Private not secret
A Landslide Built on Spite
**[INTERNAL LOG: Domundi Creative & Social Media Team — Slack Channel #stayhouse-ops]** *Tuesday, 14:22*
**Admin_Fern:** Uh… P’Aof? We might have a glitch with the Google Form. **P_Aof:** A glitch? Did the server crash again? **Admin_Fern:** No. The form is fine. The automated word-cloud scraper just had an aneurysm. **Admin_Mook:** [Screenshot attached: Excel sheet tally with a massive orange bar chart dwarfing all others] **Admin_Mook:** We thought it was a coordinated bot attack, so we ran an IP verification check. They’re 100% unique user accounts. Over 68,000 entries and counting. **P_Aof:** …Is that Radchapon? **Admin_Fern:** Yes. **P_Aof:** JJ Radchapon? Our head script consultant? **Admin_Mook:** The very same. The fans took Net’s interview clip from last week where he said *‘I hope whoever joins doesn’t cry easily’* and collective spite did the rest. **P_Aof:** Don't tell Net. Don't tell JJ either. Call an all-hands production meeting tomorrow at two.
***
**[X (Twitter) 48 Hours Before Announcement]**
**@netspookie:** “Everyone writing in their faves while my entire timeline is just submitting JJ Radchapon’s full legal name into the box so Net Siraphop has to face divine retribution for his sins.”
**@scriptwriters_union:** “JJ just posted an Instagram story of an espresso machine with the caption *‘Draft 4 finished. Do not perceive me for a week.’* Little does he know what the fandom is cooking for him.”
**@dmd_chaos:** “If JJ gets picked, the villa will burn to the ground by night two. Please make it happen, I am begging on my knees.”
***
The conference room on the fourth floor of the agency was entirely too cold, but JJ refused to put on his jacket out of pure, stubborn principle.
Instead, he sat near the end of the long mahogany table, tapping violently at his laptop keyboard. He was supposed to be finalizing the safety disclaimers and narrative outline for the upcoming reality season. As far as JJ was concerned, this was work. Behind-the-scenes work. The safe, dimly lit realm of production drafts and zero camera lenses.
Across from him, Net was slouched in a leather swivel chair, wearing a cashmere sweater that JJ knew for a fact belonged to their shared closet at home.
A tiny, crumpled ball of sticky note bounced cleanly off JJ’s temple.
JJ didn't look up from his screen. "Do that again, and I’m pouring your iced matcha into your lap."
"Your aim isn't good enough," Net replied instantly, his voice dripping with smooth, lazy amusement. He was twirling an expensive ballpoint pen between his knuckles, dark eyes fixed entirely on JJ. "Besides, you’ve been staring at that paragraph for ten minutes. Take a break."
"Some of us actually contribute to this company's intellectual property, Siraphop."
"And some of us have to carry the visual appeal of said property on our backs," Net said, leaning forward on his elbows. His lips twitched into that familiar, lopsided smirk that invariably preceded an argument. "It's a heavy burden, Radchapon. You wouldn't understand."
JJ finally lifted his head, glaring over the rim of his glasses. "I can write your character out of the next script with a tragic rogue piano accident. Do not test me."
Next to them, Tutor and Yim were actively leaning away, sharing a bag of gummy candies like spectators at a tennis match.
"Ten baht on JJ throwing his coffee first," Tutor whispered.
"Twenty on P'Net grabbing his wrist before he can," Yim whispered back.
The door clicked open, and P'Aof walked in with a thick stack of folders, followed by two members of the social media management team. The room immediately quieted down, though Net still managed to kick the heel of JJ’s boot under the table. JJ responded by stomping down squarely on Net’s expensive designer sneaker.
Net didn't even flinch; he just smiled wider, leaning back as if he had achieved a personal victory.
"Alright, everyone," P'Aof announced, dropping the folders onto the center of the table. "Most of the logistics for *Stay House Season 3* are locked in. The villa is prepped, the cameras are live-tested, and the main cast lineup is officially announced."
He looked around the table, his eyes lingering for a second too long on JJ, who was already back to typing.
"Now," P'Aof continued, "we have the results of the wildcard vote. The fan-selected tenth resident."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the actors.
