CHAPTER 1
One Bad Cut Away from Unemployment
At 7:13 a.m., Frame discovered that technology had a personal vendetta against him.
His computer screen was frozen.
His editing software had stopped responding.
His coffee was cold.
And the video he had spent six hours editing was currently refusing to exist in any form that could be described as useful.
Frame stared at the screen.
The screen stared back.
Neither of them blinked.
FRAME: “Listen. I don’t want to fight you this early in the morning.”
The computer remained silent.
FRAME: “I’m a reasonable man. You’re a machine. Technically, one of us should have better emotional stability.”
Nothing.
Frame nodded slowly.
FRAME: “Fine. Play it that way.”
He clicked the mouse.
Once.
Twice.
Seven times.
The computer responded by freezing even harder.
Frame inhaled through his nose.
FRAME: “Wonderful. Amazing. Incredible teamwork. I’ve never felt so supported in my entire life.”
He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and immediately regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
Cold.
Bitter.
Disappointing.
Much like his dating history.
He placed the cup down.
FRAME: “Don’t worry. I’m not blaming you for everything. My taste in men is also questionable.”
The screen suddenly flickered.
Frame straightened.
FRAME: “Oh? We’re communicating now?”
The editing software crashed.
A notification appeared.
PROJECT RECOVERY FAILED.
Silence.
For three full seconds, Frame didn’t move.
Then he slowly removed his headphones, placed them on the desk, and smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
FRAME: “Okay,” he whispered. “So this is how we’re going to die.”
His phone vibrated.
WIN: Are you awake?
Frame looked at the clock.
7:16 a.m.
He typed back.
FRAME: No. This is my ghost replying.
WIN: Good. Your ghost should hurry up. We have an interview at nine.
Frame froze.
He looked at the computer.
Then at his phone.
Then at the computer again.
FRAME: “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
He opened the project folder.
Empty.
He checked the autosave folder.
A single corrupted file.
He checked the backup drive.
Nothing useful.
For a moment, the humour disappeared from his face.
This interview mattered.
A lot.
VELORA Studios wasn’t some tiny production company that hired anyone who knew how to trim a video and add dramatic music. It was one of the most respected media production agencies around, known for its high-profile campaigns, polished commercials, music videos, and demanding clients.
Getting hired there would mean more than a salary.
It would mean a real chance to prove that he could do something with his talent.
Frame had spent years teaching himself editing, taking freelance projects that paid barely enough to cover his expenses, and accepting clients who believed the phrase just one small revision meant seventeen revisions and a complete personality transplant.
He had edited wedding videos, product advertisements, promotional clips, travel vlogs, and one truly horrifying cooking video in which the client had requested that every ingredient appear on screen with a different transition.
Frame still had nightmares about the spinning tomatoes.
He knew he was good at what he did.
He also knew that being good wasn’t always enough.
Sometimes you needed an opportunity.
Sometimes you needed money.
And sometimes you needed your computer not to behave like a jealous ex.
Frame closed his eyes.
FRAME: “Please,” he whispered to the universe. “I promise I’ll become a better person if you give me this one job.”
His phone vibrated again.
WIN: If you’re still sleeping, I’m coming upstairs.
Frame glanced at the clock.
7:19 a.m.
He sprang out of his chair.
FRAME: “OH, HELL.”
By 8:02 a.m., Frame had accomplished three things.
He had showered.
He had changed his shirt twice.
And he had somehow managed to get coffee on his sleeve without actually drinking any coffee.
He stood in front of his mirror, examining the stain.
FRAME: “It’s abstract,” he decided. “Fashion is about interpretation.”
His phone rang.
Win.
Frame answered while searching for his portfolio.
FRAME: “What?”
WIN: “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
FRAME: “If you’re calling to ask whether I’m ready, I’m blocking you.”
WIN: “Are you ready?”
FRAME: “Congratulations. You’ve just lost a friend.”
WIN: “Frame, we’re supposed to be at VELORA in forty-five minutes.”
FRAME: “And I appreciate your enthusiasm for punctuality. Unfortunately, my wardrobe and I are experiencing creative differences.”
WIN: “Wear the black shirt.”
FRAME: “I wore it yesterday.”
WIN: “Then wear it again.”
FRAME: “What if they remember?”
WIN: “Remember what? That you own clothes?”
Frame gasped.
