# THE CAUSE !

M/n was, as described by many, 'perfect'.

Neighbors, friends, even just passerbys in their local street—Manager Kim has receieved multiple compliments about how well he had raised his son.

The first time it had happened was in a road towards their home, fresh out of the market having shopped for necessary goods.

M/n Kim was precisely 9 years old when it had happened, having always jumped at the opportunity to accompany his father anywhere. Despite visibly struggling, he had insisted to carry at least a few bags out of many. Eager to prove to his father that he could also be useful in running errands. Hoping to pose him a reason as to why he should bring him along.

Manager Kim simply sweated it despite finding his gesture incredibly endearing. It was nice to see his youngest child persevere despite it being in the small form of carrying grocery bags, though he really could just carry it all with no problem.

"Are you sure you're all right, M/n?" He asked in concern, brows knitted together as he looked at his young son who was puffing his cheeks out to gather whatever muscle he had on his young body.

"No biggie!" The young boy stubbornly huffed out, clearly knocked out of air.

"I can just carry the bags, you know? You don't have to struggle coming with me, you can always just stay home with your sister watching Sesame Street."

Even early on, his father has always told him countless of times he didn't have to do everything. He could just follow in his sister's footsteps, be a child, enjoy the things that comes with their age.

"No!" M/n exclaimed with conviction, stubbornly lifting his chin as he continues walking in nimble steps, acting like he wasn't swaying sideways from the weight.

Manager Kim could only sigh at his son, a small fond smile forming his lips as he glances sideways now and then to make sure M/n hasn't swerved off too far.

"Oh, aren't you a hardworking little boy?"

Manager Kim glanced over to see their neighbor, an aged woman with forming white hairs, cooing down at M/n who greeted her with a childish smile that indicated familiarity.

"Good afternoon," Manager Kim greeted the elderly woman with a polite smile.

The woman turns towards him, eyes crinkled with the typical warmth that comes with good age. "You have a lovely boy with you, Mr. Kim!" She informed eagerly, happy to see the new generation happily helping their parents out instead of being glued to television screens. "So hardworking, he'll surely be a fine young man one day. You must be proud!"

M/n peered past the bags of grocery that drowned him, eyes round and curious as they look up. Proud? He's heard that word a couple of times before, notably when Uncle Jincheong praises his daughter constantly or when his teacher awards the top student in their class with the highest marks.

He remembered their faces, the glee that was perfectly plastered on their features. He linked it with happiness. He wondered, has he ever made his father feel anything akin to that?

He wasn't a prodigious child in any way, he wasn't even the top of his class. He wasn't as athletic as Minji, a girl, was. He wasn't as charismatic as Taehoon, his childhood friend, is. Nor was he just naturally lovable as Dabin, Jincheol's daughter, proves to be. He was just incredibly stubborn and hardworking.

And even that wasn't anything special, just an eager young boy who wants to spend every waking hour with the only parental figure he has in his life.

With that said, he hasn't thought about emotions other than his own. It never dawned him before. The only looks he has recognized from his father's face was the aged look of exhaustion, exasperation, and the undertone of warmth every loving parent possesses.

Has he ever been the cause of his happiness? Has he ever, in his entire life, made him feel anything remote to pride?

That exact moment, M/n dawned it all.

As he stares up at his father, eyes round and wide in curiosity, he found what looks to be. . . Pride? His eyes no longer looked like they were looking down, his lips lifted by even the slightest, and several lines adorned the outer corner of his eyelids.

For once, he didn't look as physically exhausted as he usually did.

And M/n found to discover he liked that. His chest welled up in what felt to be contentment to see he has caused his father anything linked to happiness.

"Young boy, you should do well always to make your father proud!" The older lady had lightly joked, yet the innocent sparkle in M/n's young eyes were unmistakable as he nodded his head avidly.

M/n wasn't a natural academic achiever, in fact, he couldn't count the amount of times he had fallen into a staring contest with fractions. Hell, perhaps even Minji was more naturally gifted than him. She didn't care much about her grades and still got decent marks.

