Chapter Text
Orm hated traffic.
It was one of those deep, soul-crushing hatreds. The kind that settled into your bones after years of weaving through Bangkok's endless gridlock, only to sit stuck behind a sea of brake lights with nothing to show for it but a headache and an empty gas tank.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, watching the sun sink behind the high-rises. Her motorcycle helmet sat abandoned on the passenger seat, useless in the car she'd borrowed from her brother.
The air conditioning sputtered, threatening to give up entirely.
Orm sighed, grabbing her smoothie from the cup holder. At least she had that.
She took a long sip of passion fruit dragon fruit goodness, leaning back against the seat, resigned to her fate.
That was when the passenger door swung open.
Her heart shot into her throat as a woman slipped inside—no, glided inside—like she owns it.
Long legs, white designer suit. Blood staining the front like it was part of the outfit. Sunglasses obscuring her face. And in her hand? A gun.
A real gun.
The woman shut the door and pointed the barrel at Orm, voice cool and steady.
"If you want to live," she said, "drive."
Orm blinked.
She looked at the gun and at the woman. At the endless, unmoving cars stretching down Rama IV like a parking lot designed by Satan himself.
"...Ma'am," Orm managed, "this is a traffic jam."
The woman's expression didn't change, but her sunglasses slipped down just enough to reveal sharp eyes—and a very distinct lack of patience.
"Then get out of it."
Orm gestured wildly at the sea of cars in front of them. "Unless you've got teleportation powers or a helicopter hidden in your designer suit, I can't exactly go anywhere."
The woman exhaled through her nose, frustration tightening her jaw. Up close, her features were... striking. Not model-beautiful. Dangerous beautiful. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. A smudge of blood near her temple. And an expression that said she was debating whether to shoot Orm or herself out of sheer exasperation.
Then, without warning, the woman reached over.
Orm flinched, but all she did was grab the smoothie from her hand and take a long sip.
Orm gasped. "HEY! That was—"
"Passion fruit and dragon fruit," the woman finished smoothly, licking her lips. "Nice choice. But maybe worry less about smoothies and more about the unlocked car door. I could've been anyone."
Orm gawked at her. "You are anyone! Who even are you?!"
Before the woman could answer, a loud screech echoed from behind them. Orm twisted around to see a black SUV forcing its way onto the sidewalk, hazard lights flashing, tinted windows impossible to see through.
Four men in dark suits jumped out, scanning the street and guns drawn.
The woman in Orm's passenger seat cocked the gun in her hand. Calm. Deadly.
"Last chance," she said softly. "Drive."
Orm's mind screamed at her to argue. To run. To do something logical. Or maybe illegal.
Instead, she stared at the suited men at the woman's terrifyingly gorgeous face.
And sighed.
"...If I get arrested for this, you're paying my bail."
The corner of the woman's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
Orm threw the car into gear, turned onto the narrow side street...illegally and sped off.
The car rolled forward about... two feet.
Then stopped again.
Orm pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, groaning. "Yeah, we're definitely outrunning a hit squad at five kilometers per hour."
The woman beside her didn't look concerned. She was lounging in the passenger seat like she owned the car now, casually swirling the smoothie cup with one hand, gun still resting loosely on her lap with the other.
Unbothered. Like this was all part of her daily schedule.
Orm peeked sideways at her, still very much processing the situation. "Okay, so just to recap... you hijacked my car, drank my smoothie, insulted my door-locking skills, and now we're... what? Sitting in traffic together?"
The woman didn't even blink. "Correct."
"Right." Orm blew out a breath, trying to ignore the tiny thrill of adrenaline still buzzing under her skin. "Cool. Totally normal day."
They inched forward another meter. Horns blared all around them. Somewhere behind, she could still see the black SUV stuck in the same gridlock, their pursuers' silhouettes barely visible inside.
"Shouldn't you, I dunno... be more freaked out?" Orm asked. "The guys trying to kill you are literally stuck behind us."
The woman adjusted her sunglasses, eyes hidden again. "They're not trying to kill me."
Orm snorted. "Sure looked that way."
"They're trying to catch me." She took another sip of the smoothie. "Big difference."
"Wow. That clears everything up."
The woman's lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement. She finally turned, studying Orm properly for the first time. "You're very chatty for someone being hijacked."
"I'm very chatty because I'm being hijacked," Orm shot back. "It's how I process trauma."
She tapped the wheel anxiously, chewing her bottom lip. The SUV hadn't moved much, but neither had they. It was like playing a very slow, high-stakes version of bumper cars.
"So, mystery lady," Orm started, trying to keep her voice casual, "mind telling me your name before this turns into a police report? You know, so I can say, 'Yes, Officer, the well-dressed lunatic threatening me in traffic was named—'"
"Lingling."
Orm blinked. "What?"
"My name." Lingling sipped the smoothie again. "Lingling."
Orm stared at her. "That's... unexpected."
Lingling arched a brow. "Why?"
"I dunno. I was expecting something dramatic. Like... GI Jane Or... Madam Blood."
Lingling snorted, the first genuine laugh she'd made since barging into the car. "Madam Blood? Really?"
