ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ sʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ

He has a feeling he knows, but it fills him with such unease he dare not think of it now. Now is for staying calm and not blowing it in front of the boss. They make their way across the basement, which seems to function as a sort of warehouse. Here and there, he spots other workers. He tries not to look at anyone too hard and hopes they’re giving him the same courtesy.

He’s taken aback when the boss announces he’ll be riding along with him, but he tries not to let it show. Maybe it’ll be a good thing. Maybe he’ll even get an idea what the hell is going on here. He’s wary of asking too many questions – who knows how thin the man’s patience runs when it comes to debtors? He’d do better to keep his head down. No matter if he doesn’t like it.

Like clockwork, he greets every worker that they pass with a smile or a quick pat on the shoulder. Sometimes he’ll ask about their kids or their wives or their partners, both to endear himself to them and to subtly let them know that he remembers their personal details. The Korean population in this city is small enough that he probably knows who everyone is, right down to the ones that were born last week.

He doesn’t look at his newest employee until they reach the garage doors, and only then does he stop to put on his gloves. It’s a little chilly outside, these days. Sungjoon doesn’t ask too many questions, it looks like, but the ones he does ask are the important ones.

He’s smart, and that’s what he usually looks for in his regular staff, but not in his dock men.

One of the doors is opened just enough for him to step out into the dim morning light. Their pickup is parked a few steps away, and he climbs into the passenger seat.

“That’ll be the gist of it, yes. Just be careful with the crates. Part of the merchandise is glass.”

He waits until the other man finds his place in the driver’s seat.

Once again, a white gloved hand glides across the table and quickly plucks the fifth card from the table. He takes a quick glance and slips the card into his other hand, behind the last card on the right. He gives a soft ‘hm’ before speaking and taps his lips in a mock thinking gesture. “Hit me again would you?”

His eyes once again lift from his cards to look at the man on the other end of the table. “Oh, attacking my counting skills now, are we?” As the waitress’ hand leaves the cool glass of his drink, his hand takes the place of it. He quickly lifts it to his lips and takes a sip before sitting it back down gently on the table. “You can’t see my cards now, can you? So how can you know if I’ve busted or not?”

That's got to be it - just a refusal to give up. There is absolutely no way that his opponent hasn't busted.

He has to school his expression into indifference to keep himself calm. There's a quiet, intense annoyance building behind his temples and he can feel the headache start to set in. He'll need some aspirin in a few minutes.

"Your ability to do anything is irrelevant here. Unless you can somehow change the faces of the cards that are placed in front of you, there's nothing you can do, short of counting the cards and praying to whatever God you believe in that you get the one you want." He's icy, biting back all the caustic remarks he so intensely desires to make. "There's a system you could use, sure, but if you're not in control of the cards, there's never going to be a one-hundred percent success rate, and therefore no reason to be so sure of yourself."

He has to take a deep breath, deep enough to feel one of the vertebrae in his back click into place. He doesn't move to acquiesce this time. He refuses.

He’s still well below twenty-one, so he figures it’s safe to go for another hit– Oh, who’s he kidding? Another hit is always safe when he’s the one playing. 

In the world of Yuuji Kamijo, risk doesn’t exist and neither does luck, and that is something his opponent will have to find out the hard way. Everything happens on purpose, not because he’s in the right place at the right time. Everything happens because he can make it happen, not because a wind of good fortune blows his way. 

He lifts his free hand and motions for one of the barkeep's helpers. "Bring him another, would you?" And the small woman scurries off to find another glass. She doesn't know who he is, who either of them are, but the Boss has told her to listen to them. She's not like this with the other customers, it looks like.

"I don't have a reputation here. And nobody would believe you if you were intent on flaunting any victory you may miraculously achieve," he says, "So I think I'm pretty safe. You, on the other hand..."

He lays down another card and shoots a sour look across the table. Five cards and he still hasn't busted? Not likely. He shuffled the deck himself. The lower cards were evenly disbursed... Kamijo can't have gotten them all; there's still three-quarters of the deck left.

Are you just going to disappear on me again?

Are you saying that this is my fault?

Don’t pretend like you ever cared.

Everything was a lie, I was just using you.

Forget you ever met me.

