Writing Exercise - Blog Posts

The thing is—The thing is kin-slaying is a big thing.

Not a small big thing either—stealing from someone, marrying a rival, falling from social grace, even straight-up killing someone; all of that falls leagues beneath kin slaying.

It is the sort of thing that is abhorrent, never spoken about and yet understood. It is—well, there’s really no describing such visceral horror at the action.

It curdles the blood. Settles in the bones. It is something that is seen, known. There is no atonement for it. No repentance, no asking forgiveness. The doors of heaven—yours, mine, his, hers—are closed to you forevermore.

But the question is this. If kin-slaying—a crime that shifts the air, warps the world like it has been proven to do, forces you to bear the weight of Atlas (and then some); if this act is so monstrous, then why do I not feel an ounce of shame?

Why—do I look at the blood on my hands, the corpse at my feet, and feel nothing at all?

Lost At Sea

Here I lie, lost at sea,

dazed and lame as I can be.

The sky above is dark

as is the water below me.

How I got here, I scarcely remember—

when I boarded, when I left the pier.

The time as well, I could not decipher—

September, October, or November.

Alone in this vastness,

silence embraces me—

the great stretch of the universe and the sea

do all but eclipse me.

At times I start to wonder

what if instead of wander,

I let the waves take me—

pull me in and consume me.

I close my eyes and picture

my delicate arms and legs,

spread restful as they please,

sink into the cold water.

Visions of the starry sky peek through,

strings of faint light probing in the blue.

The stars shimmer above the mirrory surface,

far and out of reach, they peer with indifference.

But then I pull myself out

of my ruminative bout;

the spirit of life taking reins

to brave my impermanent pains.

My boat is a drifting speck,

a mote between infinite black;

so here I lie, lost at sea,

alone and numbed as I can be.

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Inspired by and written for the prompt "Cold water". Prompt credit to @the-kingofdoritos

Purification

Sleep, when you think about it, is like a false death or a little death. Unconsciousness extends to hours of bliss or nightmares, leaving one ignorant and inert, unaware of where one is. The awakening is what breaks the said 'death', pulling one out of the depths of their own mind to throw them into the real world. For a moment or so, I often think about it, the lines must blur; life and death, slumber and consciousness, real and unreal. From this moment rises a new you, one who is slightly different, slightly renewed.

I always understood sleep in that manner. You wake up with a bruise you didn't have before, you wake up with a new pimple, you wake up with more hair on your pillow than yesterday, you wake up feeling more tired than you did when you went to bed, you wake up from a vivid dream of a life so much better than your reality, you spend the rest of the day trying to forget it. I think of waking up as a door to a new day. What you'll find in that new day is shown when your eyes open, its symptoms etched onto you. I've lived through life enough to expect some things from how waking up leaves me feeling.

The 'mark' left me confused. For a good 5 minutes, I sat and recalled what had happened that night. Was I with someone? Was I drunk?

Who was I kidding? I hadn't been drunk in forever. That line of thought is for people who have friends to go out with.

I was sober. I came home alone, had leftovers and went straight to bed. Nothing that explained a strange tattoo that looked like a cursive 'U' or 'V' could have happened. I tried wiping it off, washing it out; nothing worked. It stayed there, dark and crisp, a part of my skin. It didn't hurt or even have any visible redness around it, almost as if it had always been there. But I knew it hadn't.

I might have been able to get it off my mind if I had anything to do, but it was a day off. All the time in the world to think about it. But what was the point? I couldn't get to any conclusion anyway. How did it get there? Who did it? What was the purpose of it? All questions hung before me like carrots on a stick too high for me to grasp.

I ate cereal for breakfast, even though I told myself to make something nice for once. I stayed at the table for way too long, staring blankly at whatever my phone showed me, locked in a hypnotic stillness until the clock threatened with hours slipping out of my grasp. I heeded, moving around to go about the chores that I had perfect excuses to avoid throughout the week in a lethargic pace. And when my mind found no place to rest, it wandered down to the mark on my wrist.

