Private not secret
The Mandate of Pure Spite
**[INTERNAL LOG: Domundi Media & Marketing — Slack Channel #stayhouse-backend]** *Wednesday, 11:14 AM*
**Fern_Social:** Uh. P’Aof? We have a situation with the Google Form.
**P_Aof:** What situation? Did the server crash again? Tell IT to upgrade the bandwidth before the livestream test.
**Fern_Social:** The server didn’t crash. The automated word-cloud scraper just committed digital suicide.
**Fern_Social:** [image_attachment: stayhouse_poll_results.png]
**Fern_Social:** Look at the blue bar. That’s 74,812 individual IP-verified votes. We ran three duplicate filters thinking it was an automated bot raid from an overseas idol fan club. It’s not. They’re unique Thai and international user accounts with active histories.
**P_Aof:** …Why does the blue bar say Radchapon Phornpinit?
**Fern_Social:** Because Net Siraphop breathed on an interview couch last Thursday and said, *“I just hope whoever joins the house can handle a little pressure without crying.”* And the internet, as a collective psychological unit, chose violence.
**P_Aof:** Keep this strictly between this channel. Lock the form immediately. Do not brief the cast. Do not brief talent management. And whatever you do, do NOT tell Radchapon.
**Fern_Social:** P'Aof… Radchapon is the one writing the production schedule. He literally drafted the rules sheet this morning.
**P_Aof:** Then he can draft his own surrender. Call an all-hands cast and crew meeting at two.
***
**[X (Twitter) 24 Hours Before Announcement]**
**@dmd_conspiracy:** “Everyone out here writing down their favorite rookie actors while my entire timeline has been methodically copy-pasting ‘JJ Radchapon’ into the wild-card box like an incantation.”
**@scriptwriters_union:** “JJ posted a picture of an iced Americano at 3:00 AM on IG with the caption: *‘Final draft submitted. Do not contact me for ten business days unless the building is burning.’* Oh, sweet summer child. The building isn’t burning, the whole city is on fire.”
**@netjj_daily:** “If the wild-card is actually JJ I swear Net will spend all ten days poking him until JJ stabs him with a fountain pen on 4K live broadcast. PLEASE DOMUNDI MAKE MY DREAMS COME TRUE.”
***
The fourth-floor conference room smelled of strong dark roast, dry-erase markers, and air conditioning dialed down to meat-locker temperatures.
JJ Radchapon sat near the center of the long table, a black leather notebook open beside his tablet. As the head writer and narrative consultant for Domundi’s unscripted projects, this was his comfort zone: background operations, structured outlines, and zero cameras pointed at his face. He was dressed in an oversized charcoal sweater, hair pushed back casually, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
Directly opposite him sat Net Siraphop.
Net looked entirely too awake for one in the afternoon. Wearing a crisp designer flannel over a white tee, he leaned back in his swivel chair with the insolent grace of someone who had never known a bad camera angle in his life. Between his fingers, Net twirled a matte-black gel pen.
JJ’s favorite gel pen. The one Net had subtly swiped off JJ’s desk five minutes after walking into the room.
JJ didn't look up from his screen. "Put it back."
"Put what back?" Net asked innocently, clicking the cap with a sharp, rhythmic *snap*. "I found this on the table. Universal law of salvage, Radchapon."
"That pen was imported from Ginza and you stole it from my notebook," JJ murmured, eyes skimming a list of villa rules. "Give it back before I snap your thumb."
"You couldn't snap a dry twig if your life depended on it," Net countered smoothly, his lips curving into that maddening, lopsided smirk. He deliberately leaned forward over the mahogany surface, invading JJ’s space by half a foot. "Come take it from me, P'Writer. Let's see you try."
Underneath the table, hidden from the twenty other people milling around the room, Net extended his leg and lightly nudged the tip of his boot against JJ’s ankle. JJ responded by ruthlessly stepping on Net’s pristine white sneaker, grinding his heel into the leather.
Net didn't even flinch. He just winked, his eyes crinkling with sheer domestic mischief.
Beside them, Tommy nudged Tutor with his elbow. "Ten seconds in and they’re already filing for divorce."
"They have to be married first to file for divorce," Tutor pointed out in a low whisper, popping a gummy candy into his mouth.
"Give it time," Tommy muttered. "They fight like people who share a mortgage."
The heavy glass door clicked open, and P'Aof strode in with a stack of thick blue folders, flanked by Fern and two media managers holding iPads like bulletproof vests. The buzz of conversation among the nine confirmed cast members—Zee, NuNew, Tommy, Nat, Tutor, Yim, Max, James, and Net—instantly quieted down.