How could you leave me here?

How long have you known about the affair?

I always knew I’d end up hating you.

I don’t think I can trust you anymore, or ever again.

I hope you never forgive me for what I did to you.

I needed you and you weren’t there.

I never want to hear your name again.

I remember when you made me happy, I don’t know what I was thinking.

I should have never trusted you.

I thought you said you’d never hurt me.

If this is goodbye, make sure I never see you again.

It was fun while it lasted, but I can’t do this anymore.

Just the thought of being around you makes me feel sick.

People have died because of you!

Please tell me what I did wrong, what I can do to fix this.

There’s no such thing as love, at least not between us.

Was everything a lie?

We used to have something great and now I can’t get far enough away from you.

We’ll never be able to go back to how we were.

What about all those nights, do they mean nothing to you?

What we had meant nothing to me.

You can’t just walk away like nothing happened!

You never want to see me again?

You used to give me hope and now you give me nothing.

The disconnect between his own life and that of his parents is long-standing, with them growing old in a tenement house down the river, but Sungjoon still knows this is not what they had in mind for him. They didn’t put their meager savings into the month-long journey from Korea only to watch him grow up and turn into a wastrel. Booze is no magic fix and it certainly can’t pull him out of the slump he’s been in ever since the Ford company laid him off from his job at the factory, but that knowledge doesn’t shake his reliance on it. It’d been nothing personal, of course — the company had just gotten ahead of themselves. Too many cars and too few highways to drive them on, production exceeding the demand for once.

New York is in a golden age of economic expansion and no can can bring themselves to care too much about the few left behind. No one pays them any attention, in fact, apart from those hungry jackals who look at them and see opportunity.

Some might call him crazy for laying his last few dollars on the line, betting against the odds to multiply instead of shrink it, but desperation will do things to a man. It’s not hard when you’re at the bottom of a ditch with no clear way out to be drawn to what looks like prosperity. And it’s all around them, here — fellas just off work with paychecks burning a hole in their pockets, shouting bets over the clinking of ice and booming laughter. It only takes one winner to inspire hope in the rest. Even if their luck has never really looked all that good.

He’s no stranger to this place (practically a denizen) but he can’t say he’s ever seen the boss before. That alone doesn’t bode well when he’s called in to meet with him. He anticipates the worst. In the silence that settles between them it takes more willpower than it should not to draw out his handkerchief to dab at the nervous sweat beading on his temples. He knows it won’t do him any favors to let on just how anxious this meeting’s making him before they’ve even said a word. So he takes a breath, relaxes into the seat, and waits.

Once the boss finally does open his mouth, it’s no surprise his debt takes front and center. What does come as a surprise is the turn the conversation takes next. He’d been prepared for an ultimatum — prepared to sell what little else remains strewn around his tiny flat, even, if it would appease him. But being offered a job?

Simple enough, he says. But is it really? There’s something about that smile that makes him wary.

"All right." He gives a stiff, curt nod of the head as he agrees. What choice does he have? "Tell me what I gotta do, boss."

No delivery boy job he’s ever heard of is so lucrative. But then again, he’s got no idea what deliveries pass through the back rooms of this establishment.

He knows that the other man doesn't have a choice - he's going to have to pay up somehow, or life is going to take a rather grim turn for the worse. Poverty is nothing compared to what he's willing to do to get his cut. He's a very sagacious businessman; he made it to the top, after all. Forming connections with the tekiya and bakuto syndicates overseas isn't easy, and keeping up with the Arm and the Outfit is outrageous - and he's doing it.

He will go to great lengths to keep his invisible empire.

The agreement pulls another smile to his face, and this one is a little more sincere, a little more pleased. With just one compound word, he's got his last jobbie for this set. This batch is ready to go.

"You're going to be running freight for me, my man. From the shipyard to the basement of this building, or vice versa." He glides a thumb over his forefinger and presses down, listens for the telltale pop, and flexes his appendages. And then he stands up, slowly, deliberately. "Glad you agreed, because your first job is coming up very soon."

He steps out from behind his chair, pushes it in, and motions for Sungjoon to do the same.

"In fact, it's right about now. Glad you could make it to your first day on time. Congratulations."

