“While money can't buy happiness, it certainly lets you choose your own form of misery.” 
― Groucho Marx

"We need money." 

The dirty word echoed off the grimy walls. It wasn't a new issue that Zico and friends had met with. Money. Pieces of clean cut cotton, pressed and printed with coloured patterns, theoretically, it was a pretty, beautiful thing. At least, it started off that way. The coloured sheet meddling with little packets of illegal white powdered and green cannbis. Creases from being shoved into the wallet of the rich that had swindled the poor. Being handed from one dirty hand to another in a secret black market. The creased note being pushed over a shiny booth for poker chips. The much used money circulating everywhere, and finally, resurfacing back where it started. And they needed it. Dirty cash. They needed it. 

"How much?" The salty question hung in the musty air for a slight moment before dropping down onto the blonde leader's head.

Silently, he pulled out a paper from his jacket. Both were well worn out. Black coat on a monochrome contrast of white paper. A ragged sort of rip tore about a third way down the well creased paper. $10 000 000.

"Why?" The light illuminated a male, sitting opposite Zico. His auburn red hair seemed lighter in the shining light that beamed from the long-uncleaned window. It filtered a yellowish light. "What did you get yourself into? Again?" Kyung shifted in his seat, annoyed. They could deal with a lot. They were strong people. Mentally and physically. They had the capacity of holding a city upon their shoulders if they had to. But he was tired of having no choice but to live the hard way. He was sure everyone else was too. If they worked hard enough and didn't screw up so often and so badly, the Earth would spin the other way for Block B.

Zico looked away, lightly biting the inside of his mouth in discomfort. He was never proud of the messes he got into, but that was the way he lived. They were entangled with his being, coloured in his little flecks of spots sprinkled around his face and neck, fused with his body heat, hugging his shadows. A mumbled, "Gambling," was breathed out and the others exhaled another exasperated breath of air. Murmurs rippled around the members. No one had any ideas. They had spent all their ideas already, picking themselves up from their previous misendeavours. They had tried it all. Everything within their limits, had been done already. If you counted the little indented swirls that covered your fingers and hands, that would be amount of ideas they had and used.

A string of sudden rush of brain movement surrounded everyone, the twisted golden light threading itself through each member's hair and latching itself onto another strand as quickly as it surrounded the first member. A bush fire. A bush fire of ideas, attaching itself onto each and every member until the seven males all looked up, holding each other's gaze in slight indecision and question. Glints of mischief, twinkles of the excitement of another mission appeared in the each male's brown eyes. Despite the circumstances, it was another surge of exhilaration that filled each member at the poke of a new 'game'. A question coagulated in the mess of flying ideas and unspoken excitement.

"What about a hostage?"

-

Short chapter !

But this is the introduction to Block B. I will update maybe once a week, maybe longer, due to the fact i have to borrow my brother's computer.

Because i accidently tried to torrent and killed my laptop

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