FRAME: “You’re being unnecessarily hostile to a man standing at the edge of a professional breakthrough.”
WIN: “You’re standing in your bedroom arguing with a shirt.”
FRAME: “Greatness is often misunderstood.”
Win sighed.
WIN: “Ten minutes. Lobby. If you’re late, I’m leaving without you.”
FRAME: “You wouldn’t.”
WIN: “I absolutely would.”
FRAME: “You’re my best friend.”
WIN: “Which is why I know exactly how annoying you are.”
The call ended.
Frame stared at his phone.
FRAME: “Unbelievable. Betrayed by technology and friendship before breakfast.”
He grabbed his portfolio, checked that his files were backed up, checked again because apparently he no longer trusted anything in his life, and rushed out.
He made it halfway down the stairs before remembering his wallet.
He returned upstairs.
Then he forgot his headphones.
Then he came back for those too.
By the time he finally reached the lobby, Win was waiting beside the entrance with two takeaway coffees and the expression of a man who had reconsidered every friendship he’d ever formed.
Win looked him up and down.
WIN: “You look alive.”
Frame took one of the coffees.
FRAME: “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me today.”
WIN: “You look nervous.”
FRAME: “I’m not nervous.”
WIN: “You’ve buttoned your shirt wrong.”
Frame looked down.
Two buttons were indeed in the wrong holes.
He closed his eyes.
FRAME: “I’m going to throw myself into traffic.”
WIN: “Please don’t. I don’t want to explain to your mother that you died because you couldn’t operate a shirt.”
Frame fixed the buttons while Win laughed.
FRAME: “I hate you,” he muttered.
WIN: “No, you don’t.”
FRAME: “Correct. You’re useful, and I respect useful things.”
WIN: “Like your editing software?”
FRAME: “Don’t mention that demon before nine in the morning.”
They headed toward the waiting car.
Win glanced at the folder under Frame’s arm.
WIN: “Portfolio ready?”
FRAME: “Ready.”
WIN: “Backup ready?”
FRAME: “Ready.”
WIN: “Interview answers?”
Frame paused.
Win stopped walking.
WIN: “Frame.”
FRAME: “I have answers.”
WIN: “What answers?”
FRAME: “Honest ones.”
WIN: “That’s terrifying.”
Frame opened the car door.
FRAME: “Relax. If they ask about my weaknesses, I’ll say I’m too passionate about my work.”
WIN: “And if they ask about your strengths?”
FRAME: “I can make a thirty-second advertisement feel like a cinematic experience.”
Win nodded.
WIN: “Good.”
FRAME: “And I can flirt with a vending machine if it gives me the right change.”
Win stared at him.
WIN: “Please don’t say that in the interview.”
FRAME: “No promises.”
VELORA Studios looked even more intimidating in person.
The building rose above the surrounding streets in a sweep of glass and steel. Its entrance was spotless, its lobby enormous, and its reception desk so polished that Frame could see his reflection in it.
He examined himself.
Black shirt. Dark trousers. Clean shoes.
Coffee stain mostly hidden.
FRAME: “Not bad,” he murmured. “I look like someone who pays his bills before the final warning.”
Win adjusted his collar.
WIN: “You look like someone who is about to beg for employment.”
FRAME: “Same aesthetic.”
They entered the lobby.
Employees moved through the space with tablets, laptops, and coffee cups. A large display showed clips from recent company projects. Every advertisement was crisp, carefully paced, and visually striking.
Frame slowed down.
For a few seconds, he forgot to make jokes.
He watched a short film playing on the display, noticing the way the music rose before the final cut, how the colours shifted between scenes, and how a simple pause made the final image feel more powerful.
This was what he loved.
Not just cutting footage.
Not just adding effects.
Editing was the difference between showing someone a collection of moments and making them feel something.
A good editor could make a stranger laugh, make a product irresistible, or make someone remember a scene long after the screen went dark.
Frame wanted to create that kind of work.
He wanted to be good enough that people remembered what he made, even if they never remembered his name.
Then Win nudged him.
WIN: “You’re staring.”
FRAME: “I’m appreciating the artistry.”
WIN: “You’re staring at a screen.”
FRAME: “Some people appreciate art. Some people appreciate your face. We all have our limitations.”
Win rolled his eyes.
They approached reception and checked in for their interviews.
After receiving visitor badges, they were directed toward the waiting area.