He smiles a little wider, resists the temptation to laugh out loud. There's just something he likes about doing this job.

The door on the wall behind his desk leads not to the pool hall, but to the basement, and he makes sure to open it and step through in a timely manner. "The stairs are a little steep," he mentions as he starts to descend, "But you'll manage. I'm sure I don't have to remind you to shut the door as you come down. Don't want to let in a draft."

At the bottom of the stairs, there is a short hall with a left turn, and then they are in a large, open space. Well, not quite open, per say. There are crates upon crates of bottles and numerous barrels. It's dank and dark, lit only by ten bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and about as wide and long as the building above. Not crowded but not a lot of room to move around. It's more open towards the back, where the large garage doors will open to let in the trucks for pickup tomorrow. Right now, there's a solitary one sitting on the outside, unseen.

His negligence to remove his shoes irked her just a bit. He might hold a high position in his organization, but this was her apartment and she would like to keep her wooden floors clean from any outside debris. However, as much as she wanted to repeated her instructions, Mary had pursed her lips to push back the urge. One quick look down to the trail of his steps reassured her that his shoes were clean.To throw a fit over clean shoes seemed very childish for her. She would let this time slide. 

While he was looking over her apartment, Mary momentarily disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a water bottle for her guest. Offering a glass of water was an inconvenience for her since she would have to wash the cup afterwards. Plus, the water bottle provided assurance that the drink wasn’t potentially poisoned, which she assumed her guest would appreciate. 

After stepping out of her kitchen, she found the male already sitting in one of the armchairs in the living room. The seat was his way of asserting power in their meeting, which Mary would let slide. He was a guest, after all. A powerful guest who had probably looked over her apartment’s aesthetics for judgement. She wasn’t worried about whether or not he approved of her living area. Her apartment was organized from top to bottom with not a speck of dust in sight. 

"Nice to meet you too. It’s alright. You have your reasons for being cautious." Mary placed the water bottle down on his end of the coffee table before walking back to take a seat on the armchair across from his. Crossing her legs, she straightened her back to fold her hands over her knees. "Choroideremia, that’s what I was told about your condition,” she paused, remembering the quick research she had done on this disease before their meeting. “It’s an x-linked recessive degenerative disease that occurs in males only. It started when you were a boy and has gradually gotten worse.”

He remains still as she places the water, deciding to take it later - or perhaps not at all, since he's not feeling especially parched. Eyes travel up her hand and follow her to her seat. Even her clothes are impeccable, not a wayward thread in sight. It's almost surreal.

"Exactly right. I was born with it."

The memory of one of his earlier hospital visits makes a ripple in the back of his mind. The doctor in his memory is older, a graying man with a stern look that asks him if he can read the first few lines of the chart on the wall. He can't. The woman in front of him may have a similar aura, but in all other ways appears to be the opposite of the man with the stethoscope.

At the question, his brow furrows. He's not entirely sure, at this point. He's been correcting and overcorrecting for so long that he can't accurately tell, himself. With his glasses, it's better, but without them, he's sure that it's pretty spotty. So he reaches for the water bottle, decides his hand is a little too far to the right, and adjusts, picks it up by the top.

"Adequate with these on," he motions to the spectacles sitting on the end of his nose with a finger, and goes to work unscrewing the cap of the bottle out of habit, "But getting worse." He takes a drink, swallows, nods.

"I know. I wasn't expecting any serious care, to be quite honest," he says, "There's no cure for this, there's no getting better, even with therapy. I just need you to examine me every once in a while and document things for me."

He spins the cap back on and sets the bottle back onto the table, maybe a little further away from the edge than strictly necessary. Now he's a little too aware of his own movements. He's never liked talking about this.

The nickname that practically scrapes into his ear almost makes him laugh. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long, long, time, and the only person who would dare call him with such a name is his father. He finds himself smiling as he swallows the burning alcohol grinds against his throat, throws another chip into the table. 

"I think you’re forgetting who used to run the ‘show’ here, Uppie." Junmyeon retorts, remembers the time people used to bow down to him, but he plays along with the Jongup’s words anyway. He hasn’t walked here for as long as six years, a lot of things can change within that short amount of time (and he has experienced it first hand, with the people he sees that’s not there, voices he should never have to be able to hear again). "Hey, it wasn’t exactly a fail! We managed to get into the mansion it’s just… " The blond trails off, suddenly finding the mirror on the wall interesting, and turns back to the game of poker.