JJ immediately pulled his foot back, smoothed out his expression, and clicked his tablet awake, ready to take notes on whatever promotional schedules Aof was about to announce.
"Alright, everyone," P'Aof said, setting the folders down with a resounding thud. "We’re forty-eight hours out from departure for Kanchanaburi. Villa setup is verified, camera feeds are synchronized, and the brand sponsors have signed off on the daily challenges."
P'Aof rested his palms on the table, surveying the room with a look of suppressed, Machiavellian glee.
"Now," P'Aof continued, "we have the results of the wild-card entry. The fan vote."
A collective murmur rolled through the room.
"Is it Boun?" Nat asked eagerly. "Or did someone from another studio slip through?"
"Maybe Mark?" Tommy guessed. "We need someone who knows how to cook rice without burning the bottom of the pot, and none of us qualify."
"It's probably an idol," Net commented lazily, resting his chin on his knuckles while his dark eyes stayed fixed on JJ’s lowered lashes. "Fans always organize voting blocks for handsome rookies with high follower counts. It’s completely predictable."
JJ let out an involuntary scoff under his breath.
Net immediately caught it. "You have something to add, JJ?"
"I'm just admiring your profound philosophical insights on social metrics," JJ replied, deadpan, not looking up from his typing. "Truly groundbreaking, Siraphop."
Net reached out with the stolen pen, aiming the blunt end right at JJ's forearm to poke him. "I can give you more insights if you ask nicely—"
"Radchapon," P'Aof's voice cut through the room like a crack of thunder.
JJ froze mid-motion.
His posture went instantly rigid. His hand snapped away from the keyboard, and he raised both palms in an instinctive, defensive surrender, looking directly at P'Aof with wide, guilty eyes.
"P'Aof, I swear to God, he initiated it," JJ blurted out in a rush, pointing an accusing finger straight at Net. "He stole my pen, he kicked my shoe under the table, and he's deliberately disrupting my concentration. Tell him to move to the other side of the room!"
The conference room descended into complete, dead silence.
P'Aof stared at him for three full seconds.
Fern covered her mouth with both hands, her shoulders visibly trembling.
Tommy let out a wheezing snort that he tried and failed to disguise as a cough.
"JJ," P'Aof said, speaking very slowly. "I am not reprimanding you for bickering like school children."
JJ blinked, thrown off balance. "Then why did you call my name?"
"Because you won."
JJ stared. "I won what? The quarterly department review?"
"The wild-card vote," Fern supplied from the sidelines, her voice vibrating with suppressed hysterics as she flipped her iPad around toward the table. "You. Radchapon Phornpinit. Seventy-four thousand eight hundred and twelve write-in submissions."
JJ’s face lost every shred of color.
The tablet screen displayed an enormous bar chart where a single blue column towered over the rest of the industry like an absolute monument of spite. The label underneath read: *JJ Radchapon (Novelist / Screenwriter).*
"No," JJ said. His voice was totally flat. "That is an administrative error."
"We verified every single IP address," P'Aof stated cheerfully. "Twice."
"I am behind-the-scenes staff!" JJ said, his voice rising by half an octave as genuine, cold panic set in. "I am on the production payroll! I wrote the safety waivers for this show! You cannot put the author of the safety waivers inside the house!"
"The general talent consultation clause you signed in January allows the company to cast you in promotional reality formats at executive discretion," P'Aof said, tapping a finger against the blue folder with terrifying administrative finality. "The fans spoke. The engagement is the highest in the company's five-year history. You are the tenth resident."
JJ’s brain completely stalled out.
He sat frozen in his chair, eyes darting from P'Aof to the iPad, then to the grinning faces of his coworkers. Slowly, with the stiff, horrifying mechanics of a horror movie villain turning toward its prey, JJ turned his head toward Net.
Net was staring back at him.
For one fragile second, Net looked genuinely surprised. But then, as the reality of the situation washed over him—the realization that JJ, guarded, camera-shy JJ, was about to be trapped in an isolated villa with him under 24-hour surveillance—Net’s eyes lit up with the most incandescent, unholy joy JJ had ever seen.
Net burst out laughing.
It wasn't a polite, polite chuckle. It was a full-chested, head-thrown-back, helplessly breathless howl of laughter that shook his entire frame.
"You," JJ hissed, his ears flushing bright, incandescent crimson. "You did this."
"Me?!" Net wheezed, clapping a hand over his mouth as tears of mirth gathered in the corners of his eyes. "How could I possibly do this?!"