Sleepless nights tackling material in advance and studying diligently every lesson became a norm for him eventually, enough to render him the top student during his middle school from how drastically he climbed his way to the top—simply smiling and nodding when his entire class and even teachers began praising him for being 'smart'.

To fulfill every area, he joined the baseball team in hopes of improving his athleticism. When he didn't make it to first string on his first try and was scolded for nearly hitting his teammate with a baseball bat—he spent his entire summer practicing under the scorching sun, determined to improve his throws and get handy with the bat.

It was draining of course, to know he wasn't naturally good in any of that and having to exert more effort than his peers ever could.

What made it worth it in the end was walking down that stage with a medal hung around his neck for his academic achievements and making a speech as the top student in his batch, watching as his father stands amongst the crowd beaming in glee in watching him succeed. Or even seeing him by the bleachers wearing his team baseball hat, silently cheering as M/n brings home another title.

He saw the results and maintained it until it eventually became a lifestyle.

His dedication only intensified as years passed by, until all his commitment revolved around being pleasing.

Entering the same high school as his sister, officiated as the student council president despite being a newbie, claiming the top spot overall the school ranking, dominating the baseball club as captain—his achievements were a dream to most parents.

He was 'perfect' in every way, held in high regard.

He may have changed his entire social life from a mediocre child, but he didn't change anything much in the one area he most sought to improve.

Nothing he did to achieve those titles could change how his father still worked overtime and often came home tired or troubled.

It wasn't a household issue, M/n dealt with chores himself as Minji usually doesn't bat an eye at the sight of piling dishes or dusty floors. It was none of that so he concluded: it's a financial issue.

His father works to provide.

The one solution he could think of? A part-time job. But there was only so much time M/n could afford to land himself a convenient job during the day.

"Are you sure you can deliver these boxes in 5 minutes? It's kind of late and we took too much time making this order. . ."

And that's how he landed himself in the middle of the night.

A brown hat on his head, a familiar polo shirt of their store's logo, and brows dipped together in determination—M/n stood before the kitchen where the other workers prepared the food, looking like he was accepting a mission from a private organization.

"Yes!" He nodded profusely, eyes looking like stars resided in them. "In 5 minutes, they'll accept their order, that's the perfect time. The pizza will still be warm, the crust crispy and edible, the cheese still in melting texture—the bread perfectly soft in the inside."

The cook stared at him, brows raised.

"Woah, your dedication in this is truly admirable, part-timer!" He praised, genuinely impressed.

He's never heard someone speak so passionately about pizza before.

"Well, I'll trust you with this then. Sorry to bother you, I know it's past your shift already." The cook handed him the box, one hand holding the butt of the cardboard while the other held the straw tied securely around it. "I'll sneak you a generous tip for your hard work."

M/n's eyes lit up at this.

"Thank you! I'll make sure to deliver this quick then."

No one has ever told him that driving a bike with one hand while balancing a pizza box with the other felt like he was part of an acrobat.

The city was still very much alive in the night. The sound of cars beeping, the ongoing traffic in the main road, the buzzling neon lights on catchy buildings—it felt as though the city never sleeps.

M/n knew his way around more than he lets on, having grown to familiarize it and the ratty alleyways he often found too intimidating to enter. On this one particular occasion, however, he was left with no choice but to enter a route he would never find himself taking under any normal circumstances.

The wind felt strong and cold against his body, sending him chills despite already wearing a windbreaker in poor attempts of fighting the cold. Stray strands of hair stubbornly escaped the clasps of his helmet and his feet paddled as fast as it could to take him.

He was confident despite only gearing the handlebars with one hand. He was especially steady too, careful not too sway the toppings out of the pizza until it becomes a mushy mess.

What took him right off that fateful night was an uncalculated factor.

Taking yet another abrupt turn (quite expertly if he might add) he failed to see the figure that suddenly revealed itself from the shadows, looking like they were about to just cross another alley.

