Post-credits scene: A hospital room. An old woman with an oxygen mask holds a faded photograph of three young men—Phupha’s father, a boxer with a broken nose, and a mysterious third figure whose face is scratched out. She whispers:

Phupha sat across from the third key holder: a soft-spoken, spectacled man named , who ran a failing orphanage. Win was the youngest of the three—and the only one who hadn’t known about the others. His key was tied to a worn Buddhist amulet.

The air smelled of liniment oil, sweat, and old blood. A single bulb flickered over a ring where a wiry, scarred man was clinching a heavy bag. His elbows moved like scythes. Thud. Thud. Crack.

Petch stopped punching. “Truth?”

The elevator doors opened to the basement garage of the Khemarat Tower. Not the showroom floor—the real basement. A rusted metal door, dented in the shape of a fist, led to a forgotten Muay Thai ring. In the center, on a folding chair, sat a wooden box no bigger than a shoebox. Carved with faded gold tigers. Locked with a padlock that had no keyhole.