"You told an interviewer last week that you wanted someone who wouldn't cry!" JJ stood up so fast his leather swivel chair rolled backward into the glass partition with a loud bang. He grabbed his thick manila script binder and swung it squarely at Net's shoulder.
*Smack.*
"Ow!" Net yelped, ducking his head behind his arm, though the brilliant grin never left his face. "JJ, I swear on my mother, I didn't know the poll even existed!"
"You baited them!" JJ struck him again, his voice cracking with pure outrage. "You deliberately challenged the internet to find someone to humiliate you, and they chose me!"
*Smack.*
"Stop hitting me with company property!" Net wheezed, finally reaching out and grabbing both of JJ’s wrists in a single, effortless motion.
He didn't twist them or push him away; he just held them firmly, pulling JJ a fraction of an inch closer across the wide table. Net looked up into JJ’s furious, flushed face, his thumb instinctively stroking the sensitive inside of JJ’s wrist—a micro-movement completely obscured by the edge of JJ’s sleeves.
"Look at the bright side, Radchapon," Net whispered, his low voice carrying a velvet layer of pure, wicked affection that made JJ's stomach perform an involuntary backflip. "Now you don't have to miss me for ten days."
"Let go of me," JJ snarled, though his pulse was hammering against Net’s fingers like a trapped bird. "I am resigning. I am moving to Hokkaido to farm cabbage."
"Congratulations, P'JJ!" Yim cheered, clapping wildly. "The fans love you so much!"
"Ten days of live broadcasts with Net and JJ," Zee murmured, shaking his head with a slow, pitying smile. "The villa is going to require an exorcism by day four."
JJ yanked his hands out of Net’s grip, slammed his laptop shut, shoved everything into his canvas tote with trembling, furious efficiency, and marched straight out the door.
The heavy glass door rattled shut behind him.
The conference room exploded into loud, chaotic applause.
Net stayed in his seat, leaning back with a look of absolute, breathtaking satisfaction, twirling JJ’s stolen pen between his knuckles.
***
**[INTERNAL LOG: Domundi Media & Marketing — Slack Channel #stayhouse-backend]** *Wednesday, 2:45 PM*
**Fern_Social:** SOS. RED ALERT. **Fern_Social:** JJ locked the door to the script lounge from the inside. He put a handwritten sign over the frosted glass that says *‘TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED UNDER PENAL CODE 358’* and he is blasting death metal. **P_Aof:** Tell him to open up. We need an official promotional photo to drop the announcement graphic at three. The topic is already trending at #4 based on room leaks! **Fern_Social:** He won't open the door! He said if we slide a camera under the door he’s going to pour hot water on it! All we have in the HR system is his employee badge from three years ago and he looks like an escaped felon!
***
Outside the script lounge, Fern paced the hardwood hallway in a sheer state of panic.
The elevator doors chimed open, and Net strolled out, sipping an iced matcha latte, his jacket slung casually over one shoulder. He looked like a man who hadn't a single care in the universe.
"P'Net!" Fern gasped, practically lunging forward. "Thank God! Can you talk to him? He won't give us a photo for the poster!"
Net stopped, raising an eyebrow over his paper cup. "A photo?"
"We need a solo portrait for the wild-card announcement graphic," Fern pleaded, showing him the blank template on her tablet. "It drops in fifteen minutes. But JJ is locked in there and refusing all human contact."
Net looked at the heavy oak door of the writer's lounge, where a jagged piece of cardboard was indeed taped over the frosted glass, scrawled with JJ's angry, sharp handwriting.
A slow, devastatingly wicked smile spread across Net’s lips.
"You need a photo of Radchapon?" Net asked softly.
"A high-res one," Fern said desperately. "Do you have anything? Like from a company dinner? A cast party?"
"Oh, I have something much better," Net said smoothly.
He pulled his iPhone from his pocket. With practiced, effortless familiarity, he unlocked it, opened a hidden album labeled with a simple black cat emoji, and scrolled past dozens of candid memories: JJ laughing with pasta sauce on his lip in Rome; JJ asleep on Net’s bare chest during a rainy Sunday; JJ scowling at a crossword puzzle.
Finally, Net’s thumb stopped on an image from eight months ago.
It was JJ’s official government copyright headshot.
JJ had been forced to take it at an official embassy bureau for an international literary grant. He had been made to remove his glasses, wear a stiff, starched white button-down, slick his hair aggressively flat, and stare directly into a harsh fluorescent lens with zero expression.
He looked like a stern, utterly unamused 19th-century magistrate about to sentence someone to hard labor.