I wondered what it could mean. Maybe if I had known, I would have thought of something to do. Although, even if I did, there was nothing I could do.

Clouds took over the sky right around noon, just when the clothes were done washing. The gloom must have taken over me as all I did for who knows how long was pace around the tiny apartment I reluctantly called home before ending up standing before the window, staring out. Grey, wistful swathes hung over the big city; city of the future, city of dreams— all those names and a single, cloudy day dwarfed it before its sombre glory.

The longer I watched those clouds, the more anxious I grew. For what reason, I couldn't tell. Nausea rose upon me, sweat threatening to spill through my skin but not doing so, paralysed in a state of limbo, just like the weather. My insides felt corrupt, leaving an intense drive to spill it out somehow, erase it, cleanse myself of it.

The houses around were quiet, the only sound in the neighbourhood being that of some vehicles passing by occasionally. For once, I lamented the quiet. I had always wished so desperately for it, cursing the kids for all their screaming, laughing, crying, shouting, stomping and playing around the neighbourhood. I was never a bitter person. I never hated children. But the quiet I got to enjoy on days like these was something precious, and anyone to break it made my blood boil. And now, for some reason, I found the quiet nerve-wracking.

The clock seemed to tick louder in the deathly silence, forcing me to do something about the wet laundry festering in the washing machine. Like a marionette, I got to work, hanging and laying the clothes on whatever surface provided the passage of air around them. The clothing rack wasn't sufficient. I would've made lunch, but the nausea made me stay out of the kitchen. I never liked to cook anyway, but takeout was slowly eating away at the peanuts I earned. Going out with colleagues was no better. Somehow, it always ended with me paying for everyone. Fastest way to end my appetite. I was never a miser but constantly ending up with empty pockets after every outing would make anyone resentful.

I couldn't see the Sunset. All around me were tall buildings blocking the Sun at its best hours. Sunset to me was a splash of greyish orange towards the west. Today, it was dull purple, the kind that makes your mouth twist in a snarl, almost like a large bruise or mold sprawling across the sky. It made me want to reach up and tear it down, and the thought alone made my fingertips tingle with disgust. The sight of that nasty shade slowly fading as the dark veil of night spread should have made me relieved, but it only made the sense of doom settle further into the cavity of my torso.

How deceptive time is, rushing forward with no mercy when it wishes and slowing to a suffocating halt when it wishes. I didn't realise when the day passed, but when my eyes landed by chance on the clock proudly counting down each last second of my life, I could only beg for it to speed up. I didn't want to suffer, I didn't want to die— at least not so soon. But death was sweeter than the agony I was put through for reasons I couldn't dare ask about.

It came to me all of a sudden but not at the same time. I expected something, something bad, for sure, when the mark on my wrist began to tickle under my skin. Not long after that, it itched and burned. I scratched and scratched and scratched until blood came trickling out around it, but the mark remained unharmed, pristine. I knew it was over for me then, when my nails, all bloody and full of dead skin, would simply glide over the warm, wet liquid coating my forearm.

My vision was blurry from tears, which obscured the figure that seemed to manifest in the middle of my living room. I kept scratching, growing positively desperate to get rid of the mark. It stayed, pitch black ink engraved into my flesh. I broke down and slid to the floor as the looming figure, cloaked in white and gold, approached. It probably had a head and a pair of arms, but it didn't use them to lift me off the floor. I kept my head hung, even as screams erupted from my throat; I didn't dare look up.

I didn't realise when the lights went out— or perhaps I had never turned them on the whole day— but it was dark. At least, it was supposed to be. Besides the lightning that shrieked between the blanket of clouds pouring down rain, there was a bright, off-white glow so strong it could blind me easily if I hadn't been staring at my arm the whole time. Even in mid-air, I was below the cruel deity that inflicted that pain on me. When the mark burned so hot it began glowing through the bloody mess I had made of it, I gave up, dropping my spent hand to my side.

