After everything that had happened—after the screams, the blood, the flashing lights—they needed her.
Back at the club, the atmosphere had shifted completely. The music was gone, replaced by murmurs and hushed excitement. Statements were taken. Questions were asked. Words poured out in a mixture of Thai and broken English, emotions spilling faster than coherence.
They praised Selma.
Some spoke with awe, some with reverence. A few went as far as clasping their hands together, whispering prayers to God, while others—too shaken, too grateful—looked at her as though she herself were divine.
"The way she handled it," someone said earnestly, "even though we don't know her… she's clearly a good person. She moved like she's done this many times before."
"Yes," another chimed in excitedly. "She was so gentle when she comforted him. My heart was racing just watching her."
"I love her," a girl said without hesitation.
Those were the words floating around during the questioning.
Selma heard them.
Or maybe she didn't.
Or maybe she simply didn't care.
Praise had never been something she knew what to do with. It slid off her like rain against glass—present, undeniable, but never truly touching her.
She had insisted Agatha go with the medics instead of her. But because Selma was the one who had performed the emergency intervention—the one who had stabilized the injury before things turned catastrophic—she was dragged along regardless.
It proved useless.
All she did was nod. Shake her head.
Answer yes or no like a mute observer to her own actions.
It didn't take long before they were released.
They returned to the club, where Rei, Ray, Koon, and Gus were waiting anxiously.
Relief spread across their faces when they saw her, but they weren't the only ones.
Others lingered nearby, clearly wanting a word, a photo, a question answered.
And that was when the exhaustion truly hit.
Selma stood there, overwhelmed.
She was a foreigner—stripped of language, stripped of authority. In her country, she would have known exactly what to do. She could explain herself clearly, sharply, in English or in her dialect. She could raise her voice without fear. She knew the rules.
Here?
How could she say I'm tired without sounding rude?
How could she say I don't want to talk without offending someone?
How could she raise her voice without accidentally breaking an unspoken rule she didn't even know existed?
One country allowed one thing. Another forbade it.
She felt trapped in politeness, boxed in by ignorance.
And then—
Something struck her face.
An egg.
It splattered against her cheek and hair, cold and wet, hitting a place she didn't even know could hurt that much. Not physically—though that stung—but somewhere deeper, quieter.
The shock froze her.
Agatha was the first to react.
Her eyes flared red—not immediately with rage, but with disbelief.
What the hell?
Before anyone could stop her, Agatha lunged forward, grabbing the man by the collar and shaking him so violently it looked like his soul might leave his body. The man staggered, eyes unfocused, seeing stars—maybe even fairies.
Agatha yelled in Thai—sharp, furious, cutting through the air so forcefully that Selma instinctively looked up.
"Are you insane?! What do you think you're doing?! How dare you!"
The words were thick with rage, unmistakable even without full understanding.
Selma wiped her face slowly.
"Agatha," she said quietly, her voice tired beyond measure. "I'm leaving first. I need to sleep."
It wasn't that the act hadn't hurt.
Being hit without reason always does.
But strangely, Selma understood—at least in part.
If this had happened in her country, that man would have been beaten senseless.
Dragged away like a criminal. But this wasn't her country.
This was a place where sexual orientation could be discussed openly. Where people wore their identities with pride. Where schools encouraged students to embrace who they were.
Maybe that man loved the actor.
Maybe he thought Selma was trying to get close—seeking attention, fame, proximity.
If that was the case, then he was a narcissist of the highest order.
Still… Selma wasn't angry.
Just sad.
Because none of this would have happened if she were back home—buried in her hospital, drowning in schedules and emergencies, invisible among white walls and fluorescent lights.
Not long after, she reached the condo.
She didn't turn on the lights.
She went straight to her room, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep almost immediately—exhaustion pulling her under before her thoughts could catch up.
Bangkok continued to breathe outside.
But for the first time since arriving, Selma let herself disappear into rest.
___
Others reacted quickly, rushing in before Agatha could truly lose herself to rage.
Hands grabbed her arms, her shoulders, holding her back just in time—because if she had landed that first real blow, there would have been no explaining it away. Police. Charges. Consequences.
The man must have sensed it too.
The moment Agatha was restrained, he bolted—vanishing into the crowd without a backward glance. And honestly, who could blame him? Staying would have meant being torn apart by a woman whose fury looked lethal.
By then, Selma was already gone.
She had slipped away quietly, the way she always did when things became too much. Agatha knew her well enough to understand that stopping her would only worsen things. Selma didn't run from people—she retreated inward, carrying everything alone.
So Agatha let her go.
Rei and Ray eventually drifted off as well, their earlier excitement dulled by the night's turn. That left only Koon and Gus, walking beside Agatha through the crowded streets.
Bangkok hadn't slowed down for anyone.
The sidewalks were alive—vendors shouting prices, carts sizzling with hot oil, plastic stools crowded with diners who laughed and talked over steaming plates.
This was the hour when sellers thrived, when the city earned its living under neon and moonlight. Many called out to them, offering food, drinks, souvenirs.
