Hereâs what happens when youâre twice most of your employeesâ age, and in a position of power: you always end up giving someone a ride. Tonight itâs Gabriel, who takes up the space of the passenger seat to Leeâs left. English-made like the one who drives it, having people do a confused double-take when they get inside the car is a joke that amuses only him.Â
âIf youâve got any bloody balls between those stick legs of yours,â Lee begins, multi-tasking the wheel and lighting a cigarette against the wind which blows through the window, âthis is the time to show it, mate.â Itâs a bit of a drive, and even maniacs are drawn to small talk. âHow many people have you killed?â
In the sordid malfeasance committed by men smirking at the sight of deaths, Gabriel finds himself in the interjection of chances. Opportunities that should not be missed, rippling before them, with the overture of bloodshed to accompany as a part of consequences. If anything, he should be returning home. Instead, he finds himself seated in Leeâs car, believing that the absence of expectations he has towards the man is whatâs keeping him serene in the situation.
Balls between those stick legs, right. Gabriel is no stranger to those derogatory remarks aimed at his physiques, which is a sign of success. He misleads, a monster placed under the skin of frailty. How many. He gives Lee a cursory glance, before smiling, solemn. âI thought that a man of your calibre would not ask such a question to an underling like me,â he says after a moment of lapse, left intentionally. âLost count. I donât have any interest in counting, and I like them dying after a long period of pain. I donât care enough to check with the hospital after.â He shrugs lightly, his tone kept stagnant. âBesides, why should the number matter? If I get the job done, I get the job done, no?â
...  FEATURING  @jinyoo  /  JIN YOO.
[ Â MARCH 1ST, 2022 Â âââ Â EVENT PART THREE. Â ]
Chaos is rising, then burningâthe plumes a reminder of vacant deaths, meaning close to none. And if anything, heâd say heâs nothing but a bystander, caught in the columns of the warâs throat. After all, he is a low caste in the entire stratifications, his purpose a matter of selfish intents. He doesnât belong in the equation, if anything.
Then, thereâs someone else who doesnât either. He pretends to not notice the shadow that could only belong to Jin, his own frame an apathetic one as he ambles among the turfâs elongated darkness. There is a pair of butterfly knives in his pockets, safely shelved, enough to ensure his own safety for the night⊠or so he thinks. Another life to protect, however, might up the ante in terms of entertainment, so while heâs mostly still untouched, he has a feeling that Jin isnât as fortunate.
He lets Jin come closer to him, turning his back to Jin as if heâd just realised the presence as opposed to moments ago. âOh, itâs you,â he quirks his eyebrows. âNot looking too well, arenât we?â His own tone is a lot of cloaked emotions, exposing next to emptiness, but it should hover between a sense of amusement and concerns, albeit faked for the latter.
...  FEATURING  @dr-monroe  /  LENNOX MONROE.
[  MARCH 1ST, 2022  âââ  EVENT PART THREE.  ]
In his defence, there is none.
The purge is a reckoning, beckoning force that flits into the night. There is no preamble needed to a war; a minuscule ignition was all that was required to propel it into a full-force drive, trembling in the flames. Tonight, he is no longer a spectator. In his quiet urges to smother, he believes it is a justified means. So, when he encounters the underlings of other gangs, he did not entertain any ounce of hesitation. The brambles were there, hurdling his fights. Nobody wants to die, but someone has to. Tangled in the great escape after a few encounters, he is almost grateful that his designer suit is all black.
He isnât the victim, but he might as well play as one. A game of illusions; he feigns a series of grimaces as he clutches onto his barely scathed arm, the blood not entirely his. It only intensifies when he sees a silhouette, painfully familiar, but knows better than to drop the façade; people are more likely to lunge towards the injured in the rush towards triumphs. Misled, but still. Gabriel winces as he sits on the concrete, back against the slab brick walls. Exhales, inhales. Then, he waits.
GENDER / PRONOUNS / ORIENTATION / STATUS: Cisgender male / Masculine â he, him, his / Homosexual homoromantic / Single, has been for a year more or less.
AFFILIATION / POSITION: Assistant forger for The Syndicate since mid-2019 / Recruited via his mentor; specialised in forging paintings, especially when it comes to the works of Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko, with additional capabilities in mimicking other styles, namely Jean-Claude Monetâs impressionism, as well as romantic styles with aptitude towards classical, renaissance areas. Not specialised in them as of yet, but working towards expanding his territorial expertise.
