dienasteaâ:
CLOSED WITH @deixne
â- the london borough of camden is where he calls sanctuary. his safe haven away from the confinements of the location he once called home. the small apartment meant for two cluttered by six, the former residence welcoming a man working as mechanic along with his buddies that never seem to leave his side. his mother fooled herself into falling in love with the balding man, her tongue of liquor addicting, the alcoholic woman just wanting more access to the alcohol and cigarettes he would light for her. how romantic. jintae was a student, thinking thatâs what he had to be after graduating from grade school. studying business â although he hates businessmen like his biological father â he forced himself to attend classes and suffer, and then he had to return the suffering of his own apartment. he could no longer take it. the abusive profanity thrown his way, the shoving, the torment of a kid who had no idea what life was.Â
   he asked his mother to make a choice. he thought it would be easy. âme or him, mother. we all canât stay here, so pick. me or him?â he stood there out of breath, a bruise along his jaw from the previous nightâs infliction. she made her choice. being held by a man ten years her senior, she stared at her son with her charcoal hues, and there was no emotion among her features. a blank woman who was only ever drunk. jintae left that hour, a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, tears threatening to cascade. weak was his physique as he sauntered about the london streets; he kept walking until he found a bar, and that night he found himself frowning away the same way his mother would have. whiskey and tequila and beer and rum. keep them coming.Â
   life did not get better. a year later, and he only became worse. he, though, wouldnât admit that. as far as he knows, at least he has shelter and an occupation with a stable income. prostitutes make great money â the same money he wastes on drugs, which is what he is looking for tonight. pale and thin, hair long and shabby, the twenty-one year old was escorted by the company of his friend who was also in the business with him (also the same woman he resides with along with her boyfriend and another colleague). she pushes the male forward, her red lips wrapping around the shh that ushered. âjust go talk to him and make a purchase. he is known for having the best in the city. come on, jinnie, get some and we can have so much fucking fun tonight.âÂ
   despite the loud music and the lights flickering, he still processed what his friend said, and on a buzz from drinking and the amount of weed he hit before entering the club, he found the audacity to make his way toward the male dressed better than he â standing tall in the exclusive area of the bar. entitled asshole, huh? â itâs what jintae thought to himself. a sly and charming smirk as he posed with confidence, he stood beside the dealer, tilting his head to the side. ârumor has it that you,â a hand reaching to fix the fold of the dress shirt the other male wore, âcan make it snow.â a wink as he found himself clever with his reference. âis that true?â
london had never felt like home â but the streets of jeonju hadnât, either, even if that was the place sungho had called home for almost twenty years of his life. he didnât find that comforting place in the army, either, being forced to join a unit he hadnât even heard of prior to his first week around, a squad that wasnât supposed to exist â and that, for most of the population â it truly didnât. sungho couldnât have found home there, even if he had tried, for there was nothing comforting about killing for the sake of it, about torturing in other nationsâ names, about doing the dirty work in order to get information youâd never be truly privy to. the man reckoned if he hadnât managed to find himself before that experience, he might as well have given up completely in trying for there was nothing much of him left to find and much less a part of him that was worthy of calling some place a home.
it was still where he lived, however, and where he worked. he knew london like the back of his hand â every tourist location, every place that was suitable for the daylight, but also the dirty side of the city, every nook and cranny of the part of it that only came alive after the sun was down. sungho didnât own a place in it â not yet, his mind supplied and, for a man who wasnât used to emotions any longer, greed seemed to be a recurring one -, but he was well known and respected enough amongst those that did the same as him and the ones that sought his services. that was enough for him to be pleased, most of the time, and for the influx of clients to be constant. he had a reputation to maintain and thus sungho allowed himself to be selective with who he sold for. when your clientele was made up of the lousiest, most disgustingly rich men in the entirety of england, it became easy for one to know what type of people he was after, and what type of people he definitely wasnât going to sell for.
it wasnât the first time and it wouldnât be the last that sunghoâd be approached by a nobody who heard from somebody that he was carrying dope and coke in his inner pockets. most of the shit had already been sold by them, but there were always some leftovers that sungho usually cared more about getting rid of than who he was selling to. the man knew what type of person the boy was, if not for the way he hadnât hesitated before touching him, but the tone of his voice and the way the question was poised. it immediately became easier for sungho to ignore him, as much as he could, taking a sip of his drink and not letting his eyes drift towards the otherâs face. âyou canât afford my shit kid.â well, depending on how much he demanded for his services, perhaps he could, but sungho doubted it. âand if you keep touching me without my permission, youâre even less likely to get a discount.â












