***UNEDITED***

After much thought, I have come to the conclusion that life resembles a Rubik's Cube. You would spend an infinite amount of time lining up the colors, and if you don't have the talent, it could take forever, if not never, for the pieces to fit together.

Unfortunately, I didn't possess that kind of talent. So, whenever I inspected the cube to see if I'd finally made the last piece, I'd find that there was a sore, bright orange stuck between the blue, the green, or the damn white.

Or Jeon fucking Jungkook in the middle of the Mins' mess.

He didn't fit anywhere in the puzzle. He had no place in the picture, or maybe I was just too narrow-sighted to care about where his place was. Even now, with his file on my poker table, read and reviewed multiple times, I still failed to find where he could fit into the overall picture.

I downed my single malt in one go and poured myself another glass while I played with the deck of cards in front of me. I sucked at Rubik's cubes, but I was more than good at cards. In fact, I was so good at cards, no matter the game, that I found myself at an age that wouldn't possibly allow you to enter a casino, forced by men who were not endowed with the same talent to play and win games that were not allowed by law in a town that did not tolerate gambling. I didn't gain much from these games—just enough to buy myself some ramen and give the rest to the landlord.

I was just a kid when I started playing with my third foster father. Barely ten. He was a single man in his late forties. A society outcast who had found a loophole in the system to turn a profit. The bet was simple and affordable for both of us. Whoever won would do no housework for a week. I really hated doing the housework. The apartment was the kind of dirty that you didn't notice the garbage around, but you sure smelled it. Mr. Song cleaned just enough to convince the system that he could fulfill his duties as a foster parent and provide a decent transitional place for the kids. But if the system was truly concerned about the welfare of the children they placed in his care, they would have seen the cockroaches that infested the place. If they had looked a little closer, they would have seen the amount of trash he had hidden in the cupboard under the sink. If the children had really been more important than a signature on a piece of paper used to cross another child off the list, they would have seen the torn cigarettes whose tobacco had been used to roll a blunt.

Too bad they didn't care. Too bad I no longer cared which hands I was entrusted into, either.

After too many losses, the place became sparkly. A few more losses and I became Cinderella in Mr. Song's house— minus the prince and her plethora of fucked-up relatives, because simply put, I had no relative to run home about. I hated it despite the positive outcome it brought, namely the disgusting smell that no longer lingered around the apartment and the cockroaches that went in search of somewhere else that could provide the right thriving atmosphere. I hated it because a ten-year-old kid should fucking play soccer or whatever it is kids play. I sure didn't know what games were trendy because I never played anything until I played cards, that is. So I practiced. Very seriously. The goal in my mind was pretty clear: I wanted to see Mr. Song do the chores for once — at least once in my life. I promised if I won, I would watch TV while he cleaned, just to spite him.

He did. Almost every day since I started winning every game we played. And it took me less than two months to regret having realized that dream because he spread the word pretty quickly, much like a rampant virus, and just a few weeks after the wind carried the news of the prodigy poker boy, knocking hands called at our doorstep. Every day came a different man. Somehow they all looked the same. Old, ugly and with a belly that could house a family of four. They didn't throw a single word my way until we reached the green-painted door. It was a house. A traditional hanok. No neon signs with fancy names or anything of the sort. And they all had the same tactic: as soon as we reached the door, they reminded me that if I lost even a penny of their hard-earned money, I would pay with my life.

Behind the green door was something very far from a house. There were tables, booze and cards — so many cards of all kinds. So I did as I was told. I played the only game I was allowed to play — cards. And I won every fucking time. Back then, I gave him the whole amount he had agreed with the customers, without commission. Yes, that was the deal. I doubled their money, won their games, and they paid Mr. Song a handsome fee. A commission, if you get my drift. When I left his house at the age of fifteen, I started using the money to survive.

Yes, I continued the business for no other reason than it being the only business I knew and was good at. And let's face it, I was deep on the wrong side when I left his house. It wasn't like there was a path to redemption anyway. Plus, I had to earn money, because it may sound unbelievable, but the sky didn't rain cash, and I was a minor. Nobody would give a job to a minor. And those who did exploited me even more than the gamblers. Yeah, that's the life of an orphan for you.