Frame sat down, arranged his portfolio on his lap, and crossed one leg over the other.
Win leaned closer.
WIN: “Stop bouncing your knee.”
FRAME: “It’s not bouncing. It’s generating kinetic energy.”
WIN: “Your entire leg is shaking.”
FRAME: “I’m preparing to run if they ask me to demonstrate my skills.”
WIN: “You are not running away from this interview.”
FRAME: “Then stop threatening me with it.”
Before Win could respond, a man emerged from the corridor carrying a thin folder.
He wore a simple dark shirt and trousers. His sleeves were neatly folded at the wrists, his hair was perfectly arranged without appearing as though he’d spent an hour arranging it, and his expression suggested that very few things in life managed to surprise him.
He looked around the waiting area, then glanced at the papers in Frame’s hand.
TINN: “You’re here for the junior editor interviews?”
Frame looked up.
FRAME: “Depends. Is this a trick question?”
TINN: “No.”
FRAME: “Then yes. I’m here to sell my soul in exchange for stable employment.”
Win covered his face.
The stranger looked at Frame for another second.
TINN: “Does that usually work?”
FRAME: “Not yet. But I’m expanding my marketing strategy.”
Something shifted in the man’s expression.
It might have been amusement.
It disappeared so quickly that Frame wasn’t sure.
The man glanced at the portfolio.
TINN: “Video editing?”
FRAME: “Professionally, yes. Emotionally, I’m still recovering from my last project.”
TINN: “Why?”
FRAME: “Client wanted twenty-seven transitions in a fifteen-second advertisement.”
The man blinked.
TINN: “Twenty-seven?”
FRAME: “Twenty-eight, if you count the emotional transition I experienced when I saw the invoice.”
This time, the stranger’s mouth curved slightly.
Frame noticed.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
He had discovered a human being who could almost smile.
Naturally, he felt compelled to investigate.
FRAME: “Do you work here?”
TINN: “Yes.”
FRAME: “Editor?”
TINN: “Something like that.”
Frame narrowed his eyes.
FRAME: “That’s a suspicious answer.”
TINN: “Is it?”
FRAME: “Extremely. You have the face of someone who knows where the good coffee is hidden.”
TINN: “That’s your qualification?”
FRAME: “It’s an important one. I’m not joining a company that treats caffeine like a luxury item.”
The man glanced toward the reception desk.
TINN: “There’s a coffee machine on the fourth floor.”
Frame placed a hand over his heart.
FRAME: “You’ve just become my favourite person in this building.”
TINN: “You’ve known me for less than a minute.”
FRAME: “I move fast. It’s a professional skill.”
TINN: “Is that so?”
FRAME: “I’m an editor. I know how to shorten the process.”
The man looked directly at him.
TINN: “Then I hope you know when not to cut something important.”
For the first time that morning, Frame had no immediate response.
The stranger’s voice was calm, his expression unreadable, and the sentence was annoyingly clever.
Frame recovered quickly.
FRAME: “Careful. If you keep talking like that, I’ll start thinking you have potential.”
TINN: “Potential for what?”
Frame stepped half a pace closer.
FRAME: “Don’t make me spell it out. I haven’t had breakfast.”
The man gave him a long look.
Then he walked toward the corridor.
Frame watched him go.
Win slowly turned his head.
WIN: “No.”
Frame looked at him innocently.
FRAME: “What?”
WIN: “Absolutely not.”
FRAME: “I didn’t do anything.”
WIN: “You flirted with a stranger in the lobby before your job interview.”
FRAME: “I had a conversation.”
WIN: “You called him your favourite person.”
FRAME: “He knows where the coffee is.”
WIN: “You asked whether he had potential.”
FRAME: “Professionally.”
Win stared at him.
Frame smiled.
FRAME: “Mostly.”
A few minutes later, a staff member called Frame’s name.
He stood, straightened his shirt, and followed her into the interview room.
Win gave him a thumbs-up from the waiting area.
Frame responded with a confident nod.
Then he turned the wrong way.
The staff member stopped.
STAFF MEMBER: “It’s this door.”
FRAME: “Of course. I was checking whether you were paying attention.”
She didn’t look convinced.
Neither was he.
The interview began with the usual questions.
His experience.
His software skills.
His approach to tight deadlines.
His ability to handle criticism.
Frame answered honestly, with a little less sarcasm than usual and considerably more professionalism.