"I’ll think of something as we go," Junmyeon puts his thumb between his lips, teeth biting into the nail as his eyes scans the other contendors. They tremble under his intense gaze, a sweat glistening down their foreheads, and Junmyeon lets a sinister smile slide to his face. "I can make anyone, anyone, bow down to you, Uppie.” He mumbles, shows everyone the card (a royal flush) and drags the pile of chips in the middle of the table towards him. The other men stares wide eyed, baffled by such luck, and one of them almost has a mental breakdown. Junmyeon just laughs, madness clinging to each puff of breath.

And then he sees him—the man that had just left settling back in his own seat with an even darker look on his face. Junmyeon’s not suspicious, not even the least bit intrigued because what prioritises above all right now is Jongup and his gang. He’s the last piece of puzzle that Junmyeon needs to take back what he lost, the territories his brothers has stolen from him.

Jongup is the only one that can bring the peacefulness of revenge to Junmyeon.

"You’ll get whatever you want if we group together." Junmyeon mumbles, picks up a handful of chips and puts it to Jongup’s side; just to give him an idea of how easily he could get what he want. Junmyeon is not going to deny the amount of power Jongup has in his hands currently, it’s almost frightening how he was able to grasp it so easily, which was what attracted his attention in the first place.

But then the chips starts to fly into the air, the table following closely. Junmyeon turns in time to see a rush of men entering the room, all in black, but before any of them could pull out their gun Junmyeon has already put a hole into three of their heads.

He frowns, tossing the chip back onto the table. Before Jongup, before King, there wasn't nothing, but there was indeed very little. He built upon the foundations that were laid out and established an empire most could only imagine, or have only seen in mobster movies. He's proud of his accomplishment. The other man may have been in power before, but his reach was not as long as Jongup's, his influence extended only so far. This may be one of his old buildings, but the businessman owns it now, employs the staff that run it, keep it secret, and collect for him.

He's not a fan of empty promises. General rule is to avoid general words - if your partner doesn't give you specifics, you don't trust that they can deliver. Unless they can give you anything and everything that you could ever ask for and you know that, it's good to avoid "whatever you want"s. He is rather amused, however, at the thought of this man being his dog, leashed and ready to take down whoever Jongup considers a threat.

He would pay a lot of money to see that.

But as of right now, the other man has nothing of worth to offer. It would be a losing scenario to back him, if his track record is anything to go by. Couldn't kill his father, couldn't kill his brothers, couldn't take back his stuff. With the younger's help, he might be able to do it, but a might is not an answer with conviction and he's not sure he wants to bet on that.

He's still thinking, verging on just outright saying "no," when the commotion starts. He registers the crash of the table toppling to the floor before he sees the spray of poker chips and the cards that accompany them. Then chairs are scraping against the floor, wood against wood and it's hell on his ears, and the door busts open. In come six to ten men, dressed from head to toe in your general criminal garb and toting an assortment of weapons - mostly guns, a couple of knives. And lucky Jongup, he'd only brought a revolver.

Junmyeon is quicker on the draw, out of his seat and shooting down their assailants before they even have time to count the people in the room. They start dropping like flies - one, two, three - and Jongup vows to invest in some better security.

"Not really in the dancing mood, thank you. If you would be so kind, deal with this."

It's a simple order, one he expects to be obeyed. And it will be, because this is something his companion enjoys. He would rather not get involved unless he has to.

So he picks himself out of his chair and spins around, smiles brightly at the other man. The table is still laying on its side and it'll make a decent cover, especially with some of the other players hiding behind it. Looks like not everyone was in on the plan. Wood and flesh will make an adequate barrier between him and the bullets. He drops to a crouch behind it all.

"This situation doesn't excuse you from your bets, for the record," he tells them, "If you can't pay I'll be taking them out of your insurance disbursements."