Why was it doing this? What did it have to gain from me? Why did it choose me? I hoped my eyes conveyed those questions as I lifted them to gaze upon it. I fought the light through newfound tears only to see indifference in the fully black eyes, a void so vast yet tiny enough to be held within the walls of my home. There was no malice in those 'eyes', only an aloof responsibility. For me.

My ribs cracked under the invisible pressure, the rest of my insides flaring up— muscles turned magma and organs, lava. My throat had never felt so raw before as it did in that moment until it was silenced on its own. I pitied myself for the failed whistling sounds my broken throat made, although I didn't have to bear it for long as my ears started bleeding along with my nose and mouth. There was something coming out of me, besides all the blood that splattered all over, something invisible but so very tangible. A part of me— how big, I could not tell. The bright one ripped it out of me, separating the ugly from the ideal.

I understood. I didn't want this to happen, but I understood. The corruption, the impurities had to go, to be thrown out. A horrid night would result in renewal, in the perpetuation of a better, purer form. I may have accepted it in those final moments. The sky had quieted down after a great storm, creating space for me to lament the tantalising click of the second's hand and the sparse, shallow breaths that leaked out of my respiratory tract. I wanted to let it all go, to go unconscious into the gentle arms of sweet slumber. My eyes shifted around to take in the sight of home one last time.

Soon, I would be renewed, perfect. But the stains of those removed impurities would be carried by the place, by the clothes soaking in my blood, and that would be all that was left of the me that existed before the blurring of the lines. That was enough. If I closed my eyes, death was a certainty, but so was the awakening of a new me. A renewed me.

A/N: This is a little something I wrote for a monthly writing prompt, it being "A character wakes with a strange mark on their arm." Credit to @the-kingofdoritos for the prompt!

drunken confessions prompt list

when too much alcohol loosens their tongue

🌀 leaning heavily on your shoulder, they slur, “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to kiss you,” and you freeze, unsure if they mean it or if it’s just the alcohol talking.

🌀 they’re giggling uncontrollably, cheeks flushed, when they suddenly blurt out, “you know, you’re the only person who makes me this happy.” the laughter fades, replaced by an earnest gaze that’s hard to dismiss.

🌀 stumbling over their words, they confess with a shy grin, “i think about you all the time.” their eyes widen like they didn’t mean to say that out loud, but there’s no taking it back now.

🌀 sitting together in the dim light of the bar, they lean in close and whisper, “i’ve been in love with you for ages.” you almost laugh it off, until you see the serious look in their eyes, even through the haze of alcohol.

🌀 drunkenly grabbing your hand and holding it against their chest, they mumble, “my heart always does this around you, you know.” you can feel the unsteady rhythm beneath your fingertips.

🌀 they’re rambling on about nothing in particular when, out of nowhere, they look at you and say, “i would give up anything just to see you smile every day.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t know how to respond.

🌀 as you’re helping them get home, they rest their head on your shoulder and murmur, “i’m not drunk enough to lie about loving you.” the words are soft and slurred, but the sincerity in their tone is unmistakable.

🌀 they keep repeating your name over and over, like they’re savoring the sound, before letting out a dreamy sigh and admitting, “i wish you knew how much i care.”

🌀 after a few too many drinks, they look at you with bleary eyes and say, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” there’s a hint of desperation in their voice, like they’ve been holding onto that truth for too long.

🌀 as they sway slightly on their feet, they confess, “i’d do anything for you.” you laugh and brush it off, but they shake their head stubbornly, grabbing your hand to make sure you’re listening.

🌀 they stumble closer, eyes half-lidded and voice soft, saying, “you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like this.” their fingers graze your arm, like they need the contact to stay grounded.

🌀 leaning in a little too close, they confess with a shaky laugh, “i don’t want you to ever be with anyone else.” the words come out rushed, like they’ve been bottled up for far too long.

🌀 slurring slightly, they admit, “i thought i could get over you.” there’s a hint of sadness in their gaze as they meet your eyes, like they’re realizing the truth for the first time.