"Is it Poppy?" Tommy guessed with a grin. "Or did they vote Mark in so we have someone to do the cooking?"
"Neither," P'Aof said calmly. "We reviewed the data. The engagement numbers broke every metric we’ve set this year. It wasn't even close. Second place trailed by almost forty thousand votes."
Net scoffed quietly, folding his arms. "Probably some guest idol. The fans always mobilize for the pretty boys."
"Radchapon," P'Aof called out.
JJ stopped typing instantly. Without missing a beat, he raised both hands in a placating gesture, not even looking up properly. "P'Aof, I swear to God, he kicked me first. I was just defending my personal boundary under the table. Tell him to sit on the other side of the room."
Silence descended on the room.
P'Aof stared at him.
Tommy let out a strangled snort.
"JJ," P'Aof said slowly. "I’m not scolding you."
JJ blinked, pausing. "Then why did you say my name like that?"
"Because you're the tenth cast member."
The conference room went entirely still.
JJ froze, his fingers suspended over the keyboard. Net’s smirk faltered, his head snapping toward P'Aof in absolute bewilderment.
"What?" JJ asked. His voice was completely flat.
"The votes," Admin Fern piped up from the back, holding an iPad like a shield. "We opened a free write-in box for the public. You received sixty-eight thousand seven hundred and forty-two votes, P'JJ."
"I am a writer," JJ said carefully, speaking each syllable with rigid, terrifying precision. "I am on the production payroll. I write words for other people to say on camera."
"The contract you signed as head consultant includes a general talent clause for promotional appearances," P'Aof noted cheerfully. "And the fans were very clear. They want you in the house."
JJ’s brain seemed to short-circuit. He looked at P'Aof. He looked at the iPad. Then, slowly, with horrifying deliberation, his neck turned, and his gaze locked onto Net.
Net held up his hands, eyes wide with genuine shock, though a helpless laugh was already threatening to bubble up in his throat.
"Wait," Net said quickly. "Don't look at me like that. I had nothing to do with this!"
"You," JJ hissed.
"I didn't do it!"
JJ grabbed the manila script folder resting next to his laptop, stood straight up out of his chair, and smacked Net across the shoulder with it.
*Thwack.*
"Ow!" Net laughed, ducking his head and throwing an arm up to shield himself, though he didn't move away. "JJ, I swear on my life! I didn't even know the poll was open!"
"You told an interviewer last week that you wanted someone in the house who wouldn't cry!" JJ struck him again with the folder, his ears flushing bright, furious pink. "You baited them! You engineered this!"
"How could I possibly engineer seventy thousand people writing your name?!" Net wheezed, dissolving into full, breathless hysterics. He grabbed the other end of the folder, tugging JJ closer until their faces were inches apart, his eyes shining with unvarnished delight. "Are you secretly admitting I have that kind of influence over your life?"
"Let go of my folder before I bite you," JJ warned in a low, deadly register.
Across the room, Zee buried his face in his hands, laughing so hard he was shaking, while Tommy clapped enthusiastically.
"Congratulations, JJ!" Tommy crowed. "Welcome to reality TV!"
"I resign," JJ announced loudly to the ceiling, wrenching his folder out of Net’s grip and aggressively slamming his laptop shut. "I formally resign from this production, this agency, and this country. I’m moving to Norway."
He stuffed his things into his canvas tote bag, ignored Net’s teasing attempts to hook a finger into his belt loop, and stormed out of the conference room without another word, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.
The room erupted into absolute pandemonium.
"He's going to kill you in your sleep, Net," Zee said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Day one. You won't make it to breakfast."
Net was still laughing, his head tilted back against the leather headrest, thoroughly captivated by the sheer chaos of it all. "He won't kill me," he murmured, half to himself, an unconscious softness softening the edges of his grin. "He needs me to make his coffee."
Admin Fern cleared her throat nervously from the doorway. "Uh, P'Net?"
Net looked over. "Yeah?"
"We have to post the official announcement graphic in twenty minutes to capitalize on the trending topic," Fern explained, wincing. "But JJ just locked himself in the writer's lounge, and we don't have an official promotional portrait for him. All we have are his old company badge photos, and they look like mugshots."