When they asked about his portfolio, he explained why he’d chosen certain cuts, how he’d used pacing to build tension, and why he preferred transitions that served the story instead of distracting from it.
The interviewers listened carefully.
Then one of them asked:
INTERVIEWER: “What would you do if a client rejected an edit you believed was better than their preferred version?”
Frame considered the question.
FRAME: “I’d explain why I made those choices, show them the difference, and listen to what they actually want the audience to feel. If my version serves the story better, I’ll defend it. If their feedback reveals a problem I missed, I’ll fix it.”
INTERVIEWER: “And if they insist on something you disagree with?”
FRAME: “I’ll make the requested version as well as I can, provided it doesn’t compromise the project’s essential requirements. My job is to help tell their story, not prove that I’m the smartest person in the room.”
He paused.
FRAME: “Although, for the record, I do enjoy being right.”
One of the interviewers laughed.
Frame smiled.
There it was.
The balance he’d been hoping to strike: confident without being arrogant, funny without being careless, and serious about the work even when he wasn’t serious about himself.
For the first time that morning, he felt the nervousness settle.
Maybe he actually had a chance.
When the interview ended, he thanked the panel and stepped into the corridor.
He exhaled.
FRAME: “Alive,” he whispered. “Employed? Not yet. But alive.”
He turned the corner too quickly.
And walked straight into someone.
His portfolio slipped from his hands.
Papers scattered across the floor.
A hand caught his arm before he lost his balance.
Frame looked up.
The man in the dark shirt.
Again.
Of course.
The universe had apparently decided that subtlety was beneath it.
TINN: “Do you always walk into people?”
FRAME: “Only the interesting ones.”
TINN: “Then you should improve your selection process.”
Frame crouched to collect his papers.
FRAME: “Trust me, I’m trying. The results have been disappointing.”
The man bent to help him gather the scattered pages.
Their hands reached for the same sheet.
For a brief moment, their fingers touched.
It was nothing.
Barely a second.
Frame nevertheless became acutely aware of the fact that the stranger had very nice hands.
This was inconvenient.
He had an interview to survive and a career to establish. He did not have time to develop an appreciation for the hands of mysterious employees.
FRAME: “Thanks,” he said, taking the papers.
TINN: “You’re welcome.”
Frame looked at him.
FRAME: “By the way, I never got your name.”
The man straightened.
TINN: “Tinn.”
Frame repeated it once, as if testing how it sounded.
FRAME: “Tinn.”
Something about the name suited him. Short, neat, and difficult to read.
Frame extended his hand.
FRAME: “Frame.”
TINN: “I know.”
Frame froze.
FRAME: “You know?”
TINN: “Your visitor badge.”
Frame glanced down.
His name was printed in large letters across his chest.
He closed his eyes.
FRAME: “Excellent. My reputation precedes me.”
TINN: “Your badge does.”
FRAME: “Don’t ruin the moment. I’m trying to be mysterious.”
TINN: “You’re not very good at it.”
Frame opened his eyes and smiled.
FRAME: “Maybe I need a better editor.”
Tinn looked at him.
TINN: “And what would you change?”
Frame stepped half a pace closer.
FRAME: “Better lighting. More flattering angles. A little romantic background music.”
TINN: “Anything else?”
Frame pretended to think.
FRAME: “Maybe a close-up.”
TINN: “Of what?”
FRAME: “Your smile. I suspect it exists, but the footage is limited.”
Tinn stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not the faint, controlled smile he’d given earlier.
An actual laugh, quiet but unmistakable.
Frame stood perfectly still.
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The man looked much better when he laughed.
This was going to be a problem.
A very attractive problem.
Tinn recovered first.
TINN: “Good luck with your interview, Frame.”
Frame tilted his head.
FRAME: “Already finished.”
TINN: “Then good luck getting the job.”
FRAME: “That’s sweet of you. Are you always this supportive?”
TINN: “No.”
FRAME: “Should I feel special?”
TINN: “You should probably collect your papers before you lose them again.”
Frame looked down.
Three sheets were still on the floor.
He sighed.
FRAME: “I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
TINN: “That’s probably wise.”
Tinn walked away.
Frame watched him disappear around the corner.
Win appeared beside him a moment later, having apparently finished his own interview.
He followed Frame’s gaze.
WIN: “Oh, no.”
Frame didn’t look at him.
