The Croupier

It was, in fact, not just an ordinary chip.

Eighteen months ago, Inaya had left without a word. Nothing.
But a week after her departure—while I was rotting in the semblance of an existence I'd cobbled together, functioning just enough to bury Chul in legal concrete and drink myself blind—a letter arrived. No return address. A ghost in my mailbox.

I tore the envelope. A single slip of paper fluttered out.

Two words, typed in a cold, intentional font:

We're done.

My breath vanished. Something vital shut down inside my chest. And then I felt it, sliding into my palm from the torn envelope: a weight, cool and solid.

The chip.

The black chip with the gilt-edged star—the Joker—she had taken from my casino that night. The one piece of my chaotic world she had chosen to claim, and was now choosing to return.

In that moment, I didn't just read her message. I became it. A functioning skeleton. A man whose game was declared over by the only player who ever mattered.

And like every sore loser, I decided no one would win.
Especially not Yoongi.

The bastard, however, had such luck I wondered where it came from.

See, I was about to end him in that fire. Matter of fact, I wasn't really against the idea of ending us both. After all, it all started with the two of us. It was only logical it ended with the two of us.

But logic, it turns out, has a weak heart. And Yoongi's luck that night wore a uniform.

A neighbor, alerted by the shouting or the smell, had called the police. The first cruiser arrived just as the garden ignited. Not to save him, but to save the property value of the street. I saw the blue lights slice through the smoke, and in that moment, I didn't see an escape. I saw a transaction. A public arrest. A trial. More headlines. More noise. And her, somewhere in the world, seeing my face next to the word arsonist.

I didn't run. I stood there in the halo of my own inferno and waited for them. It felt like the only honest thing I'd done in years.

I wanted her to see me honest, even if it was only through a newspaper.

I'd use a stiff drink right about now if I weren't off alcohol due to the medications Doctor Lee had prescribed. Guess I'd make do with this iced tea and the view in front of me.

I was in my car, as per the ritual I'd adopted, facing the billboard I bribed every fucker in City Hall to keep standing, though the supermodel on it was no longer in the business of stardom.
It was enough for me, though—seeing her splendid smile I'd wiped off with my intrusion in her life. An icon in an Elie Saab black dress, the same she'd worn as she stood on the bridge of the Han.

Was the view enough to take Yoongi's pathetic screams out of my head? Debatable. Maybe because I wanted to relish his fear. Maybe because I wished I had the scent of his burned skin to accompany the screams.

But the fucker didn't roast. Seokjin arrived with the police.

Seokjin, the great actor he was not (a genuine loss to cinema), spun a story on the spot: I was the heroic friend, there to save my drugged, unstable companion from his own despair. The police, faced with a confused, bleeding Yoongi and a calm, concerned Seokjin, bought it.

Yoongi was carted off to a psych ward, then conveniently transferred to a private rehab. A narrative was born.

You might wonder why he'd go along with the lie. The answer is simple. Seokjin had leverage.

Not hostages—that's a crude term. We simply facilitated a sudden, urgent family trip to the States for his parents. His father needed specialized cancer treatment, you see. I'm funding it. It's the least I could do for the man whose life I... saved.

I lit a cigarette, against my intention to quit the nasty habit. Staring at the sky through the windshield of my car, letting the smoke out of my nose, I was reminded of the days I used to stalk Inaya. When I wasn't a part of her life. When she still had a will I'd taken.
By extension, that reminded me of what I'd done a month after the arson. After she'd left. After the letter came in.

I went to the police, confessed, turned myself in, and realized my wish to be honest—even if she was no longer there to witness said honesty.

Even now, whenever I try—and fail—to fall asleep in my bed, I can still feel the ghost of the banker digging into my ribs.

I'd never slept better.

Too bad I'd only spent a month in the can before I was released on bail and community service.

My pictures from the trial had taken over the internet, the newspapers, every media outlet there is. Yet Inaya never reached out.

Maybe she didn't see it. Maybe she didn't like what she saw.

Or maybe we were just done.

To accept that reality, I sought Doctor Lee.

After today's session, I wasn't really sure I'd done the right thing.