EDUCATION: A graduate from Seoul Foreign School and Trinity School in Manhattan / Currently a 4th year undergraduate student of New York Universityâs Steinhardt school of art, majoring in Studio Art.
FAMILY MEMBERS:
01. /Â Son Junsu / father, 58 / Seoul, South Korea / CEO of their family-owned business, a shareholder and investor well-known amidst the business world, a prominent businessman that leads the entire corporation dwelling mostly in the manufacturing of frozen goods, cooking ingredients, as well as winery industry centered in Ulsan, although they have also moved to invest in shipbuilding parts for the last decade, gaining significant fortune, alongside their endeavours in buying and owning shares of several renowned businesses.
02. / Josephine Ahn-Carbone / mother, 56 / Tuscany, Italy / a socialite, also known for various critiques of arts, specifically in renaissance and impressionism paintings; an avid collectors of arts, often seen in various galas, who also purchases a lot of art pieces from auctions incognito via services.
03. /Â Herald Carbone / step-father, 61 / Tuscany, Italy / a businessman from a family renowned in Italy, married to Josephine four years ago, has been living and travelling with her since; heâs known for his line of works in curating arts, fashion designing, as well as pioneering several clubs, especially for specific automobile brands.
04. /Â Adriel Son / sister, 28 / New York City, USA / a fashion designer and socialite, currently no longer living with any of her family member; known for her rising competence in the world of niche fashion line, catering more towards the famous, her exposures often sourced from her own influence among the wealthy considering their familyâs social status.
05. /Â Daniel Son / brother, 26 / Seoul, South Korea / COO of Son Corporations, currently the one family member to inherit their familyâs line of work, the successor of the father; he mainly delves in the work of technological advancement, and while heâs the closest to the father, heâs isolated from his siblings who pretty much are ignored when it comes to the familyâs business empire.
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Implied symptoms of psychopathy, recurrent violent behaviours in the past now better cloaked; picked up several fights to manipulate the situations into self-defense. Diagnosed dysthymia, fluctuating mood that mostly rests in the depressive spectrum. Manifesting symptoms of borderline personality disorder, mainly the splitting part. Past abuse from his mother, but shows not much of psychological resemblance as her sadistic, occasionally manic swings.Â
NOTABLE PHYSICAL DETAILS: Long hair, typically shoulder-length, bleached, sometimes left to blonde, sometimes dyed to red, fading to pink; 1.8m, lean, toned; leisure yet standoffish gaits, often found in a rather distinct impressions for the most parts, but can adapt to becoming less attention-seeking when necessary, furtive moves adjustable; casual clothing on most days, combining designer t-shirts, skintight jeans, and sneakers or combat boots; a broad range of different styles for occasions, depending on how formal he has to be; both ears pierced â helix, industrial, orbital, lobe; no tattoos as of now.
POSSIBLE CONNECTIONS: Older sister, past-tutors, mentor that introduced him to the affiliates, teachers and friends from past and present educations, high-end society circles, casual friends, future monogamous partner, unrequited crush, flirtatious banters, psychiatrist he occasionally visits when he feels like it, party goers, social climbers.
       âââ ...
If eloquence comes sans tongue, he must have embodied it all too well.
Within the parentheses of elegance often billowed in high-end definitions of magazines, newspapers, articles, those who siphon their living through the edge of the rich would have heard of his family, specifically his father. The silhouettes of gold were all that the last son would know, emblazoning the horizon of a house that became the flask of loneliness.
⊠Eventually, the cusp of destruction.
Think about this: an empire carries on its shoulder an heir. Not three, not two, but who would have cared about the girl that could carry herself well enough to marry rich one day?
The last son, in the end, bears the burden of neglect.
He could count the number of seeing appa home, the amount fewer than the beads of eommaâs rosary within each week. On his back was, is the best clothing, and on his head was, is the best ceiling. One that is unreachable, always. There is no flaw allowed in the diction of a king, and so, there is no flaw allowed in the faction of a prince. In which his father crowned his brother early on, he realised that he would never be within the equation for a father that did not need any incidental addition to the sum.