When one of the men starts stuttering and ranting about how this is crazy and he doesn't have the money to pay for such a rigged game, he draws his pistol from the holster under his jacket and points, fires. The man crumples, and he smiles, situation outside of their little bubble momentarily forgotten despite the continued shouting and gunfire. "Anyone else who can't afford what they put in?"

Though regardless of what he had thought, apparently that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t much of a bother to him however. He had never liked his father much anyway.  The only real thing he’d ever done for Guk was give him the means to his end and allowed Joon into their home without any protest. He never had to work; he’d always been given what he wanted when he wanted it. If one were to think deep enough into it they’d probably find that that may have been why he picked up looting at such a young age. The melancholy of it was that he’d probably never come to realize such, his past was something he rather hated thinking about. It was so much easier to just move forward. The train of thought he’d acquired was weirdly subjective he noted, and decided it’d be better to focus on what was at hand. He gave a small glance to his side and then passed it forward again when nothing in his sight had differed from what he’d expected. An older male, his brother has taken on a steely expression and had been strangely silent the whole time making their way here. Joon was always by his side, protecting or trying to advise Yongguk in some way, advice of which he seldom ever actually considered, never mind actually listened to.  Perhaps he didn’t have anything to give this time around, or maybe he was just staying silent for the sake of not getting Yongguk irritated right before an important meeting. It’d never stopped him before though.

"If it wasn't your own, your excuse is invalid," he says, serenely, "And you won't be, either, if you show up late again. Your first lesson is the importance of punctuality. You come in a minute past our agreed time again and I'll have your fingers on a platter."

He smiles, steepling his own appendages. He's not afraid to remove parts of his student in an effort to teach him. Sung will understand eventually, at the very least. Won't hold too big a grudge against him. It's all for the sake of education.

He zeroes in on the other Bang child - the unofficial body guard of the reckless child before him. Not an actual part of the family, but tolerated, he's heard. He's not here to learn, so he he doesn't need to be here at all. He jerks his head subtly towards the door, eye contact unbroken.

"And you can wait outside. We'll be five minutes at the most. Yongguk needs to think for himself like a big boy now."

He doesn't like the mother hen act, doesn't like the sight of the other boy constantly hovering around Yongguk - but mostly he just doesn't like to be listened in on. There's not much to do about it, other than send the third wheel away.

He fixes his sight on the first boy again.

"Are you capable of such an arduous task? Or do you need big brother here to help you?"

Even Mary. 

Ever since she could remember, helping people was one of the main goals in her life. This was why becoming a surgeon was so important to her; she could literally save a someone. Using this, Mary pushed herself to become one of the top students in her class at Seoul National University. Sacrificing sleep, bearing criticism, and competing with her classmates would all be worth it once she got her degree. 

Too bad it never happened. Blame her professors for trespassing the line between professor-and-student. Blame her for refusing to ever face them in a classroom environment again. Either way, she had dropped out and was now ‘Bloody Mary,’ the extreme body modification surgeon to the hidden body modification community. Mary was still helping humanity in a way. She was guiding humanity’s mistakes towards bodily perfection by fixing and adding onto their features to make her patients feel “complete”.

While she had built a name for herself as a body modification surgeon, her name began spreading to the underground world. Mary was known as ‘Bloody Mary,’ the surgeon with a penchant to torture and mutilate her victims before killing them for a price. During her off-time and if the price was right, she was available for patch-up work. It didn’t matter if she was helping someone’s rival, in the name of humanity (and money), she’d help anyone who came to her. 

Coming to Mary was a challenge in itself. It was an elaborate process comprised of many middlemen, since she didn’t want to anonymity to be revealed so easily. One wrong move or word and a person was forever barred from meeting her. Which was why she was surprised when the boss had called her earlier in the week to inform that her newest patient a wanted a meeting as soon as possible. No one was able to demand that unless he or she was a powerful person.

So here she was, walking around in her apartment dressed in black slacks with a matching blazer single-buttoned over a red blouse. Her straightened hair fell onto her shoulders while her bangs rested just right above her eyebrows. The slight paleness in her skin was contrasted by the red lipstick on her brims. Mary had just made another round in her living room area when she heard three consecutive knocks on her door and looked up at her clock. Whoever it who, he or she was very prompt on time. Perfect. 