Eyes widening into comical rounds, he tried pulling the breaks—the direction swerving left and right in poor attempts of stabilizing itself. This was an unforeseen factor and there was only so much he could do with the speed he was going and the pizza he was so carefully trying to preserve. In last desperate attempts, he raised his one hand holding the bars and gestured frantically for the figure to move out of the way.

"Move!"

The figure glanced to their right and saw the incoming collision before getting hit right away—knocking M/n off his bike and onto the air (he kids you not) it felt like slow motion as he flipped up, the pizza floating momentarily out of his grasps before he immediately reached for it to secure it in the perfect angle of preservation.

And in a matter of seconds, he lands in a pile of discarded boxes with a thud that knocks the air out of him before the rest of the disaster commences itself.

His bike collides somewhere else in a gruesome thud before the stranger falls to the ground.

He couldn't see him clearly but he knows well enough that the figure must have been hurt from the impact alone, it was hard not to jump into that conclusion.

He takes a moment to recollect himself, tilting his helmet upright before M/n realized the direness of the situation.

His eyes snapped towards his victim before quickly pushing himself up, one hand still holding the pizza box he decided to eventually set on the ground after moments of ponder.

In a matter of seconds, he's by the stranger's side, eyes filled with utter concern as he frets over his figure.

"I'm so sorry!"

He did sound utterly apologetic.

One thing Park Jong Gun didn't anticipate to be a part of his night today would be getting run over a bicycle by a teenage delivery boy who seems to value the pizza more over his own life.

Looking up, he was met with a pair of frantic and worried eyes that stared at him, round and wide as the size of saucers. The sincerity was certainly present.

This was something he didn't expect to happen today after a round of his usual duties.

Despite loving the thrill of a fight, it could get tedious real fast when filled with unpleasant emotions. That was exactly what he felt after having to deal another gang's failure to comply the agreed monthly earnings.

He had initially been pissed, feeling the increasing absurd need to find a successor soon with intentions of replacing his current one.

And like a calling from some unknown deity, he collides with a bespectacled teenager driving one-handed in a speeding bicycle.

He's fast, Park Jong Gun noted in interest as he had watched the boy grab the pizza box mid-air to secure it. He didn't miss details. He saw how he valued that box over his own life, driving one handed just to ensure he positioned the box well. Such silly dedication that was directed in the wrong profession.

"Are you hurt?" The boy was sticking his face too close, the proximity allowing Gun to take a good look at his face.

Undeniably good-looking, matches a good-guy profile, probably a student working part-time in a fast food chain as a delivery boy.

Although he would usually brush this off as an inconvenience and be absolutely driven with a reason to bash people's faces, there was a small idea that echoed loudly in his head.

This could be something.

And so, he indulged into it. Amusing himself with the look of concern swirling all over the boy's eyes. Finding the situation convenient for what normally would pose to him as inconvenient—after all, he's ruined lives for something less than a ran-over incident.

"I'll. . . I'll take responsibility!"

Now that was what Gun wanted to hear.

"What type of responsibility?" He finally spoke up, dark eyes hidden behind tinted sunglasses. It would do him well to strengthen his resolve, "How do you plan to compensate?"

He could see the boy waver for a second before gathering his words right away, not missing a beat as he boldly exclaimed, "I'll pay for your medical bills!"

Scoffing, Gun knew not a penny was probably on him.

"We both know you're not in the best financial standing to be working a shift like this." He bluntly pointed out, watching as the boy shrinks into a flustered mess as he frantically searches for answers in his head.

Mannerisms alone, he could tell that the boy wasn't used to getting into trouble.  A morally light characteristic he inhibits.

"I'll do anything!"

No hesitation whatsoever.

Bold, passionate, and young.

This was easier than Gun imagined. And as easily, the boy practically thinks he owes him his life.

It'd serve him well to do something about it. This was already an opportunity presenting itself. It'll only be fair if he bets on it; to secure it.

In a swift movement of 'pulling himself upright', he purposely twists the arm he wasn't as dominant in. Ignoring the pain he was already used to at this point.

