Originally translated from the Thai language.
Adisorn navigated the dimly lit corridor toward his quarters in the dead of night. However, an unnatural, suffocating silence caused his instincts to flare with suspicion. He froze dead in his tracks before a door left slightly ajar... as though a phantom were crouching in the dark, awaiting his arrival.
Adisorn extended his hand, easing the door open slowly. He stepped over the threshold with calculated caution, but the sight that materialized before him was absolute, unmitigated chaos. Personal belongings and furniture lay smashed and scattered across the floor. His sharp eyes scanned the chaotic trail of footprints stamped around the perimeter.
A pale, muted moonlight filtered through the fractures of a window left wide open, casting a silver hue onto the white curtains that whipped aggressively against the freezing night wind.
Yet, the exact micro-second the curtain snapped back, a dark silhouette crouching behind the fabric lunged forward with lethal velocity.
Slam!
A masked man clad in absolute black slung a thick nylon cord around Adisorn’s throat from behind, brutally jerking the strategist’s body down to the floorboards.
"Ugh...!" A choked gasp escaped Adisorn’s throat. His visage flushed a violent crimson before rapidly deepening into a suffocating purple.
The tightening leverage aimed for absolute liquidation. Summoning the absolute remnants of his fading consciousness, Adisorn violently shoved his fingers between the nylon cord and his flesh, creating a microscopic breathing pocket, before driving his knee directly into the assassin's spine with every ounce of momentum he possessed.
The brutal impact sent the assailant staggering forward, crashing against the window frame. However, the assassin inverted his weight instantly, wrapping the cord securely around his knuckles and locking it around Adisorn’s throat once more from a blind angle.
Adisorn was violently dragged across the floor, collapsing under the strain. "Who... sent you...?" Adisorn rasped, his voice tearing through a parched, bloody throat. His eyes burned with unadulterated malice, locking onto the features hidden beneath the mask as the cord sliced deep into his flesh, drawing a dark trail of blood.
{"hr":true}
Across the city, Ohm and Phueak stepped inside their restaurant, their boots crunching violently against shattered glass. The duo stood entirely paralyzed, taking in the absolute wreckage of their establishment. Tables and chairs had been hacked to pieces, and the front signage was heavily defaced with crude Chinese characters sprayed in crimson paint.
"Ohm..." Phueak uttered, his voice trembling as he bent down to retrieve a soiled apron from the debris. "We are in deep, absolute trouble this time."
Ohm remained perfectly stationary, his eyes calculating the surrounding ruins before he strode directly through the debris toward the kitchen counter.
Ohm cast a brief glance toward the rear exit, his lips curling into a subtle, fearless smirk. "Looks like we’ve got some highly famished patrons outside. Guess I have no choice but to serve them."
Phueak furrowed his brows, completely bewildered by the lack of situational awareness.
"Who’s hungry?... There isn’t a single soul here, man," Phueak whispered urgently.
Ohm moved with military precision, snatching an apron that had survived the onslaught and tying it securely around his waist. "Oh, they are out there... and they are absolutely dying for some Pad Kra Pao (Stir-fried Holy Basil ) . I’ll whip them up a batch... consider it a supreme blessing for their pathetic palates."
Phueak blinked in sheer disbelief.
"Go scoop some jasmine rice and stand by," Ohm commanded. Though Phueak couldn't fathom the strategy, he complied without further protest.
Ohm cranked the gas valve, slamming a heavy cast-iron wok onto the roaring blue flame before pouring in a generous amount of oil. Within seconds, the oil began to pop and hiss, generating a frantic cadence that ran parallel to the heavy, approaching footsteps vibrating outside the establishment. Ohm turned toward the chopping board, his knife executing a relentless, breathless rhythm as he pulverized garlic and bird's-eye chilies before hurling the volatile mixture directly into the searing wok.
HISSSSSSSSSS!
A colossal pillar of fire erupted toward the ceiling as a weaponized cloud of vaporized chili and garlic saturated the air. The airborne capsicum instantly decimated the respiratory systems of anyone nearby, triggering a synchronized, agonizing chorus of violent sneezing from the shadows outside.
