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ﾌ丨爪丨几
𝙳𝚘𝚒𝚗' 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 † 𝙲𝙷𝙿 𝟸
BUT, WHERE OTHERS LIKE ANDRIS BLANC RESIDE IN LUXURY, the rest struggle with the crushing food chain. Where the prey fights at the bottom and struggles to rise to the top of power to join their kings in their golden city of El' Dorado. Some kiss their ass, wrap noose-like collars around their throats and take it like well-trained hounds. Others drown out their inferiority in sex, alcohol or maybe even in violence. Either way the formulas never equate to anything postive.
Park Jimin feels he's the outcome of that equation. Someone who's practically done everything humanly possible to get on top, settling on stealing little by little from the stuffed pigs who toot their snouts at them. Eat the rich they say, Jimin doubts their taste would be edible to begin with. His tastebuds are more trained, he has an acquired taste for money. Who doesn't..?
Sometimes he wishes Midas had been walking on the planes of earth, perhaps he could've convined the asshole to turn his life to gold. Jimin chuckled softly to himself at the thought, it was humorous for a short while, he almost forgot he was cleaning the wound under his bottom lip. He dabbed at it with cotton pads, the hydrogen peroxide hissed and fizzled. He chewed at his bottom lip at the mild pain, but it didn't hurt as much as the wound itself.
He tossed them in the trashcan in the bathroom, hunching over the cracked porcelain sink as he lifted his head to gaze through his blonde fringe. A pathetic sight really, who would want to see him like this..?
He pouted his bottom lip, pushing his mid-length golden hair from his forehead in a damped-slick back style from the steam of his recent shower. Jimin's fingers dance across his neck, the brusies from his scuffle showing in the reflection of the mirror. He grinded his molars as he reminisced.
The crown was in his greedy hands. He had it in his clutches. He knows he's not mistaken, but the taller bulid, the fighting style in which the stranger had used to apprehend the crown and injuring him all at once and those eyes... Those damned eyes. All of the attributes pointed to the wretched Park family. it may be far-fetched, and perhaps he's paranoid that their following him.
Perhaps, he's not as free as he preaches.
Jimim scoffed outwardly, stepping away from the mirror and snatching one of the random towels off of their rack as he threw it across his shoulders. Exiting the bathroom and greeted with his shaggy apartment, it was small. Cramped even. Every thing was directly in your face, the kitchen in one corner and his bed in the other. Despite that, it was home still.
The floorboards weeped under his weight, feeling them bend under the pads of his toes. He padded up to the cluttered wall in the room, boards along with pictures all connected with red string and sometimes even blue. He doesn't exactly have a place to cook up most of his larger heists, he keeps it on the wall. It's easier that way though.