He steps inside without hesitation and tries not to make his surveying of the space too conspicuous. Acting like a tourist would be silly, as he may or may not be returning. Still, it's in his nature to catalog everything in the back of his head. Placement of the doors, the windows, the chairs, things to use as weapons in case things turn sour - the whole shebang.

Would it be disrespectful to keep his shoes on? He supposes it might be, but it's more professional this way, and one never knows when they're going to have to make a quick exit. No time to stop and put his shoes back on. Besides, he knows for a fact that they're clean. He strides on in to the living room, takes a seat in the furthest chair, bypassing the couch though it looks comfortable. He doesn't feel so small in an armchair, is more able to keep up a certain air of importance.

Everything is tidy - eerily so. Numerous books on numerous shelves, appearing to be sorted by subject, title, and author very meticulously. No stains on the carpet, no dirt to be seen. Not one spec of dust. At least the tools will be sterile. A clinical environment for a clinical job, he supposes. Body modification surgeries are just as likely (or more likely, sometimes) to foster infection. He crosses one leg over the other and turns his attention to the owner of this abode.

"Nice to meet you." Polite, always polite, first and foremost. "You don't know much about me other than my ailment and that I have enough influence to have acquired a meeting with you, and I imagine it may make it hard to trust me. I apologize for the precautions, but I would prefer to keep myself as anonymous as possible until I make my decision."

He rests his hands in his lap and has to push to refrain from gesturing for her to sit, as well. He is a guest, after all.

There’s alcohol clinging in the air, makes his head a little light, the laughter falling past his lips a little too easily. Junmyeon throws in a couple of orange coloured chips, mostly because he likes the colour (and he finds it amusing to see the poker face on his opponents falter so easily) and watches with more delight as the man he thought would win slam the cards down with a grunt and storm off. That didn’t settle well in Junmyeon’s stomach, and he makes sure to note down the man’s name at the back of his mind.

Junmyeon would have forgotten why he’s there if it weren’t for the man’s voice dragging him back to earth in order to fulfil his purpose. He has met Jongup before, back when he was a little too young to get to jail and when he had introduced themselves with another name. He has seen the potential this King, or Angel—he doesn’t know why he can’t settle with an alias as simple as Remus the Butcher or something—has and he’s not leaving until he gets what he wants. And Junmyeon always gets what he wants… most of the time anyway.

“Aw come on Uppie,” Junmyeon smirks, picks up his cards, and throws in another black coloured chip, he doesn’t really know (or care) how much they’re worth. “I promise I won’t kick you or point a gun in your face again! This time it’ll be fun!” The blond tries to convince the man, like a child begging for a toy in the children’s aisle, and when it looks like he won’t be getting the answer he wants any time soon, he turns around to face the male with the grin contorting his face further.

His head angles up so he can stare at the ceiling, watch the dust motes float around through the beam of light coming from the single bulb hanging over the center of the table. A true cliche of a room, but that's one of the things Jongup likes about it. Cheaply kept, and about as movie-esque as anyone would expect. There's even a mirror on the wall so the players with their backs to the door can see if anyone comes in.

"Sure you won't. I trust you," he says. It's hard to tell if he's being serious or not half the time, but he prefers it that way. He leans forward again, reaches around his companion, and swipes a brown chip from the table in front of him. Rolls it around in his fingers as he sits back and considers.

"Not my gang," he corrects, "Not even a gang. I just run the show, Myeonnie." Sweet venom poisons his tone and he wishes he had the vernacular to call this man something a little less childish and a little more scathing. "I gave you the cash for your failed coup is what happened."

He'd rather not remember anything else.

"Give me something else to work with and I'll start considering."

He wonders if now would be a good time to start smoking. His nerves are nearly fried, dealing with people these days. And there's just something about Junmyeon that grates on them like nobody else - he's insufferable. And he's hiding something. Jongup doesn't like secrets that aren't his own.

Ceramic settles between his index and middle finger and he just looks at it for a little while, picks out a small crack on the side. He doubts anyone has used it so far so it's a mystery as to how it came to be broken. The door clicks open again and the man that left a minute ago is entering the room quietly. Jongup's eyes are locked on the reflection of it in the mirror now.