Back then, I didn't think that I would regret that little bet and the challenging spirit over some mere house chores again with renewed spite. When I walked out of Mr. Song's house and decided it wasn't oh-so bad to keep gambling for people, I didn't think I'd find out just how bad it was. Back then, I didn't realize that this stupid and naive decision would stick with me, that it would become my reputation, another reflection of my face, the image people see when they look at me. Back then, I didn't think I would be weighed based on that mere means of survival. Oh, I didn't think about a lot of things back then. Such a shame! But five years later was more than enough to shatter my beliefs and prove me wrong in a gray-painted cell I shared with five other inmates. Five years was enough to make me rue the day I grabbed a deck of cards and shuffled them to start that game for that stupid bet with Mr. Song. I should've stuck to cleaning instead. I wouldn't have gone to jail if I'd cleaned without complaining, and Lana wouldn't have died alone. Maybe she wouldn't have died at all, full stop.

Thank you, Life, for the lesson. Thank you, Min Yoongi, for the pressure.

But the longer I thought about it, the more I couldn't feel guilty. I had found myself a reason to win for those untalented bastards. I had found myself a girl who looked at me with enamored eyes and wished for a happy ending to my story when I told her about it. Oh God! Was she alluring. Mesmerizing. So beautiful and so delicate and so pure for a world so black. Lana was my salvation, my desperate smile and every erratic heartbeat. I couldn't let her feel ashamed or belittled by her peers when I showed up in torn shoes or old duds. She was from another level. A level that couldn't comprehend the struggle of mine. She never made it visible that we came from different levels, though. It was all the fault of my pride and the need to be enough for her, even though I knew I was far from it. I was never good enough. She deserved better than a man who didn't even know who were the people who had brought him into this life. And in my blind need to be accepted by her society —even through superficial acts like buying new clothes and brand name perfumes to cover up the food smell that clung to my body from the Chinese restaurant I worked at — I became greedy, until that greed was used against me to tear us apart.

So I delved into my thoughts and realized it was my fault that I couldn't see her again before death kissed away her breaths. And I did the math again and came to terms with the fact that it was all his fault.

Fucking Min Yoongi's fault.

It was all in the past now. So bad for Yoongi, I didn't believe the past was better forgotten. I believe the past was the foundation for the present and the pillars of the future. After all, the past he made me live had taken so much more from me than two years in prison. It had taken away the only aspect of love that life had given me. He had killed me. Homicide was a bigger offense than playing illegal card games. Homicide was punishable by death.

I let the ace of spades roll between my fingers as I reviewed Jungkook's file again. Now, I was really bad at literature and everything art, but I was sure that what my eyes were reading was a plot twist. I picked up my phone and dialed Chul's number, and the man couldn't pick up any faster.

"How are they related if her name is Chen and his is Jeon?" I dispensed with the futile pleasantries and got straight to the point. Chul never minded my lack of greetings. He was a man of few words himself.

"Her adoptive father's surname," he offered, matter of factly. "Jeon Jung-woo had her out of wedlock. When her mother brought her to his door, he handed her enough cash to silence her and send her on her merry way. Words have it that he threatened her with her criminal record for prostitution. She got scared and, poof disappeared from his way."

I have never regretted bringing Jeon Jung-woo's dirty deeds to light. After all, together with Min Yoongi, he played a big part in getting me imprisoned. But now that I knew what he had done to his own blood, I was set to punish him with more than a tarnished reputation.

"I see," I voiced, thoughts still reeling about how I was supposed to use this information when the right time came. "Does he know? I mean, is Jungkook aware that Inaya Chen is his sister?"

"He doesn't know yet. He's just trying to help his friend. Yoongi and Jungkook have a solid friendship."

"I will sever it." I informed, "But I want this information to be kept under wraps and far away from everyone. Especially from her."

"On your instructions, Jeon Jungkook is barred from the bar due to conflict of interest. Don't worry, boss. I made sure he gets a six-month probation until the bar evaluation is due."

"Well done. Check your bank account and take a few days off. I'll personally keep an eye on her."

"Boss," Chul added, "I have one final update. Something you can pick up from. Miss Inaya Chen is currently at the Insire Advertising Training Academy. When Park Jimin received her profile, he immediately requested a demonstration of her skills. It seems he recognized her from that night at the club and put two and two together."

The sly bastard.

Jimin, despite his libertine tendencies, wasn't a predator for the fun of it. He would only indulge if it was with mutual benefit and pre-established consent. Now, the fact that he was getting slightly uncomfortable by his curiosity didn't mean he was driven by some kind of love at first sight. It meant that he was getting onto me. He had his doubts that night at the club when I sent my joker card home no more than an hour after her shift started. Seokjin had scolded me enough for my lack of discretion, but I wasn't worried about what could be inferred from our interaction. But if he had picked up interest on top of curiosity, I couldn't find a fuck in the palm of my hand to give. On the contrary, he would help me and add another stain to destroy Yoongi's pride for good.

Ouch! Infidelity is the most painful torture you can inflict on a man. Especially when the other parties involved are on a higher level. It inflicts an inferiority complex, which in turn results in a furiousness that leads to blindness. It leads to violence when nurtured.

