My father never wasted his words on me. But on the rare occasions when our family found itself in one room, and there was no drink in my father’s hand, he would sometimes offer a piece of advice to my brother.

“In this world, Myungsoo, there are only the weak and the strong,” he liked to say—and no matter how much soju was in him, he never slurred his words.

“If you’re born weak, you need to suffer before you grow strong. And those of us who are strong should fight every day to avoid growing weak. Never show mercy to anyone who refuses to suffer or fight. They’re inferior beasts, and the world would be better without them.”

By the time he finished, his gaze would have settled on me. That was my cue to leave the room as quickly as possible. If I was lucky, I’d make it out of the door in time.

I’ve always thought my father was a monster. And he is. But that doesn’t mean he was totally wrong.

• • •

This the first winter I’ve spent outdoors, and I’m still learning how to survive in the wild. Most of the time, I’d force myself to stay put and endure the discomfort. But no one with a pocket worth picking has passed by my hiding spot, and I was just getting ready to call it a night.

Then a small group of girls began spilling out of an otherwise empty bar across the street. They’re the kind of females my father would call does.

These girls have downed so many drinks that they probably couldn’t flee if they felt the urge. I’m choosing my target when one of the few cabs working on Christmas Eve turns down the street. Four giggling females pile in.

When the taxi pulls away, I’m pleased to see that one of the does has been left behind. I don’t think she notices that her friends have abandoned her. Her eyes are closed, and she’s blissfully swapping spit with a man she just met.

That’s only a hunch, of course, but I doubt she’s ever laid eyes on lover boy during daylight hours. The sight of him would be enough to spook the dumbest of does. He’s at least ten years older, and he comes from one of the boroughs where bodybuilding and hair gel never go out of style.

But this isn’t some random passerby who took a wrong turn on his way to the nightclub. This guy’s slick-looking and sober. He’s a professional—the sort who always knows what he’s doing. I’d bet he’s dangerous. He might even be deadly. And she’s drunk enough to find him irresistible.

I know what he sees in her, too. He sees a rich girl who won’t say no. He sees pricey jewelry and a handbag whose contents could pay all his bills for the next three months.

I cross the street and make my move. I don’t hurry, and I don’t try to hide. I just keep my face turned away from the security cameras mounted outside the bar. The girl’s body is pressed against lover boy, and her handbag is resting against the small of her back. The zipper is open.

If she just paid for drinks, then her wallet is on top. It’s easy—too easy. I require more of a challenge. My left-hand dips into her bag as I pass by. As soon as my fingers find what they’re after, I make sure to bump her.

She’s too drunk to notice, but lover boy catches on quick.

“What the . . .” he growls as I stroll down the sidewalk with the girl’s wallet clutched in my hand.

“Yes?” I wait until I’m half a block away before I turn—just beyond the cameras’ range. I see him push the girl to one side without hesitation. She stumbles and bounces off a wall. He’s an unnaturally large and angry specimen. I’d love to ask which steroids he uses.

“Give me the wallet!”

I grin and give him a saucy wink for good measure.

As he charges toward me, I quickly tuck the wallet into the waistband of my jeans. I’ll need both hands free in a moment. When the man realizes I’m not going anywhere, he stops and laughs.

“You should’ve run.” What he means is that he’s going to enjoy what happens next. The girl giggles nervously in the distance.

“We’ll see about that.”

His fist hits the side of my face with the force of a wrecking ball. The pain blinds me for a second or two. I can feel blood oozing from a gash in my cheekbone. I know I’m going to need stitches, so I don’t bother trying to wipe it away. When my sight returns, I can see that he’s surprised I’m still standing.

I’m not surprised at all. One of the first things I ever learned was how to take a punch.

“I think you can do better than that.” I taunt.

The fist only grazes my temple this time. I’ve unnerved him.

“Nice try,” I say. “My turn.”

I feel his nose break with my first punch. He falls shortly after the fourth. My right hand is slick, and the air reeks of blood. When I look up, I find the girl frozen in place. Her big doe eyes don’t even blink.

“Call him an ambulance,” I say. “Then find a cab and get out of here.”

“You took all my money,” she says, her voice both a whisper and a whine.

“Then you’ll just have to walk,” I tell her.

• • •

I never set out to be a thief. I suppose I once had something grander in mind. But when you live on the streets, you find out that your career options are limited. You can be one of the kids who disappear with the strangers who cruise through every night. You can sell the stuff that helps those kids forget what they’ve seen. Or you can be a thief.

If those choices don’t suit you, you can always be dead.

I was on a bus traveling up when I discovered the gift that would save my life. I’d spent my last dime on the bus fare. My stomach was empty, and I had no way to fill it. I passed out somewhere and woke cities later only to slip back into oblivion. Even the fear of being found unconscious and shipped right back to military school couldn’t keep me alert.

I emerged from a dream with my eyes on a backpack. Its owner was snoring in the seat beside me. My fingers knew exactly what they were looking for, and they found it crumpled up inside the front pouch of his bag. The twenty-dollar bill that proved to be my salvation.

By the end of the journey, I realized I could spot an unguarded handbag from yards away. I could detect the faint outline of an phone in the pocket of a winter coat. I could rob any man blind with a quick bump and a flick of my wrist.

That’s when I decided to call myself Flick. I didn’t want to remember the name I was given. And seven months later, I’m still waiting for the day when I can finally forget where I got it.

• • •

Myungsoo brought me a dream of the past this time. In this one, I was seven years old and he was six. It think it was around the third time our mother tried to disappear. I don’t recall much about that trip or how long we were gone. Even the location is hazy in my mind.

The house where she hid us was little more than a three-room hut. Every day, Myung and I waited inside for the sun to head west. Then we set out to explore. There was nothing out there but rocks, sand, and silence.

For the first time, I felt safe.

A few days later, when I heard the sound of a car pulling up in our driveway, I stayed in front of the television, watching cartoons. While my mother wailed, Myungsoo ran outside to greet our father. He must have been as terrified as we were.

But he had always understood things. He knew that where there is prey, there will always be predators. And by the time our family was back home in Incheon, I’d learned my lesson. There’s no point in hiding. No place can ever be safe.

• • •

The first night I spent in the slums, I woke around eleven at night to the sound of drunken laughter. I’d scaled the fence of a construction zone and lain down for a nap on the third floor of a concrete box that was rising up amid the old apartment complexes.

I wanted to be ready for the next stage of my journey. But my dream drained what little was left of my energy. I knew it was Jong’s way of warning me not to go any farther. And when I opened my eyes, I saw how close I’d come to rolling over the edge of the unfinished building.

I sat up and let my legs dangle in the open air while I tried to figure out why my brother thought I should stay.

That’s when I saw them on the sidewalk below me. Fresh-faced tourists filing out of a luxury hotel just down the street. Kids from Gangnam’s finest families stumbling from one bar to the next.

I came to the rugged side of Gangnam hoping to suffer enough to grow strong. I didn’t stay because the pickings are easy. I’m still here because the competition is suitably dangerous. The weather is brutal. And fights are always easy to come by. Even on Christmas Eve.

I hear a siren a few streets away. Someone at the bar must have called the cops. I check my reflection in the side mirror of a delivery van. A stream of blood is still trickling down my face. The collar of my coat is completely soaked. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning, and there’s only one place I can go.