"Hey, I'm under pressure here," Orm defended. "Not exactly peak creativity when I'm possibly being followed by murdery dudes in suits."
They rolled forward another half meter. Lingling looked back toward the SUV, then at Orm again.
"You got a name too, chatty?"
Orm hesitated. Should she lie? Give a fake name? Then again, Lingling did already hijack her car. Probably wouldn't take much to figure it out.
She sighed, gesturing to the name tag pinned to her delivery uniform.
"Orm."
Lingling tilted her head, eyes lingering on the tag. "Orm... Sethratanapong?"
Orm groaned. "God, you actually read the whole thing. Most people give up halfway."
Lingling's lips curved slightly. "Sethratanapong. That's..."
"Long? Impossible to spell? Yeah, tell me about it."
Another beat of silence settled between them as they crawled through traffic.
Lingling tapped her nails against the smoothie cup. "You always keep your doors unlocked, Orm Sethratanapong?"
Orm rolled her eyes. "Look, if I knew mafia drama was gonna hop into my car today, I'd have triple-locked the thing."
Lingling didn't deny the mafia part.
That... wasn't comforting.
Orm glanced over at her again. The bloodstains on Lingling's pristine white suit were drying now, faintly brown at the edges. Her hands looked steady. Her expression cannot be determined behind those sunglasses. And yet... there was something weirdly calm about her. Like she wasn't even worried.
"Hey," Orm said slowly, suspicion creeping in, "you're... like... used to this, aren't you?"
Lingling gave a tiny shrug. "Define 'this.'"
"Gun chases. Blood on your clothes. Hijacking strangers' cars mid-traffic jam."
Lingling considered that. "I'd call it... occupational hazard."
Orm's stomach flipped. "Okay, yeah, that's not suspicious at all."
They crept forward another meter. The SUV was still stuck.
"So," Orm started, mostly to keep her brain occupied, "you got, like... a plan? Or am I your plan?"
Lingling's lips twitched. "Right now? You're plan A."
Orm groaned, head thunking back against the headrest. "Fantastic."
The SUV behind them honked—aggressively. Lingling's grip on the gun tightened just slightly, her jaw flexing.
Orm exhaled slowly, knuckles on the steering wheel.
Yep. This was her life now.
Trapped in traffic with a gorgeous, terrifying stranger who drank her smoothie and might've dragged her into a mafia war.
And it wasn't even 7 PM yet.
The traffic finally, finally loosened up.
Cars started creeping forward, gaps opening like tiny little miracles in the sea of brake lights.
Orm's shoulders dropped in relief as she nudged the car ahead, her foot hovering over the gas, ready to bolt the second there was space.
"Looks like your scary friends are stuck back there," she muttered, sneaking a glance in the rearview mirror.
Lingling checked too, her head tilting slightly. "They won't be for long."
As if on cue, the SUV behind them swerved onto the shoulder, bumping over the curb with zero regard for traffic laws or pedestrians.
Orm's eyes widened. "What the hell—"
"Drive," Lingling ordered, voice calm but sharp.
Orm didn't need to be told twice. She slammed her foot on the gas, the little sedan lurching forward with more enthusiasm than expected.
They zipped down the side street, weaving through tuk-tuks, food carts, and motorbikes. The black SUV followed, tires screeching, headlights glaring like they were aiming straight for them.
"This is not happening, this is not happening," Orm chanted under her breath, gripping the wheel like her life depended on it—because it probably did.
Lingling stayed weirdly calm beside her, one hand steady on the gun, the other casually holding the half-empty smoothie cup.
They turned sharply, cutting through an alley so narrow Orm's side mirror clipped a garbage bin.
Behind them, the SUV struggled to squeeze in.
Orm grinned, a wild, nervous laugh bubbling out. "Ha! Suck it!"
Lingling arched a brow. "You talk a lot when you're panicking."
"Panicking is my coping mechanism!"
The alley spat them out onto another main road, mercifully less congested. Orm hit the gas again, flying past rows of parked cars and startled pedestrians.
But the SUV wasn't far behind.
Orm glanced sideways, pulse racing. "Can you, I dunno, shoot their tires or something? Isn't that a mafia thing?"
Lingling didn't even blink. "Are you offering me a clean shot?"
Orm's jaw dropped. "You want me to—what—slow down? In front of them?!"
Lingling shrugged. "Your call."
"Yeah, hard pass on that!"
The SUV closed in, engine growling like a hungry beast.
"Shit, shit, shit—"
Orm whipped the car around another corner, nearly clipping a street pole. Lingling braced herself easily, looking way too composed for someone mid-car chase.
They sped down another alley, this one even tighter, stray cats scattering as tires squealed against the pavement.
Behind them, the SUV hesitated—just for a second—before forcing its way in too.
"They're still following!" Orm yelled.
Lingling rolled her window down, leaned halfway out, and raised the gun.
"Wait—what are you—"
BANG!
The gunshot echoed through the alley. The SUV's front tire exploded with a satisfying pop. The car swerved violently, scraping the alley wall with a screech of metal.