Not everything could be repaired. Not every loss could be accepted.

And I? I was broken from the very beginning. Nothing to blame Inaya for.

Blame's on Yoongi, though.
As I stretched in my driver's seat, I contemplated the blame on me.

That made me realize that maybe Doctor Lee was right. I'd healed enough to start owning my wrongdoings, but not enough to change them—because I grabbed my phone, dialed the number of the guy I'd planted in rehab with Yoongi, and listened as the ringing went on and on.

"Yes?" came his voice.

"My man," I greeted cheerfully. "How did you find my present?"

"A nice ribbon would've been an appreciated touch," he offered, voice lazy. "Other than that, thank you."

I scoffed. Of course he'd be grateful. I'd just wired him fifty grand.

"Now you know what you have to do," I reminded him. "Let his sponsor find the merchandise in a believable spot."

"Hm," came his lazy baritone. "Remind me again—why do you wanna prolong his stay in here so badly?"

I mulled the answer in my head, eyes focused on my long-gone Star. "Pity," I said. "He's got no place to come back to. No one to come back to. Anyway, take care."

I hung up, still testing the words I'd spat into the world. They tasted like truth. They were also seasoned with a sprinkle of a vow well kept.

I'd promised I'd end Yoongi if he touched a hair on Inaya's head. I was nothing if not a man of my word.
The other reason I'd just bought Yoongi another six months in rehab was now waiting for me to pick him up from school.

Ethan. My son.

He was struggling to accept me—his real father—because Yoongi had kept him in the dark his entire life. Now Ethan kept asking for Dad's version of the truth. As if that man had ever known what truth looked like.

So I was buying time. I was removing the other version. While Yoongi was in rehab "getting help," his voice went silent in my son's head. And maybe, in that silence, Ethan would finally hear mine.

I pulled out of the parking lot, blending into traffic. It was three in the afternoon. Ethan's math class would be over in about an hour. I had enough time to meet the school principal and ask how my son was doing these days.

It wasn't easy breaking the news to him. Actually, scratch that. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't even planned. When he came back from the States, right after I came out of prison, I naturally brought him to my house. I'd explained that some bad shit happened to Yoongi and he had to leave for an extended period of time—with Inaya. It was a lie, but even knowing that, the concept of Inaya being with Yoongi left a putrid taste in my mouth.

Ethan was doing fine with me, though. We'd established a routine. Game evenings. Pizza nights. I'd take him to school and pick him up when his classes were over. After all, I was unemployed. The board couldn't have an arsonist as their chairman.

But fuck work. Who wanted to be tied to meetings when I had ten years to catch up with my son?

It was all going smoothly until Seokjin decided it was wise to remind me that Ethan had the right to know the truth—without considering that said child was in my house and could very much hear our heated discussion.

Seokjin won two nice shiners for that.

"Is—what he's talking about, bossman?" Ethan had asked, voice shaken, face pale. "Is what I heard true?"

I still remember how the earth spun beneath my feet. How my breath ceased. I'd only ever been scared twice in my life—when Inaya was stabbed, and when my son ran out of the house the moment I slowly nodded, confirming what he'd heard was indeed true.

I spent the whole night looking for him, sweeping the streets like a madman. I found him standing in front of the Han River. I decided right then and there that fate had a mean streak.

I didn't know whether to love the Han for always welcoming the people I'd lost, or hate it. To this day, I still go there every night, hoping to come out with an answer.

Hoping I'd find her standing there too, yet another time.

♣️♦️♠️

"I told you I can take the bus," Ethan chided, tossing his backpack into the back seat before dropping into the passenger seat. He made his point clear by slamming both doors.

"Man," I sighed. "What am I supposed to do at home? Count ducks?"

"Dunno." He shrugged, then turned to spare me a look. "Weave in another lie, maybe?"

I ground my molars, choosing to swallow the correction I wanted to hurl back at him. I'd never lied—not to him. Fake Daddy Dearest did.

"What are we eating today?" I changed the subject. "And before you say pizza, the answer is no. I'm planning to cut off carbs."

A scoff was all he offered. The drive fell silent—as did all of our trips. But this time, the quiet annoyed me. I was done with this endless punishment.