🌀 as they’re drifting off on the couch, they grab your hand and mumble, “promise me you’ll stay.” their grip tightens slightly, like they’re afraid you’ll let go if they don’t hold on.

Writing Prompt

"Whatever will I do without you?"

Why did he say 'will' and not 'would'? Does he imagine I'd leave him now? How could I walk away from the most tenacious and formidable friend I've ever had the good fortune of making?

Sough ||

"The soughing of the wind in the branches of the trees"

Masking a change of heart. Femlock Fluff

My blush was spreading from my chest up to my neck under her attentive gaze.

"Do you mean it?" I released in a breath I hadn't realised was being held. What would she respond with? Of course Jean, you fit society's expectations of aesthetics? No, she'd be more inclined to wave her hand and in one flourish dismiss me to my date.

"Do you want for me to mean it?" Her right eyebrow was raised and she flitted her eyes up to mine for only a brief moment. Goddammit! That was more than banter. That had to be a flirty rhetorical question. What was I supposed to think? Do? Say? I didn't seem to have time to wonder before she swept the laptop aside and stood to approach me.

She reached for my left arm and touched the sleeve with her fingers and her eyes. My breath hitched as I watched the fabric smoothen beneath her stroke and contour to the curve of my arm. The heat rose to my cheeks and forehead. Damn my disposition for blushing. She could no doubt see my pulse was rising, could feel the blood rushing through my veins. There had been months of flirtations here and there but I'd never taken it seriously. Sherlock was by her own admission disinterested in the subject of romance and sex. I felt an undeniable instinct that this was the moment the final wall would come down.

I had forgotten how loud American tourists were. The man laughed and grinned and spoke in awe of the little garden themed cafe through his whole brunch. His mate just spurred him on enthusiastically like it was his friend's first time in a cafe. After a video was filmed by the American in which he scuttled passed the closed garden door to investigate the downstairs cafe courtyard, he seemed to settle down. I spoke too soon, the food arrived and his enthusiasm peeked an all time high.

"My man look, this place is beautiful!"

He clapped and grinned like a child being given a balloon at a cars sale. Stepping out his chair, he bent to shoot his delectable blueberry waffles for his perhaps few Instagram followers that cared. It was delicious to be fair but it would just add to a sequence of clips of this quote ordinary Brisbane cafe. I felt instinctively that he must have not been to many yet during his stay in Australia but I decided to let him have his fun. It was interesting to watch such a grown man marvel at something that I had been taking for granted. Of course, this was my favourite cafe for it's general hospitality and atmosphere but I had dined there many times in the seven months of living in West End and the novelty was long passed. I guess it reminded me of the beauty of trying new things and exploring new places. That was something I had been striving to do while living in the understated and small city in Australia. Finding little nooks and crannies to spend my free time and think about less important things, less processing and more revelling in simplicity.

I like watching people. That's one thing I've learned about myself. I like observing their reactions and noting the tones and inflections of their voices depending on their mood and their thoughts. I like seeing their clothing and deciding who was comfortable in their apparel and who was simple trying to fit the urban, chic vibe of West End. I'm guilty of the latter myself lately but today I felt like myself. A floral button up, dark green maxi skirt and black suede boots. Not the most practical or moody outfit considering the wet weather but it made me feel the happiest.

I had used almost half of my battery percentage and even more of my data than anticipated due to the blackout at home that morning. But my temperament was maintained due to being out amongst the public, belly full of coffee and blueberry bagels and the warm chatter of people thriving despite the downpour.

Kenum was always familiar with the light. It always appeared whenever he cast a spell, used it to help his neighbors find their way home, and had a night light for his youngest. He was no stranger to it, even welcomed it in many cases. But even though he was friends with light, he was in love with dark.

During his worst times, of stumbling out of bars, high and/or drunk off of whatever he could get, the darkness always lead him home. His clothes of travel were always black and brown, or even shades of dark green. And most importantly, he always found comfort in the darkest of places.