Phueak snapped his head toward the entrance. "Ohm! That's a whole damn crowd sneezing out there! Holy crap, there really are people waiting for your Kra Pao (Stir-fried Holy Basil) !"
Ohme’s smirk widened. He tossed a handful of minced pork into the screaming wok, aggressively tossing it as the flames licked the edges. He pointed his spatula toward the shattered entrance. "Good evening! Welcome to Rod Lom Restaurant! Have you gentlemen consumed your dinner yet?!" he bellowed over the roar of the fire, unleashing a scent designed to fracture the mortal realm.
Within moments, the frantic footsteps materialized into a physical human barrier. Over a dozen hardened thugs lined up across the doorway, wielding heavy wooden clubs and iron pipes, primed for absolute violence.
Phueak’s jaw dropped. He waved his hands frantically in the air toward Ohm. "Ohm... Ohm... this is the real deal! We're outnumbered!"
Ohm cast a sharp, calculating glance across the room. "Ah, the patrons have arrived," the chef greeted calmly. Phueak stood frozen, his face turning rigid with terror.
"Patrons my ass! That's a literal mob of syndicate enforcers!"
The thugs began stepping over the threshold, weapons raised, ready to paint the walls.
"I take it Shanghai suffers from a severe deficit of authentic Pad Kra Pao (Stir-fried Holy Basil), considering you all queued up in such massive numbers..." Ohm observed casually, splashing fish sauce down the blistering sides of the wok. The chemical reaction instantly intensified the volatile, blinding cloud, sending the approaching thugs into a violent fit of hacking coughs as they instinctively scrambled backward.
"What the hell is this stench?! My eyes are burning!" the enforcers barked in chaotic Chinese. Based on their desperate retreats, Phueak deduced that the syndicate was completely defenseless against the culinary chemical warfare.
"Ohm! The chilies... the chilies are suppressing them!"
Ohm monitored the enforcers as they wept openly, clawing at their eyes and masking their noses in absolute agony.
"Valued customers... please exercise a brief moment of patience," Ohm shouted over the chaos. "Your meal is nearly completed." He then locked eyes with Phueak.
"Hey! Execute the exact same formation we used when that local tycoon sent his goons to raze our shop back in Thailand!"
"We're doing
that
again, Ohm" Phueak pressed, shifting his gaze toward a secondary faction of thugs who were attempting to bypass the blinding mist, unyielding in their advance. "Screw it. If we don't swing first, we're absolute history anyway!"
Ohm reached out, grabbing a massive handful of freshly plucked holy basil leaves and plunging them into the heart of the wok. A spectacular sheets of flame erupted
PRUB!
He executed a series of rapid, rhythmic wok tosses, sending the concentrated, weaponized vaporized basil cascading across the entire facility. The sudden atmospheric shift forced the vanguard of thugs to collapse onto their backs, writhing on the floor as others shielded their faces in absolute, breathless panic.
Ohm shut off the gas valve, giving the wok one final, heavy flick before locking a lethal, unblinking stare onto the remaining syndicate forces.
"Since our esteemed guests have graced Rod Lom with such... exquisite boots, it would be profoundly rude of me not to deliver a heavy-handed feast, wouldn't you agree?"
Ohm marched dead center into the ruined dining hall, extending the blistering, smoking cast-iron wok directly toward the mob like a weapon of mass destruction.
"The menu is simple:
Eat it or Die
. Minced pork Pad Kra Pao (Stir-Fried Basil with Minced Pork) with roasted bird's-eye chilies... I am about to educate you gentlemen on the exact molecular scale of how much hotter a Thai man's rage is compared to a burning chili!"
The silhouette of holy basil, crushed chilies, garlic, and minced pork mirrored behind his frame amidst the rising, suffocating fog.
The syndicate enforcers let out a collective, hesitant roar of intimidation. Phueak sprinted up right behind Ohm, hoisting a steaming plate of premium jasmine rice like an ammunition loader. "Ohm'... what's the next directive? My baseline calculation says there are at least ten pairs of boots directly ahead... and that's not even counting the secondary squad waiting in the wings outside!"