"Goddamn it," I snapped. "Bring it on, man. What's your problem, huh?"

"You are!" he shot back. I slammed on the brakes so hard I probably fucked up the engine. "You are my fucking problem, Taehyung."

"Language, son," I chided, breathing through my nose to keep what little composure I had left.

"Oh, give me a break," he scoffed, slamming the dashboard. "Is it now you're reminded you have a son? Eleven years later is a bit late, mister."

"I didn't leave, Ethan!" I shouted, throwing parental decorum straight out the window. "You want the truth, boy?" I shifted in my seat so I was facing his profile. Look at us. He couldn't even look at me. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

Silence. And God knows I was done with these stretched silences where people just... did whatever the fuck they did inside their heads.

Slowly, he turned to face me. His glare, paired with that smirk, was a mirror so clear I'd argue I'd never seen my reflection this exposed before.

"Try me," he whispered. Leaning forward, invading my space, fire blazing in his eyes. "I dare you, Taehyung."

I leaned back, dragging a palm over my mouth. That dare wasn't from a child—it was from a judge. And for the first time, I felt the gavel hovering.

"Your mother is Yoongi's sister," I said, staring at the traffic speeding past us while we stood still. It was ironic. We were idle, back at the point where everything began.

I heard the stretch of leather as Ethan shifted in his seat, painfully slow.

"Do you need more?" I asked quietly, "Or is that enough for today, son?"

"So, he's my—"

"Your uncle," I finished. "And I didn't leave, Ethan. He never told me you existed."

"Where's Mom, then?" His voice trembled.

Barbed wire cinched around my heart so tight I wanted to shatter the windshield with my bare hands just to breathe.

"She's dead."

I heard his gasp. I wanted to be deaf. 

But I was done being deaf. I'd been lied to—and I'd told lies of my own. I wouldn't let my son live that life.

I turned to him. His eyes—glossy pools of unshed tears—did exactly what I'd wanted to do to the windshield.

They shattered me.

I cradled his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the first hot tear that escaped. I rested my forehead against his. My son. My sweet, innocent boy—too young for this. But mine. And if I'd failed him eleven years ago, I'd burn myself alive before I failed him again.

"She died in an accident," I whispered—the lie a soft, necessary blanket over a truth made of razor blades. One day, I'd tell him. When his scars were stronger. But today, I had to tend to the open wound. "She loved you, Ethan. That much I know."

I pulled back just enough to see his face.

"I'm a fucked-up man, son." My voice was gravel, worn raw from swallowing truths like glass. I let my hands fall from his face but kept my eyes locked on his. "I was in prison when you were born. I didn't know your mom was pregnant."

I looked away for a second—at the indifferent flow of traffic—then back to him. "And I know... I know that's no excuse. Because when I got out..." I swallowed, the memory of those empty days burning like cyanide. "I drowned in grieving her. I didn't see past my own pain to look for you."

My hand tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white. "Ten years, Ethan. Ten years I lived in the dark, not knowing you existed." I turned back to him and let him see the raw fury in my chest—not at him, but at the stolen time.
"But when I found out? You better believe I raised hell to claim you back."

The leather groaned under my grip. "And I won't stop fighting. Not until I get you. Because in this miserable life of mine..." My voice cracked, the edge of a sob slicing through. "...you're the best reward I never thought God would bless me with."

I released the wheel, my hand hovering between us before gently settling on his shoulder. "So you can hate me," I whispered. "You can call me Taehyung for the rest of my life. You can scream at me every day for the next ten years. But I will never leave you. Look at me, Ethan."

I waited until his tear-filled eyes met mine.

"Never. Ever. Son."

I was so consumed by the tears soaking his face that I didn't realize I was crying too—until he wiped his face with his shirt and tossed the tissue box my way.

"Men don't cry," he muttered, staring out the window.

I chuckled, revved the engine, and dragged a hand over my face.

"They do, son. For the right reason. For the right person."

♣️♦️♠️

"I thought you said you were cutting off carbs, Taehyung." Ethan slumped on the couch across from me, munching on a slice of pizza.

