"Get back here you bastard!"

The man they were chasing breathes hard as he dashes away. Down alleyways, making twists and turns, he tries his best to lose them. He smirks, despite the butterflies. He's swift, fit, and nimble. The men chasing him are older, smokers for decades.

They'll never catch him.

He runs into a dead end. Without missing a beat, he hops onto the dumpster, scaling the concrete wall to the next alley over, before the men chasing him even have a chance to turn the corner.

"Dumbasses," He sticks out his tongue, middle fingers going up as he walks backwards from the wall. The boy's dark bangs fall over his eyes, though not impairing his eyesight. His clothes were dark and dirty, he fit right into the shadows.

His lip was bleeding, so he just wiped it with his sleeve. He didn't care about a little blood, he didn't care about anything. Life was a shit show with no purpose. What if he got something into the cut and it got infected? What if it killed him?

So be it. He couldn't give a shit.

Running was typical for the man. He was more than used to it. For months and months he's been running. It wasn't the hardest thing he's dealt with. If anything, it was the easiest thing life has had to offer him in a long time.

All over the country he's gone, trying to get away. But they always find him. And they always try to catch him. Quite honestly, he's astonished by their ability to locate him every single time. It's not easy by a long shot. In fact, it was extremely difficult...but at least he was well traveled.

He turns around, and jumps in surprise, his heart skipping a beat.

Right in front of him, was a man, one who didn't belong in his part of town in the least bit. He was clean cut, with gelled hair and a tailored suit. He never sees men like this in the places he visits. When he occasionally does, they look at him with pure condescension.

But this broad-shouldered man smiled softly at him. It weirded the boy out, and it showed visibly on his face.

The man stares right at him.

"The fuck do you want?" The boy curls his lip in almost a growl.

The clean-cut man maintained the calm smile, unphased by his reaction. "Would you like to play a game?"

He looks at him, disgusted. "What the fuck do you take me for, pervert? I'm not that kind of person."

"I think you're confused," His voice is gentle and authoritative. He sets his briefcase down on a nearby broken table that had been thrown out. He opens it, and the other's eyes go wide.

That was a lot of money.

He pulls out one of the two folded papers. "I want you to play ddakji with me," He pulls up the other one. "If you win, I'll pay you 100,000 won. If I win, you have to pay me."

He narrows his eyes. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," He assures. "All you have to do is play."

The boy hesitates for a second before finally nodding. What was there to lose? He needed the money. "Fine. I'll play. But if you try to pull something-"

"I won't," The man chuckles. He's extremely charismatic. The boy with the bleeding lip hates people like this. They always have some shit up their sleeve. "Pick. Red or blue?"

"...Blue," He continues to look at him warily as he sets up.

"Alright," The man in the suit gestures for him to go first.

So he does, focusing in on the red square on the ground in front of him. He slams the paper down, hoping to flip the one on the floor, but to no avail. His heart drops to his stomach, his loud mouth now silenced.

The man flips his paper with ease, and the dark-haired boy's shoulders droop. What the fuck was he gonna do?

"Well, rules are rules," His tone of voice never changes. "I'm expecting my 100,000 won."

More silence.

"Oh?" He continues. "You don't have 100,000 won to give I assume?"

He spits off to the side, defensive. "And if I don't?"

"That's okay I guess," The man shrugs his wide shoulders. "You could pay with your body instead."

He looks at him, appalled. "I knew you were a pervert! You fucking-"

Slap.

He rubs his face where the suited man hit. "What the fuck!?"

"You can play again if you like," He offers. "But every time you lose, I get to slap you. Is it worth it? Getting slapped if it meant you could win 100,000 won in the next round?"

He scoffs. "I don't need your money," He turns around. "Fuck off."

He's stopped in his tracks by a, "Oh I think you do, Park Jimin."

Jimin turns back around. "...What?"

"Park Jimin, 23, 30 million won in debt, technically," The man lists. "Cheated a bunch of loan sharks out of their money and are now on the run from them. You were just running from them moments ago, hm? Are you hiding the cash well?"

"Who the fuck are you!?" He yells. "That's it, another round! I'm gonna lick you in one round this time."

"Oh? Using terms from the 1800s are we?" The man chuckles. "Well, I assumed you were well-read."

Jimin picks up the paper, throwing it on the ground again. Nothing.

The suited man throws and wins again.

Another slap.

And one, after the next, after the next. He continues losing, but that only fuels his anger, and his determination. His face in burning after a few minutes, but he persists.

Then, finally, when Jimin slams the blue into the red, it flips over.

His eye go wide. "Holy shit!" He stares at the man. "I did it! I did it, so give my fucking money. I swear, if you-"

He shakes Jimin's hand. The boy can feel crumpled up money in between their palms. "It's all yours," He smiles softly. "But before you go, I'd like to give you one more thing."

"...What?" Jimin stuffs the money into his pocket, still wary of this man.

He pulls out a business card. It was simple, tan, with three shapes on the front; a circle, a triangle, and a square. He hands it to Jimin, who flips it over in between his fingers. An eight-digit phone number was on the back.

"I see passion in your eyes, you have a fighting spirit," He compliments. "You're just the type of person who we believe would be perfect for this. Call the number, and you can play some more games to win even more money."

Jimin stares at the card. "Is there going to be more slapping?" He knew his face was going to be red, a multitude of blood vessels broken by this man's swift hand.

He chuckles once again. "I assure you, you won't get slapped by me ever again Jimin. Just...think about it. It could be worth your while."

The man picks up the ddakji papers, puts them in his briefcase, and walks away. Leaving Jimin alone.

He paces back and forth a few steps, finally letting himself react to the pain. Because damn that shit hurt. Right now...well, now that the adrenaline has worn off, he doesn't know why he persisted. Was he truly that desperate?

He guesses he has that answer now.

"Fuck," He shuffles around in his pockets and bag for his phone. It's a flip phone, cracked, with glitching coming from the tiny screen. He punches in the eight numbers, putting the phone up to his ear.

It rings for a few minutes, before a deep voice under a filter says, "Hello?"

"I was given your card," Jimin stares at the ground as he speaks.

"Would you like to participate in the game?" The voice asks. "If so, please state your name and birthdate."

"Park Jimin," He answers. "October 13th 2000."