Oh yes, my fellow reader, he was in love with the dark. His signature spell demanded it, in fact. Creating what someone's worst flaws were with a simple flick of his hand and the simplest of words that could be uttered by anyone, he needed that dark to guide him away from what could be his downfall. The only way to continue the spell would be to use more darkness.

But with any good thing, there must be a balance. So Kenum chased the light, fell for its charms again and again, playing by the rules that so many others have played. But when it called for it, when there needed to be darkness, he used it, commanded it, to hurt those who would dare hurt his loved ones.

You would think this makes him a villain. Only a man tainted by the darkness would do those things! If you listen to his stories, told by the millions he had saved all by using this darkness, they will tell you the truth. No villain uses the darkness. Only anti-heroes do.

SFWC Blast from the Past!

As with the regular challenge, post your story and submit the link to SFWC; we’ll reblog it to our followers. The main prompt, posted Friday, still includes two featured previous prompts. 

Happy writing!

This week’s Blast from the Past prompt:

Forever Will It Dominate Your Destiny - Darkness is the figurative and literal opposite and complement to light. Whether it's the physical state, the Dark Side, or some kind of ignorance, we may find darkness concealing what we need, dirtying what it touches, or hiding on the unexpected flip side of something. Write about your character's interaction with darkness.   

Have a suggestion for a prompt? Submit it here!

More prompts, you say? Visit the Prompt Archive!SFWC FAQ

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🧠 FREE WRITING LESSON — THE MOST POWERFUL CHARACTER DEPTH TRICK YOU’LL EVER READ.

Let’s say your character sucks.

She’s flat. Predictable. “Strong” in all the wrong ways. Let’s call her Nicolle. Or Carol. Or whatever name Hollywood gave her.

She’s a superhero. She’s got powers. She’s got sarcasm. She takes no shit. She leads the squad. She’s admired by everyone — and loved by no one.

You’ve seen this character before. Now watch what happens when you give her one secret she doesn’t brag about.

Nicolle has two sons.

She’s raising them alone — to become men like her late father: A man who sacrificed everything to raise her after her mother disappeared, broke, or gave up.

The world sees Nicolle as the apex of visual empowerment. But the world doesn’t see:

The arguments with her boys’ father — about what being a real dad means.

The prayers whispered in the dark over a fevered forehead.

The way she ghosted the only man she maybe wanted, not because she’s flaky — but because she doesn’t know if wanting love makes her a bad mother.

The nights she tucks her boys in, then collapses into her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart full of ache, because she gave the world her strength but kept no one to hold hers.

They don’t see the days her sons cry after watching her get slammed through buildings on TV.

Held by the throat. Left for dead. Motionless for seconds too long. Until she rises — because she has to.

They don’t see the breakdowns. They don’t see her flinch.

They assume she doesn’t feel fear. But the truth?

She feels it every single time.

She’s not fearless. She’s never been. But fear is a luxury she doesn’t have.

That’s a luxury for men. She is a god. And she will make any threat scream that truth — as she crushes it beneath her bleeding hands.

Because when demons invade, tyrants rise, and monsters descend, She suits up.

Not for hashtags. Not for feminism. Not for attention.

She suits up because the idea of her sons growing up in a world she could’ve fought for and didn’t — is more terrifying than death itself.

And she will not let the universe teach her boys that their mother ever cowered.

🔺 THE TRIFECTA THAT MAKES ANY SUPERHERO NEXT-LEVEL:

Intimacy. Contradiction. Duty.

Intimacy gives them a soul — something they protect more than their own body.

Contradiction gives them depth — because perfection is forgettable, but conflict creates memory.

Duty gives them immortality — because we remember those who bled for more than applause.

Give a character that trifecta — and suddenly:

She’s not annoying. She’s haunting. She’s not fanfiction. She’s canon. She’s not shallow. She’s legend.

✍️ That’s how you fix a weak character. You don’t soften her. You give her something to fight that fists can’t touch.

And suddenly?