"Diets start Monday, usually," I offered dismissively. We weren't magically son and dad. But I could sense he'd found a semblance of peace he was willing to settle in for the moment.

"Yeah, you do that. Leave today's task for tomorrow. How wise of you."

"I don't see you minding your waistline either, and you have a competition in two weeks," I threw back. The TV was on—a game I had no interest in watching, but Ethan was a huge fan of the Seattle Kraken. "Is this diet approved by your coach?"

"I'm young, old man. I need food to grow tall," he shrugged.

"Wait a sec." I put my slice of pizza back into its box, leaning back into the couch. "Did you just call me old?"

"And unemployed." He grabbed the remote control, raising the volume, signaling our semi-friendly banter had come to an end.

I shook my head, chuckling. This boy could befriend Seokjin. Actually, I'd like to see him beating the man at his own craft.

I stood up, grabbed my jacket that was thrown over a barstool, and my car keys.

"Leaving again for your night stroll?" Ethan asked, still immersed in the game he was watching.

"Clean up after yourself, boy. We don't want to call pest control just because you slept in front of the TV. Plus, housekeeping called our house a bachelor pad. It hurt my heart."

"I don't see no cap," he shrugged.

As I walked to the door, I took another glance at my son.

"Ethan," I called.

"Yeah?"

"You're loved, son."

I opened the door, stepping into the cold night, not expecting an answer, when I heard something I believed I wasn't supposed to hear. It was hushed.

"You too."

Two words. So quiet they were almost stolen by the distance. But I heard them. They didn't fix a damn thing. They didn't change the past or promise the future.

But for the first time in eighteen months, the Han River didn't feel like the only place my ghosts could breathe.

For the first time, I was going to the Han River with a different type of hope.

♣️♦️♠️

The entire drive to my usual spot in front of the Han, I replayed the words my son had said.
I parked my car, pulled out my pack of Marlboro Reds, and strolled to the edge of the bank.

You too.

The smile on my face didn't feel tugging. It felt relaxing on my jaw. Light—almost like the smile of the boy who'd fallen for the girl out of his reach.

I liked it. Both smiles, actually.

I looked around me, realizing that no sound-minded soul was stupid enough to come here in the frigid cold of December.

It was better this way. I could dry-swallow my psychotic meds without being judged. Not that I cared—but still. Cosplaying as the crazy at the Han wasn't a headline I wanted for myself.

You're seeking healing, Kim. Your son will thank you for that.

Doctor Lee's words echoed in my head. It was what she'd said when she figured out I was feeding my medicine to the toilet.

"To my son," I toasted as the pills went down my throat. I stretched my arms wide, breathing in the crisp air. "For you, Star."

She'd never know, I knew that—but I thought she deserved to know that I loved her enough to want to change myself for her.

If she'd given me the chance that night eighteen months ago, I would've told her that I kept her lineage secret to protect her. Granted, it was leverage in the beginning. But at some point in my plan, I knew that kind of truth would only ruin her for good. Jeon, unlike me, knew of her existence—but he'd chosen to discard her, toss her away with threats, just to protect his reputation.

Yeah, call me pretentious, but that kind of truth destroys any shred of self-love a person could have.

I propped my elbows on the barrier, expelling tar through my mouth in curated circles.

It was a full-moon night. Not that its light was needed to see Inaya's billboard from where I stood. I threw big bills around to have the best projectors illuminating it from four corners.

I watched the distant, glowing square of her face. The ghost of a smile still played on my lips—one for the boy in the warm house, one for the woman in the cold light.

"You came again."

The familiar voice iced the blood in my veins. The cigarette slipped from my fingers, a tiny orange comet swallowed by the black water raging below.

Slowly—in agonizing, frame-by-frame motion—I straightened up and turned. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. In that suspended second, I prayed with a desperation I hadn't felt since the night of the fire: Don't let this be a hallucination.

God. It wasn't.

"Star!" The name ripped out of me, part gasp, part plea.

She stood a few feet away, a silhouette against the city's distant glow. The wind off the river lifted strands of her hair. An homage to the painting I'd drawn of her in this exact spot—still hanging in my casino.

"Croupier."