Chapter 22: Waiting Under the Hot Sun
The arrivals hall of Phu Cat airport at noon is a furnace. The sweltering heat from outside blows in through the automatic glass doors that never close completely, carrying with it the smell of dust and asphalt. The air inside is thick with the smell of sweat from hundreds of bodies jostling and the impatience of waiting.
The three men did not stand together. They formed a loose triangle, a geometry of tension. Each man at a corner, like three predators waiting for a single prey to appear.
Minh was fire. He couldn’t stand still. He paced, running his hands through his hair, his face contorted with heat and impatience. His neon orange tank top was a burning flame, a grotesque, defiant presence in the crowd. He was restlessness personified.
Tung was a rock. He stood motionless closest to the exit, as solid as a rock amidst the stream of people passing by. He wore a sturdy trekking outfit, looking a bit out of place, but he exuded a sense of readiness for action. His eyes were highly focused, scanning the faces of the passengers exiting, not a moment of distraction. He already held a bottle of cold mineral water in his hand, drops of condensed water running down the bottle. His weapon was care, meticulous preparation.
Quan was the shadow. He chose a hidden corner, leaning against a pillar, in the shade. He was elegant in a white shirt and khaki pants, not a drop of sweat, not the slightest bit of agitation. He did not look at the door. He was observing Minh and Tung with an almost imperceptible smile. He was the analyst, and the two of them were his first subjects.
Minh walked over to Tung, grumbling impatiently. “Damn it, it’s burning hot. Why is Sister Nuoi taking so long? The plane landed half an hour ago.”
Tung didn’t take his eyes off the door, his voice low and even, without any emotion. “Women have a lot of stuff.”
Quan, from afar, just quietly observed. He thought: “One is impatient as fire, the other is patient as stone. Interesting.”
A staticky, emotionless voice came over the PA system. The flight from Hanoi had landed. Almost simultaneously, all three men straightened. The fire stopped. The stone stopped. The darkness stopped watching. The game was about to begin.
The exit of the arrivals hall, where the stream of people began to rush out like a river that had just broken its dam. Tung frowned, his normally calm eyes now strained, trying to filter out a familiar figure from the chaotic crowd. Minh, with his inherent impatience, stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the heads, muttering curses under his breath. Only Quan remained calm. His gaze did not search frantically, it swept over each face, not missing a single detail, like a scanner processing data.
And then, she appeared.
She did not blend into the crowd. She stood apart from it. Ngan did not have the tiredness or haste of someone who had just taken a long flight. She slowly pushed her small suitcase out, each step light and graceful, like a goddess stepping down from an invisible carriage. She wore a mint green linen maxi dress, a cool color in the heat of Quy Nhon. The dress was loose and flowing, not hugging her body, but fluttering with each step, suggesting the curves below. A wide-brimmed straw hat covered almost half of her face, along with a pair of large sunglasses that covered her eyes. She was an enigma, an inviting mystery.
As she stepped through the glass door, a gust of air from the air conditioner blew back, causing the hem of her skirt to flutter slightly, revealing for a moment her slender legs and thin-strap sandals. It was an accidental revelation, but it was more deadly than any intentional exposure.
Three men, three silent reactions.
Tung held his breath. As if afraid that his breath might tarnish that perfect image.
Minh whistled softly. An instinctive, unfiltered approval.
Quan just nodded slightly. An almost invisible smile crossed his lips. An expert’s recognition of a work of art.
The moment Ngan stepped out into the arrivals hall, the battle began. Three men, from three points of the triangle, began to move. None ran, but their steps were quick and purposeful. They were converging on a single point. The center of the triangle of power.
Ngan, still engrossed in her phone, didn’t realize that she was about to enter the eye of a storm, a silent encirclement that was tightening, where she was both prey and controller.
The space right in front of Ngan, where time seemed to freeze. A war without gunshots, only symbolic actions, a silent battle of wits between three alpha males.
Tung was the first to reach her, exactly as he had chosen. He had calculated every step. His first action was not a greeting. He held out the cold water bottle, which he had wiped dry of all the moisture from the outside, to her. His large, rough, calloused hands of a mountaineer contrasted with the cool, smooth body of the bottle. His message needed no words: You are the most thoughtful person, always worried about my health. You are safety.