She’s not a girlboss. She’s the last myth your enemies ever tell themselves before they die.

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The Life and Death of Kim Gabryong

The lack of information about Kim Gimyung's father on Lookism Wikia inspired me to write this.

Caution: it's going to be a pretty long read

Ever since Kim Gabryong's name was first mentioned in the Lookism manhwa, I fell in lo- No. I mean was interested. I was intrigued. Dude had successfully shifted my attention from the handsomest gang leader in the universe, Kim Gimyung, to... well, him.

"But he's dead. Plus, barely anyone talked about his past life. There's nothing to dig about him, really," said somebody who stopped reading Lookism after Big Deal's Arc. Rumor has it that they have been blessed with an overwhelming amount of free time, so they continued their reading due to boredom.

Now you see what I mean, don't you, random person?

Kim Gabryong plays a huge role in the generations of fighters in the Lookism universe. Despite not being talked about much, I think so far we've got enough clues that allow us to take a glimpse of his character, his life, and the mystery of his death.

And, as a good future daughter in law who loves his son with all her heart, I wanted to honor him. May you rest in peace, abeoji. Just kidding

So, Who the Frick is Kim Gabryong?

He was the leader of the most influential mafia group in Generation 0 called Gapryong's Fist Gang. I'd like to assume he was also the founder, because his name is literally there. So I think it's safe to say that the whole gang aspects in the story of Lookism begins with this man.

Gabryong "Fist of Justice" Kim was admired by his peers and subordinates yet despised by common society. Kim Gabryong was a hero to some, and a villain to the others (including his son Kim Gimyung and his wife Kang Minseon).

To His Wife

"My feelings for you are like my cigarette butt on your portrait. Extinguished." - Kang Minseon, probably.

When Kim Gimyung asked her what kind of person his dad was like, she answered with the most charming smile, and I quote:

"He was the worst piece of shit ever."

Such an elegant and profound description this woman had of her beloved late husband. However, was he really a piece of shit like she said he was?

According to Kang Minseon, he was a jerk to the women who knew him. But he could never pass by someone in need or ignore any kind of injustice.

He had a sense of passion or romance or whatever, yet he couldn't even keep a romance with his lawfully wedded wife. But was there even romance between Minseon and Gabryong in the first place? I don't know. The two never seemed to even like each other. It smells suspiciously like an arranged marriage here.

In my head, I imagine Minseon as the daughter of a rich conglomerate who was married off to Gabryong by her parents for some kind of agreement. Her family wanted the most powerful gang as their back up, while Gabryong wanted an heir through a marriage.

Remember chapter 395 where Kang Minseon stated that Kim Gabryong didn't care when his mistress had a baby, and yet he was ecstatic when he found out that she was pregnant?

What about that time when Kim Gabryong was asked how many children he had? he said:

"Gimyung's the only son I have around his age."

"There's no need to have another child when I've already got a son."

Yeah? what about your other son, huh Gabryong? Didn't you already have a child seven years before you had Gimyung?

Did you not recognize him as your son because you had him outside of your marriage with Minseon?

Hmm I wonder how the kid felt about that. Minseon said he went to rule a gang in Mexico because he "got what he wanted".

"Don't ask me more about that. It's connected to the circumstances of your father's death," said she.

Um... actually ma'am, that's exactly why you need to tell us more because that was hella suspicious. But on second thought, we better end this conversation. I feel like this woman would kill us if we ask any more questions.

But hey, that's just my stupid theory.

Kang Minseon didn't seem to give a damn if her husband ran off to see different women, though. Which he did quite often according to Kim Gimyung.

"Dad, where are you going? Are you leaving mom at home to see those weird girls again?" - Little Gimyung, Ep. 306.

To His Son

"Fuck you, dad" - Kim Gimyung, most definitely.

In Little Gimyung's eyes, his father was an unfaithful man to his family. He often left him and his mom at home to see some "weird girls". Despite that, Gabryong was respected by people for being fair and "using his fist to help people". When Gimyung asked his mom why, all he got was silence. The poor Little Gimyung couldn't wrap his head around it. So he came to one conclusion: gangsters are not cool and he hates them. Several years later with the same mindset as he had when he was little, he ran away from home.

