alive, pressing in from all sides.
Her phone rang.
The sound startled her so badly she nearly dropped it.
Agatha.
Without hesitation, Selma answered.
"Hello? Where are you?" she asked, voice tight, eyes darting as she scanned the street for anything familiar—faces, storefronts, them.
"I should ask you that," Agatha replied. She sounded slightly out of breath, the kind that came from walking too fast, from worry rather than exertion. "Where did you run off to?"
Selma slowed, pressing a hand briefly to her chest. Even through the phone, she could tell—Agatha was panicking. Searching. The thought grounded her more than she expected.
"I'm sorry," Selma said, the edge softening despite herself. "I think I took the wrong turn…"
She paused, turning around slowly, looking back toward the direction she'd fled from.
The alley was hidden now, swallowed by darkness, but the echo of what she'd heard lingered unpleasantly in her mind.
"…Anyway," she continued quickly, forcing steadiness into her voice, "where are you guys? I can't see you at all."
"We—" Agatha hesitated. "It's hard to explain. I'll send you the location. Just make sure you track it down."
Then, as if afraid Selma might miss it, might panic or vanish into the city entirely, she repeated more firmly, "I'll send it. Follow the map."
"Fine," Selma muttered, swallowing hard.
"Send it again. I think I'm going to puke."
"Puke?" Agatha asked immediately. "What happened?"
Selma exhaled slowly, exhaustion weighing down her shoulders. She stared at the pavement beneath her feet, the way the light reflected off damp concrete, the way strangers passed without noticing her unraveling.
"I'll tell you when I get back to the condo," she said flatly. "Just send the location."
There was a brief pause on the other end. A thoughtful, suspicious little hmm.
Then the call ended.
Seconds later, her phone vibrated again.
A notification lit up the screen—a map, a pulsing blue dot marking her location, another showing where Agatha and the others were waiting. Selma stared at it, steadying herself, then tightened her grip on the phone and started walking.
Bangkok buzzed around her, indifferent, sprawling, endlessly alive. But now she had a direction.
And that was enough—for the moment—to keep her moving.
---
She followed the map's pulsing blue dot through a maze of streets until the city opened up into a downtown stretch that felt both strange and strangely inviting. Neon signs hung low and bright, casting pools of colored light onto the pavement. Music drifted from somewhere unseen—soft, rhythmic, alive. Cafés spilled onto sidewalks, people laughed too loudly, and the air smelled of sugar, smoke, and something citrusy.
It was… unexpected.
Not chaotic in the way the alley had been.
This place felt curated, intentional. Lived in.
Outside one of the buildings, she spotted Rei, waving enthusiastically, arm raised high like a beacon. Relief flooded her chest so suddenly she had to pause. Only then did she realize she'd been holding her breath ever since she fled that dark, suffocating alley.
"Ama, here!" Rei called out.
Selma stopped short.
Her brows drew together instantly. "I told you," she said firmly as she approached, "it's Selma. S.E.L.M.A. Selma. Not Ama." She even spelled it, slow and deliberate, as if carving it into the air so there would be no room for misunderstanding.
"OI!" Rei exclaimed.
She didn't know what it meant, but she knew the tone. A half-laugh, half-protest. The kind that translated loosely to you're being dramatic. The realization made her frown deepen, the crease between her brows sharp enough that even Rei looked momentarily taken aback.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Look. We Thais have a habit of shortening names. Makes it easier. Same goes for you."
Selma disagreed entirely.
To her, it felt like they had added something instead of shortening it. Ama? Her name was Selma. Pronounced Sel-ma. If anything, shouldn't it be Ma? Why introduce an extra "a"? Was he trying to turn her into Selama? Or worse—Selamaaa?
The thought alone made her shudder.
A spike of irritation crawled up her spine. She hated this kind of casual normalcy—the way people touched things that weren't theirs and called it culture.
