Chiang Mai woke up wet.

By 6 AM the streets were already chaos. Water guns, buckets, monks getting splashed while they chanted. Laughter. Music. The city pretending everything was clean.

Krit hated it.

He hadn’t slept. The sa paper was in his jacket pocket. It was dry now, but it still felt cold.

Day 2. Ton.

He didn’t know who Ton was yet.

9:17 AM. Nimmanhaemin Road. A gated villa.

The house was all white walls and gold Buddha statues. Songkran banners hung outside. Inside, the air smelled like bleach and jasmine.

The politician’s son was in the bathtub.

Ton. 24. Charity gala host. Instagram face.

He wasn’t in water. The tub was empty, spotless. A rubber duck sat on the edge like someone had put it there.

Ton was.

Hair plastered to his scalp. Skin pale and pruned like he’d been submerged for hours. His shirt was dry. His jeans were dry.

Water streamed from his mouth, his nose, his eyes. It pooled on the tile and ran toward the drain.

In his mouth: frangipani.

In his pocket: three coins. Same Lanna script.

Saru was already making wai in the corner. “Boss. This is bad. This is Phi Nam bad.”

Krit ignored him. He crouched by the tub. Touched Ton’s wrist. Cold.

No signs of struggle. No forced entry. The front door camera showed Ton coming home alone at 2 AM. No one followed him in.

“Cause of death?” he asked the coroner.

“Drowning,” the man said. “Lungs are full. But look.”

He pointed. On Ton’s neck, just under the jaw: faint bruises. Five fingers. Like someone had held him under.

Except there was no water to hold him under.

Krit stood. The bathroom mirror was fogged. Even though no one had showered.

He wiped it with his sleeve.

For a second, in the steam, words appeared. Then vanished.

_จ่าย_

Pay.

He turned. “Did anyone else see this?”

Saru shook his head. “Just us.”

The lights flickered. Once. The air got colder.

Mai was waiting outside when Krit came out.

He was leaning against Krit’s police car. Smoking. Soaked again, even though it wasn’t raining.

“You,” Krit said.

“Me,” Mai said. He flicked ash. “Heard there was a second one.”

“This is a crime scene.”

“And I’m crime.” Mai held up his press badge. “Bangkok Post. I have a right to be here.”

Krit stepped close. Too close. “You have a right to stay out of my way before you end up in a tub too.”

Mai didn’t flinch. He looked past Krit, into the house. “Dry house. Wet body. Same as last night.”

“How do you know about last night?”

“I read the report you didn’t file yet.”

Krit grabbed his arm. Not hard. Just enough. “You’re going to tell me how you got that paper.”

Mai looked down at Krit’s hand on him. Then back up. “Let go.”

Krit did. Slowly.

Mai pulled out his phone. Showed Krit a photo. The sa paper list. But there was something new. Under Day 6, in different ink: a name. Smudged.

Puen

“Someone’s updating it,” Mai said. “In real time.”

Krit stared at the name. “You didn’t show me this last night.”

“I didn’t know what it meant last night.”

The front door slammed behind them. Saru came out, pale.

“Boss. We found something in the tub.”

He held out an evidence bag. Inside: a single old coin. And a wet strand of black thread. Like from a monk’s robe.

Krit took the bag. The coin was wet. But the bag was dry.

And the thread smelled like river mud.

That night. 11:30 PM. Wat Chedi Luang.

Krit shouldn’t have brought Mai. Protocol said no.

But the thread led here. And Mai was the only one who’d seen the list before it was a body.

The temple was empty. Songkran music echoed from far away. Inside the courtyard, bronze bowls sat in a row. For the morning blessing.

All of them were full of water.

Except one.

That one was dry. And at the bottom: three coins. And a piece of sa paper, folded.

Mai picked it up with gloves. Opened it.

Day 3. Dew.

Under it, new writing. Wet. Fresh.

You’re next, reporter.

Mai’s hands didn’t shake. But his breathing did.

Krit watched him. “You’re on that list.”

“I know.”

“You should leave Chiang Mai.”

“And let him kill 5 more people?” Mai looked up. “No.”

Rain started again. Heavy. It hit the temple roof like drums.

From the dark, somewhere in the temple, came a sound.

Dripping.

But there was no leak. No pipes.

Just drip. Drip. Drip.

Like someone was underwater.

Saru whispered, “Boss. We should go.”

Krit didn’t answer. He was watching Mai. Water ran down Mai’s face. He didn’t wipe it.

“Did you hear that?” Mai asked quietly.

“Hear what?”

“The drowning.”

Krit didn’t hear anything. But Mai was staring at the empty bowl. And in the water of the other bowls, Krit could’ve sworn he saw a reflection that wasn’t theirs.

A figure. Standing behind them.

He spun.

Nothing. Just statues. Just rain.

When he turned back, Mai was holding out the sa paper to him.

“Take it,” Mai said. “If I die, someone needs to know the order.”

Krit didn’t take it. He stepped forward instead. Grabbed Mai’s wrist.

“You’re not dying,” he said. Low. Final. “Not on my watch.”

Mai looked at his hand on Krit’s wrist. Then at Krit’s face.

For a second, neither of them moved. The rain was the only sound.

Then Krit let go. “Come on. We’re going to the station.”

As they left, the lights in the temple went out.

And from the dry bowl, they heard it clearly this time.

A gasp.

Like someone surfacing for air.

To be continued.....