Almost at the same moment, Minh slid across, a loud, possessive presence. He didn’t give anything. He acted. His strong hand landed on the handle of Ngan’s suitcase, just above her hand, a powerful touch. Then he took it firmly. His message couldn’t have been clearer: You and your things are mine. I am the strongest, the possessive one.
Quan was the last to arrive. He wasn’t in a hurry. He stopped in front of her, keeping a polite distance, a private space. He didn’t touch her or her belongings. He just slowly took off his sunglasses, revealing deep, intelligent eyes. He looked straight at her, a look through her sunglasses, as if he were reading her soul right there, in the middle of the noisy airport. His message was more subtle, and more dangerous: They care about the body. Only you care about my feelings.
Ngan was a little startled, finally looking up from the phone. And she was surrounded.
A bottle of care is held out to the right.
The suitcase of self-control is snatched from the left.
And a gaze of clairvoyance fixed straight ahead.
She stood still for a second, completely still in the middle of a triangle of power, a prey being played by three predators, each in their own way. The game had truly begun.
The silent war ended, giving way to a verbal drama. Every word was now a spear, an attempt to assert one’s position in the newly established triangle of power.
Tung was the first to speak. His voice was low, simple, and filled with pre-programmed concern. “Drink this to cool down. The Quy Nhon sun is very harsh.” He pushed the cold water bottle a little closer to her, an invitation of care.
Minh immediately counterattacked. He grinned, his voice boastful, deliberately speaking loudly to drown out Tung’s words, and glanced at him. “Leave the suitcase here, I’ll carry it for you! ‘Nhuoi’ is weak and tired from flying all the way, how can she carry it?” He was trying to paint a picture of his strength and gallantry, while at the same time implicitly turning Ngan into a weak princess.
Before Ngan could react to those two suggestions, Quan spoke up. His voice was calm, not loud, but it cut through Minh’s ostentation effectively, like a sharp sword cutting through the noise.
“How was the flight? Was it delayed?”
A simple question. But it changed the whole situation. Quan’s question immediately made Tung and Minh’s actions seem somewhat shallow. Tung was worried about her throat. Minh was worried about the suitcase. Only Quan was worried about her experience, about her mood after the trip. He did not see her as a body that needed care, or a weak person that needed help. He saw her as a human being with feelings.
Tung and Minh, almost at the same time, glanced at Quan. Their eyes were no longer competitive, but a common wariness of a new opponent. A secret jealousy burned. They realized that the quietest person was the most dangerous. This round, Quan had won, without touching anything.
Ngan is in the eye of a storm, surrounded by three opposing forces. Any slight will spark a larger war. This is where a queen’s diplomacy comes into play.
She turned to Tung first. A gentle, grateful smile. She took the bottle from his hand, her fingers lightly touching his. “Thank you, brother, my throat is parched.” She opened the cap and took a small sip. The action was an acknowledgement. His care had been noted. Tung seemed satisfied, his chest puffed out a little.
Next, she turned to Minh. She didn’t try to take the suitcase back. Instead, she patted his hand that was still on the handle, a friendly touch. “You’ve worked hard. Without you, no one would be as gallant.” A compliment, a soothing to his huge ego. Minh smiled triumphantly, as if he had just won a battle.
Finally, she turned back, tilting her head slightly towards Quan to answer his question. The action subtly created a small private space between the two of them, separating them from the other two. “The flight was a bit tiring, but now that I see everyone, I’m no longer tired.”
A perfect draw. No one won, no one lost. Everyone got what they wanted: Tung got attention, Minh got recognition for his strength, and Quan got his own connection. The war ended temporarily in a tacit agreement.
They walked out of the airport together. But as they boarded the waiting 16-seater van, a new battle began: the battle for seats. Ngan had just sat down in a row, and almost immediately, Tung sat down on her left, Minh took the right. They had sandwiched her in the middle, naturally like two predators guarding their prey.
Quan just smiled and chose a single seat in the back row, where he could observe the whole play. Ngan sat sandwiched between two hot sources of energy. She could clearly feel the heat radiating from Tung and Minh’s bodies, a heat of possessiveness and desire, even more than the scorching sun of Quy Nhon. The compromise at the airport was only temporary. The real battle had only just begun, and now, it had moved into a narrower arena.