Net had laughed so hard when JJ showed it to him that he had fallen off their living room sofa.
"Here," Net said, tapping the screen and hitting AirDrop.
Fern’s tablet pinged instantly. She opened the file, and her jaw dropped in sheer, paralyzed horror.
"P'Net…" Fern whispered, looking between the screen and Net’s glowing face. "He looks like he's about to repossess my house."
"It captures his inner warmth and approachable nature," Net beamed, patting Fern gently on the shoulder. "Use the gold font. Put *'THE WILDCARD HAS ARRIVED'* right across his forehead. It'll be iconic."
***
**[X (Twitter) – 3:00 PM]**
**@DomundiTV (Official):** [IMAGE ATTACHMENT: Official Stay House Season 3 Wild-Card Poster. JJ Radchapon’s hyper-formal, stone-faced, soulless government ID portrait is blown up in ultra-high resolution against a sleek dark-gold villa background. Bold typography: *THE WILDCARD RESIDENT.*]
“Over 74,000 write-in votes. You asked for fire. We brought the fuel. Welcome our 10th resident for *DMD STAY HOUSE S3*: Author & Head Script Consultant, **JJ Radchapon**. Broadcast begins Friday at 7:00 AM.”
***
**@jj_radchapon:** “Where on earth did you get that picture.”
↳ **@net_siraphop:** “I supplied the visual. Consider it my personal contribution to your public relations strategy.”
↳ **@jj_radchapon:** “I am changing the locks on my front door.”
↳ **@net_siraphop:** “Good luck with that. The biometric scanner recognizes my thumb, sweetheart.”
↳ **@jj_radchapon:** “I am filing a restraining order that starts at the Kanchanaburi border.”
↳ **@net_siraphop:** “Too late. We share bedroom A. Bring your own earplugs.”
***
**[X (Twitter) Trending Worldwide]** 1. #DMDStayHouseS3 2. #NetJJ 3. WHERE DID HE GET THE PHOTO 4. SWEETHEART??? 5. Radchapon
***
**@troll_net_club:** “WAIT THAT’S THE PHOTO?! 😭😭😭 HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S ABOUT TO AUDIT DOMUNDI’S TAXES SKDKSKDKS”
**@beef_historian:** “JJ is gonna explode on live television within twelve minutes of arrival, mark my words.”
**@solarsoul:** “Hold on hold on hold on… DID NET JUST SAY THE BIOMETRIC SCANNER ON JJ’S DOOR RECOGNIZES HIS THUMB??? EXCUSE ME???”
↳ **@thai_bl_sleuth:** “They’re close friends guys, Net probably crashes at JJ’s place when shoots run late lol.” ↳ **@solarsoul:** “BESTIE HE CALLED HIM SWEETHEART IN BROAD DAYLIGHT ON MAIN.” ↳ **@thai_bl_sleuth:** “It’s banter!! Net always uses patronizing pet names when he’s ragebaiting JJ, remember the variety show episode where he called him ‘princess’ because JJ wouldn’t eat cilantro?!”
**@marryme_jj:** “Net is an absolute menace I swear to God. Giving the media team JJ’s most cursed passport photo just to publicly execute him 💀 Net woke up and chose pure psychological warfare.”
**@bl_enthusiast:** “Engagement KING + WRITER CHAOS. This season is already going down in history.”
***
Inside the dim quiet of the script lounge, JJ sat slumped on the leather sofa, his face buried in his hands.
On the low glass table, his phone vibrated once with a quiet, private chime.
JJ peeled his fingers back, glaring at the illuminated notification banner.
**My Actor (Net):** *I bought your iced yuzu tea.* *It's outside the door on the bench.* *Open up before the ice melts, baby. You need the sugar.*
JJ stared at the text. He let out a long, ragged exhale through his nose, his lips fighting against an involuntary, traitorous tug at the corners.
He unlocked the screen and typed back with aggressive thumb-taps:
**JJ:** *You are an unbearable nightmare of a human being.*
Three typing bubbles appeared instantly.
**My Actor (Net):** *And you packed my favorite grey socks in your suitcase this morning by accident.* *Bring them to the villa, or my feet will get cold.*
JJ rolled his eyes, tossed the phone onto the cushion, and pushed himself up off the couch. He unlocked the heavy door, reached outside onto the wooden bench, and took the sweating plastic cup of iced tea.
He took a long sip through the straw.
It was perfectly sweet, extra sour, exactly the way he liked it.
JJ looked down the empty corridor, shook his head with a quiet, helpless sigh, and muttered to the empty air, "Ten days. I'm going to strangle him on day one."