Was it ethical to break his own arm and lie about it in order to gain feelings of guilt and indebtedness? No. Did Gun, a gangster who gains profit from ruining lives and relationships, care? No.

"You broke my arm." He pinned the blame, lying about it in a blatant manner.

Such blunt words were enough to heighten M/n's never-ending worries, turning panicked as he frets by shrugging his painfully-yellow windbreaker off.

He was quick on his feet to act. That's good, Gun inwardly nodded to himself.

"Permission to touch you?!"

Why is he being so aggressive with a question like that?

Gun, a little taken aback, slowly stood up and sat over a nearby crate—promptly letting the boy do whatever he feels like he needs to do.

He assumed those were the words typically spoken when performing first-aid, something about consent to touch the wounded or something. He could honestly care less, as long as things were going the way he plans.

"I'm sorry." He could hear him mutter the 4th time that night.

In silence, he only watched the boy in close proximity as he makes a makeshift bandage with his yellow windbreaker, even using a solid branch to keep his freshly-broken arm straight. He was surprisingly diligent with brows dipped in concentration, a small frown on his lips, and eyes looking absolutely fixated.

His movement was careful and knowing. He clearly had experience.

"Do you run people over on a regular basis?" Gun found himself asking out of curiosity.

He saw the light twinge of embarrassment decorate the boy's cheeks, looking even more guilty than he already did at the reminder of the incident.

"No, of course not."

Judging by his oddly 'good' personality, Gun wouldn't be surprised to learn if he helps around the school clinic now and then to have acquired such expertise. It made him wonder how he was supposed to approach the subject now.

Usually, his successors were already morally grey—just needing the right push to tip off into the darkness. Letting it engulf them without needing to do much himself.

This was a first.

Not that he was already seriously considering him as a candidate, he was just willing to bet his arm into seeing if he was suitable enough for it.

Sure, he didn't know if the boy was a fighter or was just naturally agile to have moved mid-air like that—but he could turn any ordinary citizen into a monster. He's done it one too many times, what makes this time any different?

What he needs now, as he experiments, is the right mindset and characteristics. His previous successors all had some type of leadership, ways, even talents. What they all didn't have but he could see from the view in front of him was: reliability.

While they did show some form of it, they failed to maintain it. They all failed him and his expectations. One fled the moment news about some girl broke out: not reliable. One was turned against his own crew and was met with the consequences of his actions: not reliable. One was caught in illegal doings despite being explicitly told not to: not reliable.

They were all too overconfident, too selfish and greedy. To the point they were past reason. He couldn't care less about their reason for it, no matter how they tried to justify it—it doesn't change the fact that being his successor was to be separated from all that nonsense.

Back to his current situation; so far, it was promising.

"I'm sorry." That's the 5th, he's never seen anyone so apologetic about 'breaking' his arm before.

As soon as he was done with his handy work, Gun reached for a cigarette in his pockets, swiftly placing it in between his lips in one fluid movement. Almost like muscle memory.

M/n was briefly taken aback as the injured male tosses something his way, making him clumsily catch what appears to be a steel lighter. The metal felt cold and unfamiliar in his hands, fingertips warily tracing the intricate designs embedded along the outer shell.

"Light it up." Gun gestured towards his cigarette, making the boy frown and visibly hesitate.

He's clearly never held a lighter with the purpose of lighting a cigarette stick before.

With observant eyes, the gangster watched his every move. From the reluctance in his demeanor to the subtle signs of giving in as he moved to skeptically flip the lid open with another hand; a startling flame immediately springing to light.

Then slowly, cupping a hand around the flame as he gently moved it towards the tip of Gun's cigarette—he watched in mild intrigue as the stick finally burned in one end, prompting the tattooed male to inhale and let the smoke sit in his lungs before puffing it out with the heave of his chest.

Gun glanced as he saw the boy's face scrunch up and wave off the purposive smoke coming his way.

He was satisfied with the compliance in the form of a mere lighter, the action alone allowed him to have a peak into his psyche and morality.

With well-kept amusement, he was oddly looking forward to this new arrangement.