Scene: Evening — A Pub in Thonglor

The pub is dim and stylish, with moody lighting and an expensive haze. Music hums low through the thick air — not loud enough to dance, but just loud enough to drown out the quiet voice in your head. It smells like whiskey, perfume, and something bittersweet.

Hong sits in a booth near the back, shoulders slightly hunched, watching the way condensation rolls down his glass. Nina’s across from him, looking perfectly at ease, as if this were her kingdom.

She’s traded her white blouse for a silky black top, her hair pinned up now, exposing her neck and gold earrings that catch the red lighting. She looks like someone out of a movie, and she knows it.

“You’ve barely touched your drink,” she says, twirling the stem of her wine glass.

“I don’t really feel like drinking,” Hong replies, not looking up.

Nina smiles, slow and smooth. “That’s not the Hong I remember. What happened to the one who used to do shots with me in the middle of the week, who used to stay out ‘til 3 AM and still make it to dance practice?”

“He grew up.”

She leans in slightly, resting her chin on her hand. “Or maybe he just got boring.”

The words are playful — but laced with something cruel. Hong knows her patterns. He knows when she's pushing buttons just to see if she still can.

“Come on,” she says, tilting her head. “One drink won’t kill you. It’s our last night. Just let go, a little. You owe me that much.”

Hong exhales slowly. He doesn’t owe her anything. But something about her tone — half dare, half guilt — gets under his skin. Maybe he’s tired of resisting. Maybe he wants to prove he’s unshaken. Or maybe he just wants to forget for a little while.

He picks up the shot glass she ordered for him without asking. “One,” he says.

But Nina’s already signaling the waiter for more.

Later That Night — The Booth

The world is softer now. Edges are blurred. Voices mix together like watercolor on wet paper. Hong's cheeks are flushed, and he’s slumped slightly to the side, blinking slower than usual.

Nina, untouched by her drinks, sips slowly from her glass. She watches him with a strange satisfaction, like a hunter who's lured their prey exactly where they wanted.

“You still have that crease between your eyebrows when you’re upset,” she says, leaning close. Her perfume is overwhelming now.

Hong tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You always talked too much.”

“You liked it.”

“No,” he murmurs, “I didn’t.”

For a second, she’s quiet. Her expression hardens, just a touch. “You know,” she says, “you were easier to be with when you weren’t pretending to be better than me.”

Hong shakes his head slowly. “That’s not it.”

“Oh?” she leans in. “Then why do you look at me like that?”

He looks up at her, his gaze a little glassy. “Because I know what this is, Nina. You never came for closure. You came to see if you could still ruin me.”

A flicker of something — rage, or shame — crosses her face, but she masks it quickly with a smile. “And maybe I can.”

She reaches out and touches his face lightly. He doesn’t pull away — not because he wants it, but because he’s slow now, unfocused.

A buzz in his pocket. A vibration against the booth cushion.

Nut: "Are you home yet? Where are you?"

He doesn't see it. Nina does.

She picks up his phone without asking, just a glance — and her smile returns, this time colder.

"Sweet," she says. “He's worried about you.”

Hong leans back against the booth, eyes fluttering closed. “Don’t.”

But Nina isn’t listening. She finishes her drink, stands, and throws on her coat with slow grace.

“Let’s go,” she says, grabbing his arm to pull him up. “We’ll go somewhere quieter.”

Hong tries to stand, but the floor tilts under him.

“Nina…” he mumbles. “I want to go home.”

Her grip tightens on his wrist.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, voice honey-thick. “You are home.”

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