Her hand slammed down on the black alarm clock sitting on the side of her bed, silencing its ringing sirens. She groaned heavily and proceeded to take the other pillow to cover her head. Why did her hospital shifts always have to be in the morning?

She groggily rubbed her eyes before sitting up. With a deep yawn, her eyes then started scanning around her room, taking in the first sight of her day. On her left, there was a humongous window sill where she loved to sit to read, look outside at the traffic down below, or just to think. It was currently covered by a beige, silk curtain. Her big, wooden book shelf stood next to it, with all her favourite classics stacked neatly one by one, each worn and sniffed out from the countless amounts of times she had read them over again. Then there was her desk, two expensive lamps sitting on her nightstands, her clothes rack in her closet, and stuffed animals spread across her headboard.

She gave one last stretch and stepped off the bed, ready to start her day. First, she’d go to the gym, then hopefully make it in time for her shift. She walked over to the big window, spreading the curtains apart, and was momentarily blinded by the early autumn sunlight streaming in. Blinking a couple times, she adjusted her eyes and looked down at the bustling traffic only around 6:30 in the morning. In her area, it was always like this. In her city—left, right, all around, there were always the sounds of cars honking, sirens blaring, shots firing, and shouts ringing. She wondered if there were people in this city that felt just like her—tired and fed up with all the drama around this place.

After she took a shower, brushed her teeth, applied some makeup, and put on some training clothes, she walked downstairs for some breakfast. Under her breath, he prayed that he wouldn’t be there. He usually never was.

As she entered the stoic, crystal clean kitchen, she saw no sign of him.

Phew, she thought, relieved.

She set off to get a pan, a couple eggs, bacon and some tomatoes from the fridge to start fixing up some breakfast, almost feeling like whistling a tune to start off the day, until she heard some steps coming down the stairs.

.

“Good morning, Sookyung!” rang her father. In her peripheral vision, she could see him in his usual attire—suit and tie, briefcase in hand. She’d always grimace thinking about what might be in there.

And why does he always sound so ing cheerful in the morning?

It was kind of funny.

Of all things to feel about the only living member left in your family, Sookyung felt spite. Love, care, support, affection, trust, compassion, sympathy, empathy; scratch that. She just wanted him to tell her his daily ‘I’m sorry but I can’t eat at home today. Have fun at work; don’t wait up for me tonight!’ and leave. It was tiring to always have to face and deal with how much she despised him. She absolutely despised him. She absolutely despised Park Deokhwa.

“Morning, father,” she answered back plainly. His nonchalance about their—his—life always ended up leaving a sour taste in . She hated how he would never mention her mother or her death and always tried to say that he wants to be strong for his daughter rather than that he wants to pretend his wife had ever existed. She hated how dangerous and dirty his job was and that it was why people on the outside feared her.

But most of all, she despised that being the daughter of the leader of the most notorious gang in all of South Korea was the life she was stuck with. With a slim, bony face, droopy eyes, sharp nose, and salt-and-peppered hair, he looked like a perfect fit for someone who led a group of men that fought or killed people day and night for notoriety and money.

Walking up behind her and leaning over her shoulder, he inhaled deeply.

“Mm, smells good, what are you making?”

Purposely ignoring his question, she poured the contents of scrambled eggs and bacon onto her plate, plopped on a few cherry tomatoes, grabbed her glass of orange juice and proceeded to the dinner table, ducking under his shoulder and out.

Sighing, he shook his head, knowing that trying to talk to his daughter was, as always, useless. He took his briefcase, tightened his tie and walked out the door, not even bothering to remind her to wait up for him.

It was always like this.

He would always pretend that he was a friendly, caring father, when in fact; he just wanted to gain her trust to be able to have his own daughter off the eternal list of people who hate him. Every morning, he’d be cheery and chirpy as a bird, only to just say that he wouldn’t be able to spend time with her that day at all. She saw him, on average, an hour a day, and that’s how it’s been since the day her mother died. He drove one hundred percent into work after that—always sending home money and gadgets for her, hoping that it’d cover up the reality that he never gave her his real love. She didn’t want the money, she didn’t want the phones, and she didn’t want the clothes. The money used to buy those things were tainted sheets of paper, covered in blood and scars to obtain, and happiness isn’t worth being bought by him, even if it was with all the money that he’d ever possessed.

That’s why, as she hit nineteen years of age, she told her father that she didn’t want his money anymore and that she was going to find her own job to fend for her own life. And as much as he opposed to her outrageous idea, she didn’t care if it would take her years upon years to get to what amount he has now. All that matters is that the money she earns is heartfelt and worked for, rather than fought, killed, and beaten for. Of course, it took time to create a whole new ID, address, name, and private information before she could apply for the job—after all, who would want to hire the daughter of the most powerful man in the West as a nurse to care for sick patients?

Now suddenly, as always, the bacon in tasted like cardboard and tasteless, just as her entire life had been.

She stood up to clear her plate in the sink and didn’t even hesitate to grab her jacket and bag off the chair nearby to walk out the door. Every single day, stepping foot outside of that door would always be the highlight of her morning.

~~~

Wham.

Sookyung gave the punching bag one last swing of her arm before giving up and falling into a heap on the floor. She breathed in and out deeply, trying to regain herself and stop the haziness wafting around her head momentarily. She looked up at the clock that now read 8:45. As usual, she had gone over her workout time and only now had 15 minutes to wash up and get ready for work. And of course, that meant another scolding from her head nurse, Joonah, about how she was always late to the hospital.  

She sat up, still huffing and puffing, and started unravelling the tape on her knuckles, now black and stained from the leather punching bag. She looked up around her—the gym was, as usual, quiet. It always seemed as though only Sookyung would get up at such an ungodly hour to come train at this underground place. The punching bag was still swinging lightly in its spot, Sookyung’s last punch still generating its momentum, and immediately, old memories suddenly flashed through her mind of a young Park Sookyung, being dragged here, to this very gym, for the first time in her life at the age of six.

She remembered the first time her father told her to try laying a punch on his arm, prompting her to muster the punch as hard as she possibly could. Memories of her first back kick, elbow strike, knee strike, and flip, and the first time she’d ever held a gun or a knife, then shot or stabbed it, came to mind. She remembered seeing her father’s triumphant grin when he saw his daughter exceeding his expectations in combat, and she remembered him telling her that she’d excelled at all it is that she’d been expected to know at the tender age of fourteen. But above all, she also remembered how much she absolutely despised fighting; how much she absolutely despised him. She remembered how much she hated seeing the temporary pain in her trainer’s eyes after she’d strike him in the stomach or the daily bruises on her knuckles and arms that would take weeks to heal, but mostly, she hated how content her father was to s