& then, there is his mother, in all her artistic glory, keen eyes, keener mouth. He inherits her lips, alongside the spiels of everything that renders her another case of ripe and ruin: overflowing melancholy to accompany her relentless pursuit of art, tinted with tendencies to sear thoughts into others. In retrospect, nothing is more beautiful than the fruits of terror. She is the poltergeist that colours his mind in the late hours of the night, her dark a sigh of memory. Remember: she is the vestige that shapes him into the mould just like him. She was not allowed to touch her first son, but her second was dispensable. A father would have no use of two sons, the rift in the family uncalled for. As such, she ripped apart his insides, tearing at the seams of his mind as she chipped away at his sanity. Sometimes, she coaxed; sometimes, she screamed.
( Most of those times, however, in the corridors of the house that no longer felt like home, she sought company in her withering hours. A child should not be a child if he did not sate his motherâs sadness, after all, and what was the better way to quell the cry than to take it as his own? )
Silly, silly little boy with his clumsy hands and flimsy touch.
Growing up with vast collections of arts, he absorbed the styles, the symbols. There was no pride in imitation, however, when he wasnât an exquisite one at coming up with his own signature. A shame. For his father, then for his mother. She was a revered critique, quoted in articles in various art columns. A distinguished taste, she afforded too many pieces she might as well construct her own gallery, and she could have. At the cost of love, though, and she did not want it anymore when the husband was never home, the son was never home. No, not this son, not this failure in progress.
He was doomed to fail, and yet, the choice was not his.
In her frustration was her incinerating everything he could ever love: dancing, but sheâd stop sending him to his ballet classes after he fell in love with the pirouettes, and then music, but sheâd stop spending on his piano lessons after he mastered a classical partiture. It was not, is not art. Or⊠she simply would love to take away everything that he loved, the way he took away everything that she loved. Unintentional on his end, but.
He was barely ten when eomma decided that she might as well pack her bags, leaving nothing behind except everything that he had ever come to know: the paintings, marking his hands in invisible hues. She left the house behind with him inside it, as well as the scattered collages of his dashed dreams. He could never be the next Monet, after all.
Looking back, there must be reluctance shared between his parents over his custody. / Again, who would want a child that felt more foreign than not?
His first psychological examination was at the tender age of eleven, evaluated in response to his fatherâs request: while his mother was periodically manic, he was more on the catatonic side. Less enthusiasm, bearing detachment that appa did not want to deal with. He sent him to school in New York, with the sister whose life mimicked the glitz portrayed on televisions. She was eighteen then, living the life, living the love. There was no room for care, so he developed his own sense of survival after a year. Eomma was not there, at least, so he picked up where he left off with the lessons.
The paint, though, did sear the impression of pain. Therefore, he continued with the mimicking, considering how his teachers prior hadnât granted him that liberty either. His first tutor in the city which language he spoke with an accent was a curator. Mediocre at best in painting, but the man did want easy money. He wasnât there to train the next Gogh, leaving a sour taste on Gabrielâs tongue.
⊠Gabriel, because he discarded Iseul, keeping the ashes in the urn back in Seoul.
The most effortless lesson for the man was to train him to differentiate each style, then each punctuation in each piece of art that he could tell what made eomma love Monet so much. Or so he thought.
He left the man for another mentor that asked whether he could tell which exact paint was chosen for the paintings exhibited in the museum. It was summer, he remembers this distinctly because it was sweltering, without school to suffocate him with endless lessons geared towards the striving students of the wealthy. No, there were too many shades of blue that leaned more towards the green, the transition from cyan to teal all too obvious. He couldnât pinpoint the name of each pigment, but the man picked up his penchant for details. Extremely so.
A lavish name card later, printed on textured paper with muted gold print emboss for the name, it wasnât a prestigious art academy. Instead, the manâs studio was a warehouse. He recognised Monetâs paintings from the get-go, precisely imitated.
No, forged.
Fifteen. He picked up the brushes in manners that exploited his extreme pedantic nature, his artistic tendencies a syllable away from âperfectionâ. His favourite styles were what had never been hung in his motherâs space. Abstract impressionism. There were too many ways to interpret a piece from Pollock, but he would always, always see it with anger.
The rest of the years passed. He was freshly enrolled in NYU when his mentor introduced him to the world that dove deep under. Fortune beyond what was perceived; it might not be purely a white-collar work description, but it was so alluring, the way the world so dark inviting him in with the promise of vengeance.
Yes, eomma took everything that he loved, until he was, is nothing more than a shell. & so, yes, he would be taking parts in the counterfeit industry, actively ruining everything that eomma loves.
