It's not the best update, but I needed to get this out before another five months passed. Concrit appreciated. ~Sage
3 – I: Rebel
-Seoul-
As one they moved.
Pummeling their rivals with as much fury and strength as they could muster, snarling and gnashing their teenage fangs, they wove amongst one another like silk threads of red and gold, bound together tight into a thick skein. Discarded from brick and mortar cocoons and bred for their fighting talents, they relied upon one another, fed off the same air and the same trees, nothing and no one without the other. Jeering, taunting, insulting their foes, they took turns striking and hurting; an axe kick there, lightning jab there, with the dose of knife swipe or two to spice up the game. For an hour they did this, until their rivals believed to be on the brink of defeat. Blood, sweat and saliva spattered flesh and concrete, smeared like grime on unwashed windowpanes, upon now tarnished faces of youth and long discarded childhoods.
But, just when their opponents' morale was ground near to nothing, like dark spots of old chewing gum on the pavement beneath their feet, the Seoul boys would deliberately lose. Each one would gradually falter, feigning an injury, limping and screaming mock agony, allowing themselves to be beaten near senseless, to their rivals' amusement.
How could these fools be the best? They scoffed. They were pathetic!
But the Seoul boys had something their enemies lacked, and that was a five-foot-eleven red-haired terror with a taste for spicy rice cakes, beautiful women, ear-splitting rock music and kicking serious ass.
As soon as the stakes were high—millions of more won thrown into the ring, illusory confidence building higher and higher—the secret weapon emerged, legs and leather gloves at the ready.
After that, the games were over.
It depended on Hwoarang's mood most of the times. If he was bored and wanted to give his boys a show, he would defeat his enemies in what was for him slow motion. He'd take his time with the fight, bouncing lazily on the balls of his feet with fists at half-mast, perhaps even allowing his opponent to land a few amateurish blows—right before he kicked their pride and self-esteem to the moon and sent it plummeting back to the outskirts of the fight circle where they belonged.
But if he was antsy for the winnings or hankering for a quality soju fix that only that kind of money could buy, he demolished his challengers and abandoned them with both of his pockets bulging. The whole exchange was comical; it reminded him of a bad anime, one with plenty of action-packed shallowness, exaggerated enthusiasm and lack of an engaging storyline. It even had a character with bizarre hair color.
But today he was in one of those languorous moods. It wasn't like the Jung-gu fight two years ago, where he'd punished Baek's would-be killers within a matter of minutes. The earnings hadn't been great that time around, but the gang understood that the fight had been too personal for pretense.
Hwoarang smiled at the knife his opponent waved in his face, flinging it from the thug's fingers with a fluid spinning back kick. When seven of the rival gangsters—supposedly the reigning dogs in Incheon—had been defeated, the eighth entered the ring with a smirk that rivaled Hwoarang's.
"So this is your ruse, eh? Pretend like you're down and then use this red fairy to win it back? Cowardice," he spat, and Hwoarang knew this was their leader, Hyo.
"Are you tellin' me you play honest in the streets? No wonder you bitches lack game," Hwoarang crowed, flexing his fingers before balling them back into fists.
Hyo bristled at the insult, the red heat of rage blushing his cheeks.
"How bout this," Hwoarang began, the smile widening on his face. "If you beat me, I'll give you your money back. If not—"
At this, Hwoarang glanced beyond the fight ring to a woman leaning against a wall watching the entire exchange. She was slender and fiercely beautiful, as was to the redhead's taste, with exquisitely pale, shapely legs and black hair snipped into a pixie cut. Hwoarang preferred long hair on his women, but this little number would be the exception. She stared back at him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted mouth, a cigarette balanced between dainty fingers glistening with gold rings and cherry blossom-pink nail polish. The girl smiled at Hwoarang knowingly, accepting his invitation.
"—I get a night with your girl," the redhead finished, and his rival exploded.
The Incheon leader knew he'd already lost; there was no way he could win such a bargain, but to refuse would be cowardly. Hwoarang intended to demean him in more ways than his pocketbook, and Hyo felt a fury so intense he knew he might kill the Seoul gang leader on the spot.
"Fuck you! You lay one finger on Eun-Mi and you're a dead man," he shrieked, itching for the handgun hidden in his jacket.
"It'll be more than a finger, trust me," Hwoarang retorted, licking his lips as he imagined Eun-Mi's nakedness. It'd been awhile since he'd slept with a woman. Say, two months?
