In the steamy, neon-lit underworld of Bangkok, Mira, a gifted forger, is thrust into the heart of a mafia empire when her brother vanishes, leaving behind a trail of secrets and debts. Forced to work for Kai, a charismatic yet ruthless syndicate boss dealing in black-market tech, Mira crafts fake identities to survive, all while searching for her missing sibling. As she navigates a world of betrayal, rival gangs, and a growing, dangerous attraction to Kai, Mira uncovers a conspiracy that could topple his empire-and her own loyalties. Torn between escape and power, love and revenge, she must decide: forge her way out or become the shadow that burns it all down.
Chapter 1 The Debt
The pencil scratched against the paper, a soft rhythm Mira had known since she was a kid. Her apartment was a shoebox above a noodle stall in Bangkok's Chinatown, the kind of place where the walls buzzed with the hum of the city-motorbikes snarling,
vendors shouting, the clatter of woks sizzling with garlic and chilies. She leaned closer to her sketch, a half-finished portrait of her brother, Aran, his lopsided grin frozen in charcoal. It'd been three weeks since she'd last seen him, three weeks since he'd texted her a cryptic "I'm fine, don't worry." She worried anyway.
The crash came without warning. Her door splintered inward, wood shards flying like shrapnel. Mira yelped, dropping the pencil as three men stormed in-black hoods, gloved hands, moving like shadows with purpose. The tallest grabbed her sketchbook and flung it across the room, pages fluttering like wounded birds.
Another pinned her arms, his grip iron against her wrists. She kicked, her bare foot glancing off his shin, but he didn't flinch.
"Where's Aran?" she shouted, voice cracking. "What do you want?"
No answer. They dragged her out, past the flickering fluorescent bulb in the hall, down the rickety stairs where the air thickened with the stench of fish sauce and exhaust. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She twisted, catching a glimpse of her neighbor, old Mrs. Somsri, peering out her door, then slamming it shut. No help there.
The street swallowed them. Neon signs bled red and gold across the wet pavement, reflections trembling in puddles from the last rain. A van idled at the curb, black as oil, its engine growling low. They shoved her inside, the door sliding shut with a clang that echoed in her skull. She landed on her knees, palms scraping rough metal. A hood slipped over her head, coarse fabric scratching her cheeks, muffling the world to her own ragged breathing.
The ride was short, or maybe terror stretched time thin. When the van stopped, they hauled her out, the hood ripped away. She blinked against the glare of a bare bulb swinging overhead. A warehouse loomed around her-concrete walls streaked with damp, crates stacked like jagged teeth, the air heavy with diesel and sweat. Men moved in the shadows, silhouettes cradling guns. Her stomach lurched.
"On your knees," one of her captors barked, a stocky man with a scar splitting his eyebrow. She hesitated, and he shoved her down, her knees hitting the cold floor with a jolt that shot up her spine. She bit her lip, tasting copper, and glared up at him. He smirked, but his eyes flicked to someone behind her.
Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, like a predator circling prey. A man stepped into the light-tall, lean, with a face that could've been carved from stone if not for the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His hair was jet-black, swept back, and his suit clung to him like it was tailored to kill. He carried himself with a quiet menace, the kind that didn't need to shout to be heard. The others straightened as he neared, their silence louder than any order.
He stopped in front of her, hands in his pockets, and tilted his head. "Mira, right?" His voice was smooth, silk over a blade, with a faint accent she couldn't place-Thai, but laced with something foreign. "Aran's little sister."
Her breath caught. "Where is he? What've you done with him?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled something from his jacket-a cracked phone, its screen spiderwebbed with fractures. He tossed it at her feet, and it skidded across the concrete, stopping an inch from her trembling hands. She recognized it instantly. Aran's phone. The case was chipped, the one she'd teased him about keeping too long.
"He's alive," the man said, crouching to her level. His eyes locked on hers, dark and unreadable, like pools of ink. "For now."
Relief crashed into fear, a sickening wave. "What do you want?" she whispered.
He straightened, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. "Your brother owed me. A job went south-my cargo's gone, and I'm out ten million baht. He swore he'd fix it, but then he vanished." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "You're going to pay his debt."
Mira's throat tightened. "I don't have money. I'm an artist, not a-"
"I don't want your money." He cut her off, stepping closer until she could smell his cologne-something sharp, expensive, cutting through the warehouse's grime. "I've seen your work. Passports. IDs. You're good. Better than good."
Her blood ran cold. She'd made fake papers for Aran once, years ago, when he'd begged her to help him dodge a gambling debt. She'd sworn never again-the shame of it still gnawed at her, the fear of getting caught. How did this man know? Had Aran sold her out?
"I don't do that anymore," she said, forcing steel into her voice.
"You do now." He nodded to the scarred man, who dropped a leather satchel beside her. It hit the floor with a thud, spilling tools-pens, inks, a pristine passport booklet, blank and waiting.
"You've got until dawn to forge me a new identity. Male, thirty-two, Malaysian. Clean record. My client's waiting, and I don't disappoint."
Her hands shook as she stared at the tools. "And if I don't?"
He crouched again, close enough that she could see the faint scar tracing his jaw, a thin white line against tan skin. "Then Aran's next call comes from a morgue."
The words punched the air from her lungs. She pictured Aran-his goofy laugh, the way he'd sneak her extra mango sticky rice when she was broke. He was a screw-up, sure, always chasing quick cash, but he was her screw-up. Her only family since their mom died. She couldn't let him go.
"Why me?" she rasped. "There are others. Professionals."
"Because you're here," he said simply, standing. "And because Aran bragged about you. Said his sister could fool God himself with a pen."
Her jaw clenched. Damn you, Aran. She wanted to scream, to claw at this man's calm, but her hands stayed frozen, nails digging into her palms. The warehouse pressed in, the bulb swaying like a pendulum counting down her choices.
"Get her a table," he said to the scarred man, turning away. "And water. She'll need steady hands."
The scarred one-Lek, she heard someone call him-grunted and hauled a rickety table over, slamming it down in front of her. A plastic bottle of water followed, rolling to a stop against the satchel. The man in the suit watched her, expectant, as if her surrender was a formality.
"What's your name?" she asked, stalling, her voice barely audible.
He paused, glancing back. "Kai." No hesitation, no title. Just a name, sharp as a knife's edge.
She swallowed, reaching for the satchel. Her fingers brushed the passport, smooth and cold, a lifeline and a chain all at once. She could do this-one job, one night. Save Aran, then figure out how to run. Her artist's hands, trained for beauty, would bend to this ugliness. What choice did she have?
Kai's smirk widened, just a flicker, as she pulled the tools toward her. He turned to leave, his footsteps fading into the warehouse's depths, but his voice drifted back, low and final.
"You're mine now."
The warehouse door slammed shut, a gunshot of metal on metal, locking her in with the shadows and the ticking clock. Mira gripped the pen, its weight a promise and a curse, and bent over the blank page. Dawn was hours away, and her brother's life hung
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