Orm nearly drove into a parked motorbike from flinching. "Holy shit! You actually—"
Lingling slid back inside, rolling the window up, cool as ever. "Tire's gone. That buys us a few minutes."
"Few minutes?!" Orm yelped. "That's it?!"
Lingling just sipped the smoothie again.
Orm groaned, weaving through the last stretch of alleyway and bursting onto a quieter side road. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were sweaty. Her brain was fried.
"You got a safe place nearby?" Lingling asked, casually like they were making small talk at a coffee shop.
"Safe place?" Orm repeated, voice cracking. "Lady, I'm a broke delivery girl, not Jason Bourne!"
Lingling tilted her head, thinking. "Then your house."
Orm gawked at her. "My house?!"
"You said you're broke. No one's looking for me there."
"Okay, that logic is so flawed, I can't even—"
Orm's words died as she caught a glimpse of the SUV in the rearview mirror again. Limping, but still moving.
Lingling noticed too. Her jaw tightened. "They're stubborn."
Orm groaned, hanging her head for a second. "God, I hate today."
Lingling's voice softened, still sharp, but not unkind. "Orm. Drive home."
Orm squeezed her eyes shut. "If I get murdered because of this—"
"I'll pay for your funeral," Lingling interrupted dryly.
Orm let out a strangled laugh, more hysterical than amused, and stomped on the gas pedal.
Thirty chaotic, nerve-wracking minutes later, Orm's car screeched to a stop outside her apartment building.
It wasn't much to look at.
Five floors of faded concrete, rusted balcony railings, and flickering neon signs advertising things like laundry services and cheap noodles. The kind of place where the neighbors mostly kept to themselves and nobody asked questions.
Perfect for hiding, apparently.
Orm slammed the gear into park and exhaled like she'd just survived a war zone. "Welcome to my glamorous mansion."
Lingling looked at the building through the window, lips twitching faintly. "Charming."
"It smells like instant noodles and crushed dreams," Orm muttered, grabbing her keys. "But hey, rent's cheap."
She opened the door and climbed out, wincing as her legs wobbled from the leftover adrenaline.
Lingling followed, stepping onto the sidewalk like she wasn't covered in dried blood or actively on the run.
Orm stared at her for a second. "You... really just walk around like that, huh?"
Lingling adjusted her sleeves, unbothered. "What? You expect me to panic now?"
"I dunno," Orm replied, locking the car. "A little fear might be nice. Make me feel less insane."
Lingling ignored her and headed toward the building like she owns it.
Orm jogged after her. "Hold on, no, I didn't officially agree to this! You can't just—hey!"
But Lingling was already pushing the front door open.
The hallway was narrow, the lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the familiar weird smell lingered in the air. Probably instant noodles. Or something worse.
Orm stomped up the stairs beside her, muttering under her breath. "Should've just left you in traffic..."
They reached the third floor, and Orm unlocked her door with a reluctant sigh.
The apartment was... small.
A one-bedroom squeezed into maybe forty square meters. Couch that doubled as a bed. Coffee table cluttered with receipts. Kitchenette with exactly two functioning appliances.
Lingling stepped inside, gaze drifting over the mess—the half-empty takeout containers, the socks on the floor, the fridge covered in food delivery stickers.
She let out a long, dramatic sigh. "I've been shot at twice today... but this... this is the real tragedy."
Orm glared. "You're welcome for the free hideout, Mafia Barbie."
Lingling smirked. "It's appreciated."
Orm tossed her keys on the counter, then froze. "Wait... how did you find me anyway? You knew my name earlier. You've been stalking me or...?"
Lingling pointed lazily at Orm's chest.
Orm looked down. Name tag. Right. "Okay, fine. I forgot. My brain isn't working well. But still, this is weird."
Lingling wandered toward the couch, peeling off her stained jacket like this was her place now. "Weirder than the armed men chasing me?"
"Yeah, honestly, the jury's still out on which part of today's worse."
Lingling dropped onto the couch, stretching out comfortably. The dried blood on her shirt was more obvious now, but she didn't seem fazed.
Orm watched her settle in and felt a growing sense of dread crawl up her spine.
"Uh-uh, no. You can't stay here."
Lingling didn't even look at her. "I'm staying."
"No, you're not! This is... this is my house—my...my tiny, falling-apart house, and you can't just—"
Lingling pulled out a sleek black wallet and tossed a ridiculous stack of cash onto the coffee table.
Orm blinked at it. "What... is that?"
"Compensation," Lingling replied simply. "For the car. And maybe emotional distress."
Orm stared at the money, then at her. "How bad are these people chasing you?"
Lingling tilted her head, looking... casual. Almost bored. "Bad enough that if they find me here, they'll assume you're a loose end."
Orm's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry—a what?!"
Lingling smiled. "But don't worry. Stay quiet. Cooperate. You'll be fine."
Orm groaned, dragging both hands down her face. "I knew I should've stayed home today."
Lingling patted the couch beside her, far too pleased with herself. "You did."
Orm flopped onto the armchair, defeated. "I hate everything."
Lingling leaned back, crossing her legs. "You'll get used to it."