They paid them no mind.
Agatha wasn't thinking.
She was admitting—to herself, to the weight of everything she had been carrying since Selma collapsed from exhaustion weeks ago. The silence between the three of them grew thick, awkward, until Koon finally broke it.
"About Ama," he said carefully, glancing at Agatha. "Do you think she's going to be alright?"
Agatha didn't even slow her steps.
"Her? Don't bother," she said lightly. "She gets that a lot. She's probably asleep already."
Gus turned his head toward her, curiosity written plainly across his face. "Gets that a lot?"
Agatha nodded.
"Yeah. She does. Because she's beautiful? Or because she's always calm—I don't really know."
Koon frowned slightly. "I understand that your friend is very beautiful," he said calmly. "But what does that have to do with what happened at the club?"
Agatha exhaled.
"Selma is a surgeon," she said. "Actually—you could call her everything in the medical field. She owns the biggest hospital in our country. And she has branches in several places. Not everywhere, but enough that people know her name."
Koon stopped walking for half a second. "She owns a hospital?" He blinked. "Then why isn't she working? Why is she here? Is she short on staff?"
Agatha shook her head.
"We have plenty of workers. It's just… never enough for her." Her voice softened. "She built that place with blood and sweat. She really fainted and nearly died of exhaustion before we came here."
She paused, looking around at the city lights, at strangers laughing freely.
"She refused this vacation," Agatha continued quietly. "Her mother forced her to take it. And…" She sighed deeply. "I'm sure she's having a hard time here."
"A hard time?" Gus echoed.
"Mhm," Agatha nodded. "New country. New language. New rules she doesn't understand. Everything that makes life difficult for someone like her."
They walked a little longer without speaking.
Finally, they stopped at a small bar glowing softly under hanging lights and settled for a drink—not to celebrate, not to unwind, but simply to let the night pass.
Somewhere across the city, Selma was already asleep.
And Agatha hoped—quietly, fiercely—that rest would be enough to keep her standing.
___
Early morning.
The hospital was unusually quiet at this hour.
Soft light filtered through half-drawn curtains, washing the room in pale gold. Machines hummed gently beside the bed, their steady rhythm a reminder that life—fragile and stubborn—continued regardless of fame or fear. Outside the window, Bangkok stirred awake. Traffic crept back into the streets, vendors began setting up stalls, and the city resumed its endless breath.
The celebrity lay propped against crisp white pillows, one leg immobilized, arm bandaged, eyes fixed on the view beyond the glass.
Only now—when the adrenaline had faded and the noise of the night had dulled—did the reality of what happened finally settle in.
He had come out with friends to celebrate.
Another successful show. Another night where the crowd screamed his name like prayer. He had wanted laughter, noise, indulgence. He had wanted to feel untouchable.
The fight…
He knew, painfully well, that part of it was his fault.
Words spoken without care. Ego flaring where restraint should have lived. A misplaced shove. A moment that spiraled out of control.
And then—
He remembered the fall.
The sound of his own body hitting something hard. The sharp, immediate pain that swallowed everything else. The horrifying realization that he couldn't move properly. That something was wrong. Very wrong.
He had thought, truly thought, that he might die.
That was when she appeared.
A woman stepping out of chaos like she belonged there.
At first, he had felt anger. Displeasure. Who was she to touch him? To speak over the noise? And then—worse—she spoke English.
The sound of it grated on him.
Not because he didn't understand it—he did, to some extent—but because he despised what it represented. English-speaking countries. Foreign arrogance. Outsiders who assumed they knew better.
And yet…
Her voice had been calm. Steady. Not impressed. Not reverent. She didn't tremble when she touched him. Didn't gasp dramatically. Didn't look at him like a god fallen from grace.
She looked at him like a patient.
That alone had been both comforting—and deeply irritating.
She told him it would hurt. She didn't apologize for it. She didn't flatter him. She didn't beg him to endure it for the sake of his fans.
She just… did her job.
And that, strangely, was what unsettled him the most.
He had lived his entire life bathed in admiration. Love. Obsession. People bent themselves around him, desperate for approval. But that woman—she had offered professionalism instead of worship.
He knew it.
He knew his thinking was twisted.
But it was his way. And no one had ever dared challenge it.
Until now.
The sound of the door opening pulled him from his thoughts.
His manager stepped inside quietly, bowing slightly out of habit.
Without turning his head, still staring out the window, he spoke.
"What do you mean she doesn't want to see me?"
His voice was calm—but tight.
"That's how it is," the manager replied carefully. "She declined."
He bowed again and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence.
The celebrity blinked once.
Then again.
Huh?
She didn't want to meet Phirun Kittisak.
The Phirun Kittisak.
The one whose face sold brands overnight. The one whose presence filled stadiums. The one people waited hours just to glimpse.
Ridiculous.
No one—no one—had ever refused him before.
Yet this woman had.
And somehow… that felt worse than the injury itself.
It wasn't just rejection.
It was a disaster.