Time went by and the whole Big Deal becoming one of the 4 crews fiasco happened. Gimyung, who just quit Big Deal was faced by a dilemma of whether or not he should help Big Deal girls who were threatened by Samuel at the time. So he consulted his mother about his father in hopes that he would get a hint of what he should do next.

When his mother said that Gabryong had always helped anyone in need and never ignored any form of injustice, Gimyung's hatred for Gabryong seemed to subside. I personally would like to think that Kim Gimyung wearing his dad's gloves symbolizes that he wanted to continue Gabryong's legacy.

The Legendary Fighter and Politician Wannabe, Kim Gabryong

Park Jonggun seemed to have a great amount of respect for Kim Gabryong. When he found out that Kim Gimyung was the son of Kim Gabryong, he immediately lost interest in Seo Seongun. He said to himself, and I quote:

"I wouldn't say no to Gabryong's son taking over Big Deal."

While the fellas in Big Deal also whispered the same thing to each other:

"Is Gimyung-hyung gonna be our leader?"

"Of course. He's Gabryong's son."

Which couldn't help but make me wonder, what does being Gabryong's son have to do with taking over Big Deal?

Are you saying that Big Deal was originally founded by Kim Gabryong?

Idk. That sounds pretty plausible to me. What do you think?

Gabryong "Fist of Justice" Kim was a big guy with big dreams. He got into politics since his youth but alas, he never succeeded. City folks threw eggs at him during his speech, exclaiming that they didn't want a mafia in the congress. However despite those egg-throwing and shit-talking, he kept running for congress every chance he got until his death.

Dude's got the tenacity of two tiny Lego blocks that are attached together by super glue. Not to mention the amount of money that guy must have had for organizing those campaigns, which I'm sure were not cheap.

But what can you say? after all, he was a thug who wanted to change the world with his fist. I guess that's why he wanted to become a congressman so badly.

"You're nothing but a thug. You seriously think you can change the world with your fists?" - Park Jinyoung, Ep. 398.

The Death of Kim Gabryong

The cause of his death is still a mystery. Though I'm 100% sure his wife Kang Minseon knew about it. She just refused to reveal the secret even to her own son. Maybe despite her cold exterior, she's actually worried about how her son would react if he found out the reason behind his father's death. Unbeknownst to her, the lack of answer piqued Gimyung's curiosity even more. He then decided to set a goal. That is to find out what happened in the time period between Generation 0 and Generation 1, that led to his father's death.

And now we're still waiting for Kim Gimyung's next move to achieve that goal.

Will he ask Im Rua to gather some information for him?

Will he travel to Mexico to find his half brother and ask him about his father?

Or... Will he form alliances with Hostel, Burn Knuckles, J High, and the rest of Generation 2 to raid Ilhae, and then torture Yoojin for information?

Dear Kim Gimyung, if the latter is what you have in mind, then I suggest you don't just stop there. Cause I think there's a huge chance Yoojin wouldn't tell you either because he wouldn't want to, or simply because he really has no idea. Here's what I think you should do to gain the maximum amount of info in the quickest way possible.

You and your guys break into Ilhae's HQ.

Beat up the executives (including Songeun if you wanna. Or maybe you'd rather convince him to rejoin Big Deal instead. It's up to you, babe).

Torture Yoojin into revealing the location of Jinyoung's lab.

Steal a vial of truth serum. You won't have to fight Jinyoung first if you're lucky.

Take the serum, go to your mom's house, pour it into her tea. Make sure she drinks that.

And bam. Your mom will voluntarily give you every bit of information you could've asked for.

While you're at it, I'm going to try to make a deduction out of the pieces of clues that I've gathered so far.

Here's a kiss for good luck. Mwah 💋

See you in the next post where I write about the conspiracies around Kim Gabryong's death.