"Let me repeat myself," she said coldly. "It was Anselma. Shortened to Selma. There is no need to shorten it further. Do you get that?"
Before Rei could respond, a voice cut through the moment.
"Rei!"
Selma turned.
A young boy, no older than eighteen at first glance—maybe younger—was waving energetically as he approached. His face was bright, open, unguarded. He stopped in front of Rei and launched into a rapid stream of Thai, words bouncing quickly off his tongue. Selma caught fragments—kam, kab—sounds that blended together until she felt like her brain might dissolve trying to keep up.
She stared blankly, silently praying for translation.
Rei finally turned back to her and said something in Thai she didn't understand, gesturing toward the newcomer.
The boy smiled and switched languages smoothly. "Hello. I'm Earth."
Selma blinked.
"Earth?"
As in… the planet?
Rei had stepped closer, so Selma seized the opportunity. She grabbed his sleeve and leaned in, whispering sharply into his ear. "Is that shortened too? Or is that the silly name he decided to have?"
"That's his name," Rei whispered back, fighting a smile.
"Like as in… the world?" she pressed.
Rei hummed in confirmation.
Selma stared at Earth again, reassessing him from head to toe. "Let me get this straight," she whispered urgently. "Does he own a Ferrari? A Lamborghini? Is he secretly the richest man in this country? And how old is he?"
Rei bit his lip, then burst into quiet laughter.
"No. He lives with his parents. He's not the richest in Thailand. And he's twenty."
Selma leaned back, unimpressed. "Your country is weird."
Rei smirked. "I'm sure I'd find something to complain about when I come to where you're from."
"That's fair," she conceded. "But trust me—you wouldn't complain about the names. Not like this."
As they whispered back and forth, trading disbelief and dry remarks, no one seemed to notice the way Earth looked at Selma. Not staring. Not intrusive. Just… observant.
Curious.
There was something in his gaze—something unreadable. Not threatening. Not warm either.
Just strange.
And in a city that had already surprised her too many times, Selma couldn't decide whether that unsettled her—or intrigued her more.
---
The club was buzzing—not softly, not politely, but loudly, relentlessly alive.
Bass thundered through the floor, vibrating up Selma's legs, into her bones. Neon lights cut through the darkness in sharp pulses of violet, blue, and electric pink, dim enough to blur faces yet bright enough to dazzle the senses. Girls danced like the night belonged to them, hair flying, laughter spilling freely. Men ordered champagne as if it were water, popping bottles without a second thought, foam spilling over crystal flutes while cameras flashed.
It was excess. Controlled chaos.
From where they stood, Selma spotted Agatha across the crowd. They didn't rush to her. Instead, they settled at a table and ordered drinks—everyone except Selma.
She had no intention of drinking.
Alcohol had never been part of her rules.
Clear mind. Steady hands. Even now, surrounded by indulgence, she stuck to it with quiet stubbornness.
The lights flickered again—almost blinding in their dim brilliance.
Then the music dipped.
A pause rippled through the club, subtle at first, then unmistakable. The DJ lowered the volume. A voice echoed through the speakers. An announcement.
An introduction.
Excited murmurs spread like wildfire.
Phones were raised. People stood on their toes.
Apparently, the most famous celebrity in Thailand had arrived.
According to the whispers around her, anywhere he went drew attention. Anything he wore became a best-seller. His presence alone elevated places. To them, he wasn't just a man—he was an icon. Almost a god.
He was ushered toward the VIP lounge, elevated slightly above the main floor, where the wealthy and untouchable stayed.
Everything there gleamed—polished leather, gold accents, exclusive bottles guarded like treasure.
The club erupted.
Cheers. Screams. Laughter. Pure, unfiltered excitement.
Selma watched with detached disbelief.
Paying more to be isolated, she thought, when the real energy—the real fun—was right here, among people. She found the concept ridiculous.
She was still turning that thought over when shouting broke out from the VIP lounge.
At first, it sounded like loud talking. Heated voices. Then accusations. Jealous words.
