Breath 18

Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead, his hand trembling.

The sharp taste of fear sat on his tongue.

Through the darkened windows,

the flicker of blue and red ambulance lights pulsed across the empty restaurant,

painting the walls in ghostly flashes.

Tom sat frozen at one of the tables, his eyes fixed on the street,

silently praying the Indian guy would survive.

Maybe he will. He’s built tough.

He’s America strong.

He has to, or he won’t survive.

Because America are not designed for the restless and weak,

Only for those who are not afraid to risk everything.

Then, a sudden jolt of realization hit him — Ploy’s cash.

Heart racing, Tom shot to his feet.

His footsteps echoed too loudly as he rushed toward the register area.

Beneath the cluttered stack of dried jasmine tea boxes,

his fingers fumbled until they closed around the rough canvas bag

where Ploy hid her savings. He yanked it free, clutching it tight.

He grab the restaurant phone and dialed Ploy’s number — no answer.

His breath quickened. Maybe her phone was dead, or maybe she’d lost it during the chaos.

Either way, he couldn’t risk keeping the money where it was.

Moving quickly, he slipped behind the counter, through the kitchen,

and into the walk-in freezer.

The cold bit into his skin as he crouched, shoving the canvas bag deep under

stacked trays of frozen meat. He exhaled, a puff of vapor misting the air.

But then — A flicker of confusion.

Something felt off. Something was missing.

Tom’s eyes darted around.

His pulse jumped.

What happened to the coffee cup?

The one the barista had given him earlier,

the one he’d set down on the steel shelves of the freezer — it was gone.

A cold wave of dread swept through him.

Slowly, carefully, Tom stepped out of the freezer.

And froze.

Leaning casually against Ploy’s stainless steel prep table was the barista from next door

the harmless barista who asked him for a light earlier,

he had a connection with him earlier.

His smile back then was warm, and sincere.

Now, in the dim kitchen light, his grin curved sharp.

In his hand, he held the missing coffee cup.

“Looking for this?” the barista murmured.

Tom’s throat tightened. “Hi...? How did you get in here?”

His voice came out smaller than he wanted.

The barista raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly.

“Don’t you think I should be the one asking why you’re still here?”

Tom forced a shaky breath. “I… I work here?”

The barista let out a laugh — soft at first,

then darkening. “Your restaurant got raided tonight. Strange, isn’t it? They just… forgot to take you.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

Tom instinctively backed away, his spine pressing against the cold kitchen wall.

Before he could move again, the barista was there, his arms braced on either side, boxing Tom in.

Tom’s heart hammered in his chest. His eyes flicked around, looking for an escape.

“Are you… an agent?” he managed to whisper.

The barista leaned in, his face close, lips curling just near Tom’s ear — intimate, but sharp with threat.

“You could say that,” the barista murmured. “But I’m a little more complicated.”

His voice dropped, low and deliberate.

“You see, I’m a patriot. I believe this country is only for Americans.

And people like you…” He let the words hang, his breath brushing Tom’s cheek.

“…you’re invading my country like flies. My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

The barista’s finger traced the curve of Tom’s cheek,

slow, deliberate, as if memorizing his shape.

It stopped just shy of Tom’s lips, the air thick with the smell of

cigarette smoke and cold kitchen steel.

“I always knew you worked here,” the barista murmured softly,

eyes glinting in the dim light.

“You came into my shop once — you probably don’t even remember.

Ordered coffee. I noticed you then.”

Tom’s heart hammered so hard it hurt his ribs.

His throat tightened as he fought to steady his breathing.

“I ate here too, you know,” the barista continued,

his finger now ghosting along the edge of Tom’s mouth.

“Green curry. Packed night — you were flying between tables.

I doubt you noticed me… until tonight, when I asked you for a light.”

A slow, sharp smile.

“Well… here we are. I’ve got your attention now, don’t I?”

Tom forced a swallow, his throat dry as bone. His voice cracked as he whispered,

“What do you want?”

The barista’s touch moved lower, tracing the dip of Tom’s bottom lip.

Tom clenched his fists, nails biting his palms.

“I’m not like my brother,” the barista murmured.

“He’s official. He was here earlier, one of the agents tearing this place apart.

But me? I’m a patriot. I know you know what that means.”

Tom’s vision blurred — tears rising despite his will to hold them back.

“There’s a place we take people like you.

Out by Crab Point. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

The barista’s voice dropped, silky and dark.

“That’s where American dreams end. Fast-track justice, no paperwork.

Just the silence of the desert.”

Tom’s legs weakened under him, his back pressing harder into the cold wall.

His voice came out in a trembling rush.

“Is… is there a way out of this?”