But it had been the wrong thing to say.
In moments, Hwoarang found himself staring into the barrel of that handgun. Unafraid, he smirked, but remained motionless. This was a step too far for his liking. His gang was in uproar, shouting accusations of cheating and cowardice, but they refused to move to their leader's aid lest the Incheon leader decided to pull the trigger.
"Hey man, mah boy was jus' joking," Sung finally piped, stepping into the ring with his hands in the air. "He does that, y'know? Riles people up for laughs, y'know? Just let us take the money and go. Fight's done fair and square, uh?"
But Hyo wouldn't lower the gun. Rather, he pulled the safety and repositioned the weapon to Hwoarang's crotch.
"Babe, put the gun down."
Eun-mi sauntered over, sucking the remnants of poison from her cigarette before flicking it into the gutter. She molded herself against her boyfriend, stuffing her hands up his shirt before kissing him hard on the mouth.
"Let's go home, uh? You've had your fun, and I don't want cops after your ass again," she purred, nuzzling his neck. "Hm? Let's just go."
Hyo finally lowered his weapon, though his eyes never left Hwoarang's.
"And as for you," Eun-Mi growled in mock anger as she approached Hwoarang. She stopped only when her mouth was inches from his ear, her warm breath causing the gang leader to shiver with pleasure.
"Know when to shut your goddamn mouth," she snarled as she discreetly slid a piece of paper into his jeans pocket. "Next time I'll have him kill you."
She slapped him across the face for the final effect, and then retreated down the street with her Incheon herd.
Once Hyo was out of sight, Hwoarang laughed, congratulating his gang for their good work, jesting with them about his brush with death. With the excited faces of his friends surrounding him, Hwoarang opened the paper from Eun-Mi.
Byuel Dong Byuel Night Club, midnight. Come alone.
He would have his fun after all.
"Oi! Sah bum nim! I'm home!"
The fight had taken most of the energy from him, but he'd decided to freshen up before his rendezvous with Eun-Mi. Baek rose from his perch on the couch and, judging by the look on his face, Hwoarang knew his mentor was anything but happy to see him. The boy groaned inwardly, knowing another fight was imminent.
"Where is it?" Baek demanded, mouth set into a calm line. But the man's eyes, like flints of obsidian, were anything but tranquil.
"Where's what?"
"Don't make me fight you, Boy. We both know who'll win."
Baek rarely threatened his pupil. But when he did, Hwoarang knew to take it seriously.
Gritting his teeth, the redhead revealed the two fist-thick wads of money he'd won earlier, each bound with rubber bands stretched near to snapping point. The silence that ensued was more shameful than Baek disciplining him in front of his friends at the dojang.
Hwoarang was rarely caught off guard. But, in a move so fast the teenager barely saw it, Baek seized the bundles of cash and stuffed them into his sweatshirt pockets.
"Hey! Gimme—"
"That money is going towards something more worthy, Hwoarang, not towards smoking pot and bar hopping."
"That's not—"
"When are you going to get a real job, hm? When?"
"Why are you complaining? I'm helping pay the bills, aren't I?"
"That was before I figured out this was blood money. I did not teach you Tae Kwon Do to see you abuse it in such a way!"
"Stop making a big deal out of it. Goddamn it, I'm fucking good at this, so let me do it!"
"You're not good at anything but causing trouble. You have to stop this nonsense, Doo San Hwoarang."
"Moon Hwoarang. Moon."
For a moment Hwoarang thought he saw pain flicker in his instructor's eyes, but it vanished in an eye blink. Though he had legally taken Baek's surname when his mother died, Hwoarang never truly bought into the whole guardianship idea. He was alone and that was, in many ways, how he preferred it. He didn't want to be anyone's burden anymore.
"I lost everything nine years ago," the 18-year-old snarled. "So don't you tell me what I can and can't do. That's my father's job."
"Your father did nothing but beat the pride out of you," Baek replied, fists balling. "I'm trying my best here. I'm not the only one who lost everything when your mother died!"
"Oh. I see. So now this is about you?"
"Anyio, you little ingrate. It's about you doing something with your life!"
Instinctively, Hwoarang recoiled, the muscles in his legs tensing; he had never seen Baek so upset before. The man was always calm and diplomatic, with a cold composure that bordered along stoic. To see him now in such a state was disturbing; Hwoarang felt as a rabbit did in a corner as the striped tattoos of the tiger loomed above him.