I absolutely didn't mind that. In fact, I wanted him to lose it. To do irreparable damage that only I could repair. Let him do my work for me, and I'll thank him sometime later if I have the time to spare.

I ended the call and spread the deck of cards across the green oval table. Some token chips were stacked at the far left, so once I was satisfied with how the cards lay, I stood up and slid the token chips over to where the cards were. 'All in,' I murmured with a smile that had been appearing more and more often on my face lately.

Before I moved away from the table and collected my vest, which was hanging over a stool, I picked up a single chip, which I tossed into my pocket after examining it carefully. It was my bargain, I decided. My bet.

I took the elevator to descend from the basement, where my in-house casino was located, to the underground parking garage. As I revved the engine of my car, my destination was clear. It took me twenty-five minutes to reach Insire Advertising. The building was a one-story structure surrounded by huge glass walls that provided an unobstructed view of the training rooms. The other rooms did not attract my attention. They were empty and the lights were still on just to emphasize the design of the facility. In one room, however, sat Jimin, Miss Rossi, the trainer, and Inaya Chen. She stood in the middle wearing a pair of hideous sweatpants pulled up to her mid-calf and a pair of high stilettos. Jimin was sitting comfortably on a recliner, studying the stress emanating from my little joker card that I could detect from behind the windshield of my car by how evident it was. They exchanged words I couldn't hear, and when Jimin threw his head back and burst out laughing, I confirmed his intentions and corrected some I'd guessed on the way over. He wasn't trying to spite me. He was genuinely interested. I relaxed in my seat, mirroring his posture, lighting a cigarette and watching the glint in his eye with amusement.

Do your worst, Jimin. Shatter her existence and clear the way for me to intervene.

I watched as he asked her to catwalk several times. She failed every time. She was so stiff, like an unyielding life, but she had the grit. It oozed from every pore and made her eyes sparkle in a way I didn't know was possible. He gave Ms. Rossi a few instructions, and she disappeared with Inaya for a few minutes before returning, walking behind a woman with long, delicate legs bare to the viewers. A round ass with just enough flesh to complement the black Versace swimsuit she wore. A strapless bra with a gold chain attached that coiled around her like a snake — both figuratively and literally. That Victoria's secret lost angel was no one else but Inaya Chen.

Jimin stiffened, and I found myself sporting a genuine grin at his lack of self-control when faced with temptation. He straightened his back, and I saw it glowing and burning like the sun in mid-July. I saw lust. I saw desire. I saw hunger. And fuck! My grin grew wider.

Take away everything, Jimin, all of it. I want it all gone, for I want to build it up to my own liking.

I revved the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, fully content with the help I was receiving without even asking for it. My hand curled around the pendant of my necklace, and I muttered a 'very soon, baby,' with a smile of success and honesty of a kept promise.

My phone buzzed with an incoming call from Seokjin, and as I grabbed it, I pondered about letting the call go straight to voicemail. I was in a good mood. I didn't want to spoil it with work-related issues this late at night. I, however, decided to be the bigger person and handle whatever shit that had gone down for him to call this late.

"What is it now? If it is about some stupid stunt an artist is pulling, don't bother to report it. Deal with it on your own."

"It's not that." The seriousness in his voice made me grip the steering wheel with increased strength. Seokjin was a man of big patience and calmness that didn't break even in the face of the worst scenarios. That he called at past eleven in the evening and spoke with a tone reserved for the shit that couldn't be cleaned, even if we used bleach, was bad news. "It's about Lana."

My heartbeat picked up a pace that wasn't anticipated when I left Insire a step closer to my goal as soon as her name was voiced. I looked at the rearview mirror, checked the traffic, then I quickly looked at the side mirrors to ensure I could pull to the emergency lane and bring the car to a stop. The utmost focus was needed when Lana was the topic. I couldn't risk driving carelessly and putting other people's lives at risk. "What about her?"

"I just received an intel from a friend who owed me a favor. Her death report was amended. Lana had given birth one week before she died."

what?

I didn't know when my breath ceased, but I was sure I wasn't inhaling any oxygen anymore, and whatever I had inhaled before I heard the news remained trapped in my lungs. The hand that held the phone trembled, threatening to drop it somewhere beneath the seat. The hand over the steering wheel fared no better. In fact, my whole body trembled. Hot and cold shivers assaulted my body, and a sickness I hadn't felt since the pictures of Lana's bruised body seized every part of my guts with such force that it felt like death.

Lana had been pregnant. There was a child.

My child.

Don't forget to vote and comment
xo