The usual dramatic nonsense—someone claiming ownership, demanding attention, clinging to a relationship that clearly didn't exist anymore.
Cringe, Selma thought.
And then it escalated.
A shove.
A stumble.
A sudden, sickening crash.
The music cut off completely.
Everyone turned.
And then silence fell—heavy, horrified.
There he was.
Their beloved.
On the floor.
Not moving.
How he had been dragged into the fight didn't matter anymore. What mattered was that his right leg was bent at an unnatural angle, twisted in a way no leg should ever be. Blood pooled nearby, glistening dark under the lights.
People screamed.
Phones came out.
The only word Selma could make out over and over again was "Phi!"—a desperate cry, filled with fear and reverence.
Faces were pale. Shocked. Frozen.
If this is how the world works, Selma thought grimly, many people would have died a long time ago.
They were filming.
Not helping.
She knew immediately—every second mattered. The longer the blood flow was compromised, the higher the risk of permanent damage. Muscle ischemia.
Nerve injury. Compartment syndrome.
That leg could be gone.
"Selma, what should we do?" Agatha yelled, panic cracking her voice.
Selma hesitated for a fraction of a second.
She wasn't in her country. She wasn't licensed here. And yet—medicine didn't wait for borders.
Urgency won.
She pushed forward, dropping to her knees beside him, hands already steady despite the chaos.
She palpated quickly. Cold foot. Weak distal pulse. The lower leg was rotated outward, severe swelling already forming.
"Poor blood circulation in the right leg," she said sharply. "Likely a severe fracture with vascular compromise."
Her voice cut through the noise—calm, authoritative, undeniable.
"I need to realign his leg to restore blood flow," she continued. "Agatha, stabilize his head and neck—do not let him thrash. Rei, Earth—hold his waist firmly. Do not let him move. One wrong movement could cause nerve damage or worsen internal bleeding."
They obeyed instantly.
Selma turned to the surrounding crowd, eyes cold. "Everyone else—at least fifteen meters away from the patient. Now."
She didn't argue. She didn't plead.
She glanced at Koon.
He understood immediately.
Within seconds, space cleared. No filming. No screaming. Just tense silence.
Selma took a slow breath.
"Alright," she said quietly, gripping the injured leg above and below the deformity,
careful not to compress the swollen area.
"I'm going to reduce it now. Remember—do not let him move."
She counted evenly. "One. Two. Three."
She applied gentle but firm traction, aligning the bone slowly, rotating it back into anatomical position. The celebrity screamed in pain, instinctively trying to pull away—but the others held him steady.
"I know it hurts," Selma said calmly, never stopping. "But this will save your leg.
Breathe. You're doing well."
There was a soft but unmistakable click as the joint realigned.
She immediately checked the foot again.
Warmth was returning. Color improving.
Pulse—faint, but present.
Good.
She moved swiftly to his arm, where a deep laceration gaped, glass embedded in the muscle. Blood flowed freely.
"Pressure," she ordered. "I need clean cloths. Something to use as a tourniquet—but not tight enough to cut circulation. And I need tweezers or anything sterile to remove glass."
Agatha ran.
Within minutes, everything was there.
Selma tied a compression band above the wound, not a full tourniquet—just enough to slow bleeding. She irrigated the area as best she could, then carefully removed the glass fragments one by one, ensuring none were left behind. She wrapped the arm tightly, elevating it.
Sirens wailed.
The ambulance arrived just as she finished stabilizing him.
She stepped back, finally allowing Agatha to take over speaking with the medics, explaining what had been done.
Selma stood there, hands trembling faintly now that the adrenaline had faded.
She looked at them—at the man whose leg might have been lost, whose life might have been altered forever.
And she wondered quietly, deeply—
Had she done the right thing?
In the flashing lights of the club, surrounded by strangers in a country not her own, Selma realized something unsettling:
No matter where she went, she could never stop being what she was.