"It's always been about you. I promised your mother that."
Hwoarang looked away; though he didn't show it, he'd always understood how much his mentor loved him—and his mother, apparently. But it did not deter the anger nor inspire shame. He never was one for heart-to-hearts, even ones as furious as the one Baek was trying to provoke. Fire was to his liking, but not when it kindled the long dormant flames of his past woes.
"Fuck this," he muttered under his breath as he made for the door.
"Hwoarang," Baek growled, a sound that would have stopped any of his students in a heartbeat. "Get. Back. Here."
But the boy shrugged on his jacket and slammed the door behind him.
Rather than chase him, Baek brewed himself some black tea and flipped through the morning paper he hadn't had the chance to read. Hwoarang would be back sooner or later. To everyone who didn't know him, the little rebel was as destructive as a hurricane. But to his teacher, he was as predictable as thunder after lightning. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…boom. One one-thousand, two one-thousand…
Sooner or later that angry thunder would crash, clashing with sky and rain and lightning for dominance of the sky. It lacked the electrifying, blinding deadliness of its lightning peer, the one who could truly deal death and danger. Thunder's only power was its own angry voice growling without threat save for, perhaps, a trembling windowpane or a startled jump. It could only complain with futile fury, snarling false peril until the sun bit at its heels and herded it away, or until rain and lightning coaxed it into peaceful obedience.
Hwoarang was merely following a pattern—his personal pumsae. Learn first, listen later. Light would always be faster than sound.
Baek sipped the tea, the hot liquid searing his throat and chest like the way his student was prone to doing; a singed heart due to frequent arguments, a burned throat from too much yelling. Baek had certainly withstood too much fire from him, but he figured, as Hwoarang had turned eighteen recently, it was time for the boy to truly fend for himself-not that he hadn't been doing so already. Baek had been but the backbone, after all, the provider, the roof over the head and the food into the mouth, while Hwoarang had been free to roam and brood his emotions away, only to eject them onto the streets rather than into more nobler causes. You couldn't chisel a stone into a diamond no matter how hard you tried. Guiltily, Baek knew he had to allow Hwoarang to fail miserably if he was ever to be humbled.
The man sighed, closing the newspaper—just more crime stories, wars in the Middle East and nuclear North Korean headlines.
"I'm trying, Sun Jung. I'm trying."
-Soul-
I had just turned seven when I tried to kill my father.
From the kitchen drawer I'd managed to retrieve a small carving knife, tiptoed to the living room, and stood over my comatose father drooling in drunken stupor on the couch. I remember he was breathing through a mouth smeared with pink lipstick and flecked with vomit. Trembling from fear and hatred, I positioned the knife inches from his throat, my hand hurting from gripping the handle so hard.
But the bruises I hid beneath my shorts and my shirt hurt more. My mother's screams of fear as my father struck her, again and again, hurt more.
I don't know how long I stood there above my father, glaring down and hating like no child should be allowed to hate—but I couldn't do it. It's simple, Hwoarang. Kill him. End it. Make Mama happy again. Instead, I remember beginning to sob, the knife slipping from my little hands, the thin blade pricking the skin beneath the gray stubble that lined my father's poisonous mouth.
When he woke up and discovered my plot I received the beating of my life. If Ummah hadn't intervened I probably would have died.
I should have killed him when I had the chance.
The good thing about Ummah being dead is that she's dead. She's never coming back. I have a tombstone to mourn, pictures to relieve the longing and to sate the memories tugging through sleepless hours, songs to write and a guitar to bandage the wounds.
But my father can always come back. In some ways, he never really left.
-Seoul-
He dreamt last night that he was falling headfirst through space, plunging past star-studded black galaxies and through exploding meteor waves, the violent butterflies in his stomach jetting screams from a parched throat. There was nothing to grasp but his own gasping breath and hollowed air, no wings to lift him, no hope or memory to relieve the horror; just uncertainty in its entirety. Just miles of silence and spinning world and a seemingly endless descent into the dark. He wasn't ready yet. He had things to do yet.
But he kept falling.
Hour-like minutes later, he awoke and could not sleep. Standing in front of the open closet with its ceiling-high shelves, he stared at all those piles of neatly folded silks, wondering how his mother had decided which ones to choose. Quality? Color? Price? The way they might look against your son's skin, the way they draped across his shoulders so that it looked nice?