The barista’s finger slipped inside Tom’s mouth,

tracing the inside of his lips, slow, possessive.

Tom shuddered, choking back a sob.

Then the barista released him, stepping back casually,

leaning against the prep table.

He flicked his lighter, lighting a cigarette, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

For a moment, neither moved.

Tom’s mind raced. Survive. Stall. Think.

Finally the Barista broke the silence, "Take your clothes off. Now, before I change my mind."

Tom’s eyes darted to the stove.

The Mee Krob noodles glistened under the light, their sticky orange tamarind sauce shining.

“I’m hungry,” Tom rasped, voice shaking.

“Do you mind if I eat some Mee Krob first?”

The barista blinked, momentarily thrown. “Mee Krob?”

Tom’s eyes flicked meaningfully toward the stove.

With a small, amused smile, the barista grabbed a plate,

scooped the noodles, and handed them over.

Tom forced himself to chew, each crunchy bite a struggle against the knot in his throat.

After eating a few pieces, he set the plate down — carefully, deliberately

— right in the center of the steel prep table.

A message for Nick. He will know, he’s trained to recognize and observe not only facts

but details on everything.

“Can you… turn your back?” Tom asked softly.

The barista chuckled. “Turn my back? Why? I’ll see it anyway.”

Tom’s eyes pleaded. “Please.”

The barista, savoring the humiliation, turned slowly.

Tom’s fingers fumbled with his buttons, he pulled his pants down.

And in just his underwear he said, “Ok.”

He could barely breathe. His hands trembled.

When the barista turned back, his grin widened.

Tom is down to nothing but a flimsy underwear.

Who will ever believe that the waiter will serve everything

in just his tight brief?

This is America.

Everything is possible.

He pinned Tom once more against the wall, his hands sliding rough against Tom’s skin,

It was invasive. He reached underneath Tom’s underwear.

He was very rough.

Painful.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut as the barista’s mouth crushed against

his — hard, brutal, not a kiss but a claim.

Then a whisper against his ear. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Tom gasped. “Then let me go. Please. I’ll disappear — you’ll never see me again.”

The barista’s smile turned cold. “Let you go? Why? We’re just getting started”

And in a sudden, brutal rush, the violence came.

He slap Tom’s face and punch him on his gut.

Tom fell on the floor.

The barista pulled down the last remaining fabric that hides Tom’s dignity.

And he just took it.

He claimed what was not his.

Tom cried as his face was pressed against the dirty kitchen floor.

The Barista moved with rough precision.

He’s taking his sweet time as Tom bites the pain down.

But his tears tells a different story.

He just can’t control them.

Finally he reached his peak.

He screamed. It was a scream for victory.

For claiming something that’s not his.

Before Tom can react, he punched Tom by his face,

knocking him off, he then drag Tom by his feet,

out of the restaurant into his waiting car by the coffee place.

They’re heading for the desert,

At Crab Point.

Where all American dreams ends.

Where all voices are silenced

and buried deep, forgotten.

——————————————————————————————————-

Nick shoved out of the darkened factory,

it was a successful raid, they got more than fifty people,

frustration boiling in his chest.

He checked his phone again — no answer. Come on, Tom…

He called the restaurant again. No one picked up.

What’s going on Tom?

His stomach twisted.

Two agents passed by, murmuring about the guy who collapsed

in the parking lot by the Thai restaurant that just got raided, the ambulance came in,

it was bloody dirty.

Nick’s gut clenched.

He sprinted to his car, ignoring his boss’s sharp call.

Tires screeched as he tore out of the lot, flying back toward the restaurant.

When he arrived, the back door was cracked open.

Nick pushed inside, calling softly, “Tom?”

Silence.

The kitchen was still a mess — overturned boxes,

scattered napkins, broken plates. But in the center of the prep table,

under the harsh overhead light, sat a gleaming plate of Mee Krob.

Nick’s breath hitched. “Mee Krob? Why….the Mee Krob?”

His eyes swept the floor. A crumpled pair of pants. Shoes.

This was Tom’s.

Dread surged like a cold wave.

Nick stepped closer, saw the cigarette butt still faintly warm on the steel.

He pressed his hand to the table, heart pounding, his eyes went back

to the plate of Mee Krob, sitting idly next to him, his memory racing back:

Tom handing him a plate of Mee Krob the first night they met.

And Tom’s fingers removing the crumbs from his lips, telling him that all he wants

are the extra crumbs he doesn’t need.

Mee Krob. Me… Crab. Crab Point.

His eyes widened.

Fuck. Somebody took him to the Crab Point.

Nick spun on his heel, bolting for the door, lungs burning,

his breath held tight in his chest.