Net paused. A wicked, brilliant light sparked in his dark eyes.
"You need a photo of JJ?" Net asked smoothly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his personal phone.
"An official-looking one," Fern clarified. "Preferably high-res."
"Oh, I have one," Net said. He unlocked his device, his thumb gliding with practiced speed through a hidden, password-protected photo album containing five years of shared vacations, messy morning hair, and quiet domesticity. He scrolled past a photo of JJ asleep on his chest, past a video of JJ burning toast, until he reached an image from three months ago.
It was an utterly ridiculous, painfully stiff portrait JJ had been forced to take for a government copyright registry. JJ had worn a starched white collar, slicked his hair aggressively to the side, and stared into the camera with the dead-eyed solemnity of a Victorian-era scholar facing execution.
Net had teased him about that picture for an entire weekend.
"Here," Net said, tapping the screen and instantly AirDropping the high-resolution file to Fern’s iPad. "Use this one. It captures his inner spirit."
Fern looked down at the file, her jaw dropping. "P'Net… he looks like he's about to audit my taxes."
"It's perfect," Net beamed, standing up and sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Post it right now."
***
**[X (Twitter) – 15:00]**
**@DomundiTV (Official):** [IMAGE: A stark, high-definition promotional poster. In the center is the stiffest, most severely formal headshot of JJ Radchapon known to man. He is staring directly into the camera with absolute, unyielding coldness, framed by dramatic gold lettering: *THE WILDCARD HAS ARRIVED.*] “You voted. We listened. Over 68,000 requests. Welcome our 10th resident for *DMD STAY HOUSE S3*: Head Writer & Novelist, **JJ Radchapon**. May the villa survive.”
***
**@jj_radchapon:** “Where on earth did you get that picture.”
↳ **@net_siraphop:** “I gave it to them. You’re welcome, baby.” ↳ **@jj_radchapon:** “Delete your account.” ↳ **@net_siraphop:** “Can’t hear you from all the way down in the cast lineup. See you at the villa, roommate.” ↳ **@jj_radchapon:** “I am bringing a taser.”
***
**@bl_updates_th:** “NOT JJ’S GOVERNMENT HEADSHOT 😭😭😭 WHO GAVE THEM THAT PICTURE AJSHDKA”
**@troll_net_club:** “‘I gave it to them’ NET SIRAPHOP WHY DO YOU HAVE HIS PASSPORT PHOTO ON STANDBY??? EXPLAIN YOURSELF????”
**@beef_historian:** “Wait wait wait… Net has random high-res portraits of JJ saved on his phone? And JJ’s immediate reaction was ‘delete your account’ like they talk every single day?? 💀”
**@solarsoul:** “Net called him ‘baby’ in the quote tweet and then immediately pivoted to threatening to room with him. Their dynamic is so intensely aggressive I swear they communicate exclusively in war crimes.”
**@p_jj_protection_squad:** “JJ looks like he’s about to put Net in a headlock through the screen. Ten days of this. We are being fed Michelin-star comedy.”
***
Back in the quiet hallway outside the writer's lounge, Net leaned against the wall, his phone buzzing violently in his palm with thousands of incoming notifications.
A second later, his private messaging app chimed.
**My Cat (JJ):** *You're sleeping on the couch tonight.* *I don't care that your back hurts.* *The couch.*
Net stared at the screen, a genuine, helpless smile breaking across his face. He quickly typed back:
**Net:** *The couch doesn't have your pillows.* *Besides, who's going to zip up your luggage tomorrow morning?*
A pause of three agonizing dots appeared on the screen, dancing, vanishing, and reappearing.
**My Cat (JJ):** *Buy me the iced yuzu tea from the café downstairs.* *And delete that photo from your camera roll.*
Net chuckled softly, pushing off the wall and heading toward the elevator.
**Net:** *Yuzu tea on the way.* *Never deleting the photo. It’s my lock screen.*
He locked the phone, slipping it into his pocket with a quiet sigh of anticipation. The public wanted a show. The public thought they were walking into a battlefield.
Net couldn't wait.