The street was louder than either of you expected. A busker near the corner was half-shouting into a microphone, and a group of tourists had stopped to film him. The evening air was warm, the kind of warm that made everything feel slower.

Too late. You'd already turned. Across the street, spilling out of a convenience store with plastic bags swinging from their wrists, was a familiar group of seven. And at the center of them, sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair, was Bang Chan.