FRAME: “What?”
WIN: “You’ve got that expression.”
FRAME: “What expression?”
WIN: “The expression you get when you see someone attractive and immediately forget that you have bills to pay.”
Frame finally turned.
FRAME: “I have never had that expression.”
WIN: “You once complimented a barista’s hands for three minutes.”
FRAME: “He made excellent coffee.”
WIN: “You ordered tea.”
Frame considered this.
FRAME: “Details.”
Win grabbed his arm.
WIN: “Come on. We should go before you accidentally propose to another employee.”
Frame allowed himself to be dragged toward the exit.
But before leaving, he glanced back one last time.
Tinn was nowhere to be seen.
Strange.
He hadn’t even learned what Tinn did at the company.
He didn’t know whether they’d ever meet again.
And yet, as he stepped outside into the bright morning, Frame found himself smiling.
Win noticed immediately.
WIN: “Stop that.”
FRAME: “Stop what?”
WIN: “Smiling like that.”
FRAME: “I’m allowed to smile.”
WIN: “Not when I know what it means.”
Frame adjusted his portfolio beneath his arm.
FRAME: “Relax. I’m simply appreciating the visual quality of the people at this company.”
WIN: “Frame.”
FRAME: “What? I’m an editor. Visuals are my thing.”
WIN: “You’re hopeless.”
FRAME: “I’m talented, charming, and professionally underappreciated.”
WIN: “You’re unemployed.”
FRAME: “For now.”
His phone vibrated.
Both of them looked down.
An email from VELORA Studios.
SUBJECT: Interview Follow-Up
Frame stopped walking.
Win leaned over his shoulder.
WIN: “Open it.”
FRAME: “I’m building suspense.”
WIN: “Open the email!”
Frame tapped the screen.
His eyes moved across the message.
Then widened.
Then moved back to the beginning.
Win grabbed his shoulders.
WIN: “What does it say?”
Frame slowly raised his head.
FRAME: “They want me.”
Win screamed.
Frame screamed louder.
A passing pedestrian turned to look at them.
Neither cared.
Frame read the email again, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
A position at VELORA Studios.
A real opportunity.
A beginning.
He looked up at the sky.
FRAME: “Thank you,” he whispered. “I promise to work hard, remain humble, and stop flirting with random employees.”
Win nodded approvingly.
WIN: “Good.”
Frame paused.
FRAME: “Well, I’ll try to stop flirting with random employees.”
WIN: “Frame!”
FRAME: “What? I can’t make promises the universe knows I won’t keep.”
Win groaned.
Frame laughed, tucked his phone away, and continued down the street.
Neither of them noticed the man standing near the upper-floor windows of VELORA Studios, watching the two new hires disappear into the crowd.
Tinn glanced at the email open on his tablet.
NEW JUNIOR EDITOR: NAPHAT — NICKNAME: FRAME.
He read the name once.
Then again.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
TINN: “Frame,” he murmured.
He remembered the audacious smile, the ridiculous jokes, and the way the young man had flirted with him as though personal boundaries were merely suggestions in an unfinished edit.
Tinn shook his head, amused despite himself.
TINN: “Interesting.”
His assistant appeared in the doorway.
ART: “Sir, your meeting starts in five minutes.”
Tinn’s expression immediately returned to its usual calm.
TINN: “I know, Art.”
Art glanced at the tablet.
Then at Tinn.
Then back at the tablet.
ART: “Is there a reason you’re smiling at a new employee’s file?”
Tinn locked the screen.
TINN: “I’m not smiling.”
ART: “Of course not, sir.”
TINN: “Art.”
ART: “Yes?”
TINN: “Don’t start.”
Art nodded solemnly.
ART: “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He left the room.
Two seconds later, his voice drifted back through the open door.
ART: “Should I prepare a welcome gift for the new employee, or are you planning to do that personally?”
Tinn closed his eyes.
He was going to regret this.
He could already tell.
And somewhere across the city, Frame was celebrating his new job, completely unaware that the attractive stranger he’d spent the morning flirting with was the last person he should ever have underestimated.
Or, more accurately, the last person he should ever have flirted with without checking his employment hierarchy first.
Because the man he knew as Tinn was not an ordinary employee.
He was Kang Krittin.
The CEO of VELORA Studios.
And Frame had just walked straight into his life.
END OF CHAPTER 1