"They're pretty."
Swiveling around with fists raised, he turned to face the voice that had been watching him, his blood boiling. When he saw it was just the girl—some easy broad he'd picked up at the bar and brought home last night—the boil reduced to a simmer, but the angry surprise remained.
She leaned, still half-asleep, against the doorway and eyed him lazily; she was wearing his Opeth shirt. Who the hell did she think she was wearing one of his shirts? Just because they'd fucked didn't mean it was now a free for all. What if Baek came up here and saw her?
"Go put some clothes on, will you?" he rasped, standing in front of the silks as if to protect them. "Then get out of here."
Her eyes narrowed, the sleep fading from her eyes.
"Oh, so that's how it's going to be?" she huffed, hand on a hip. Women...
"Yup."
"Do you even remember my name?"
Of course he remembered her name, but he wasn't about to blurt it out and make her think she was special. One good thing about being a gangster was that he was forced to know everyone around him, even if they'd no idea of his existence. It kept him wary. It kept him alive. It kept him at the top. If he didn't know his own turf he might as well hand it over to his enemies.
"Just get out of here before I call your parents and tell them how much of a slut you are."
"You don't even know my parents."
"You mean the accountants who live on the first floor of that apartment complex next to the sushi bar? The converted Catholics who buy cheap kimchi?"
If looks could kill, he would have been shot, burned alive and thrown to the vultures from the glare of utter hatred emanating from her gaze.
"Horo," she muttered as she eventually retreated to his bedroom.
Any other insult wouldn't have bothered him—save for the one she just flung into his face.
Lunging for her, he seized her arm in a grip hard enough to keep her in place, but gently enough not to yield a bruise; he wouldn't want to give her an excuse to press charges now would he. Not when everything was finally falling into place after nine years. Well, in a manner of speaking.
"Let go of me!" she shrieked, and he clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Call me that again," he dared behind clenched teeth, his face centimeters from hers.
He would never strike a woman; that was for cowards. But he had discovered other ways to enforce the law, and sometimes a simple threat of might was required. So when she remained silent, her fear-stricken flesh perspiring beneath his palm, the boy smirked. Respect earned at last.
"You don't know anything about me, Kwan Youngeun. But I know you. If you ever insult me again, I suggest you watch your back."
Letting his words sink in, he waited until fearful understanding glinted in her dark eyes, and then released her. From the doorway he watched her change her clothes, wolfish eyes re-devouring the vulnerable nakedness; suddenly she was no longer appealing, but he kept his eyes locked on her, enjoying the way she wilted beneath his gaze. I'm the one with the power, not you.
Cotton panties and purple polyester skirt glided over pale thighs to hug hip and buttock, thin bra to shield trembling breasts, gold heels recovered from a corner where they were haphazardly thrown—his Opeth shirt folded neatly on the made bed. She didn't look at him once, her face flushing as red as his hair—ironic, as she had no qualms about screwing like rabbits the night previous. She'd been pretty good too.
But now she knew who he was and what he was capable of. I will have the respect I deserve.
Maybe his father had instilled that within him. Maybe it had been the gang. Regardless, Hwoarang knew this hardness was taking its toll. He kind of liked this Kwan girl, but to open himself to such a thing would require softness, and there was no room for softness on the streets. Hardened hands, hardened head, and especially hardened heart. You had to smile like it was nothing or keep drawing blood to prove your strength-or until you had nothing left to bleed.
It was what being a man meant. Right?
A man didn't wander outside alone in the eerie hours of night to serenade his dead mother, nor did he wish that he could lie in bed curled fetal position, as was how everyone began, and take a break from gang life.
There. He admitted it.
His gang was his family. When a boy lacked that crucial father figure he needed someone to hold onto. Baek was great and all, but Hwoarang needed people who could understand the strife and be angry and lonely and vengeful with him. Misery loved company, as they said, and he wasn't yet mature enough to rise above it. Perhaps he never would be, and that frightened him.
Sometimes he wanted to wish the gang away and live like Baek wanted him to. Like his mother wanted him to.
Glossary
anyio - no
byuel dong byuel - shooting star
horo – a term used to insult a person who has no parents
pumsae - Tae Kwon Do patterns or forms
soju - alcohol, comparable to vodka