Surrender, the word was like gum on the bottom of her shoe.
It makes her skin crawl. When thinking of surrender one would imagine a big show with white flags, a cease fire, and someone from the other side making a big show of celebrating. In actuality, surrender is as simple as falling into the embrace of the forbidden. But, for Kyungri, surrender has never been an option. Never. Surrender is considered an act of desperation in her eyes, one made out of weakness, for those with a constantly thinning books of options and cracked watches. Her surrender is buying the plane ticket, eyes glassy as she breathes out just once then closes her eyes so she doesn't have to face her decision. It's stupid if anyone knew what she was planning she'd be locked up before she could blink. She cannot allow that to happen.
Her destination lies in Nevada where she'd been involved in a chase or two a few years back. She'd been under a different name and in a different era, she'd been reckless and stupid then. A recklessness that never really left. She'd heard a whisper that a prison in Nevada was rumored to be holding a woman she's wanted to get her hands on for months for drug trafficking. In the underground, there was whispers of a more extensive business. That's her only information, nothing more nothing less.
But it isn't her surrender that made it all so utterly stupid--oh no---there was always more. Always.
It was what she'd done just before that might just get her killed. She could escape from a prison with little worry but a couple of Sunggyu's mongrels would put a bullet through her skull. On a whim, she'd placed her hands in a pot where they didn't belong and stirred up just a bit of trouble. At the time, it was minor, but now looking back she wondered if she'd messed with the wrong pawn. Her research on them had been limited, their name only learned in passing. A man, like a ghost in the city, that she wanted to become known. Still, whether it be on a druggy or one of his dogs a gun would work the same. All it took was a few baseless tips and a couple planted objects at a scene she'd left so pretty to make things interesting.
The satisfaction as everything fell into place even as he was released, hands tucked in his pockets. He is wound up tight, like a string is tied to the few tuffs of hair that stick out from his hood are keeping him upright. As she watches, practically invisible against the brick she notes he never once slouches. On guard. Stomping out a lit cigarette she leaves the shadows and packs a bag. Taking chances on getting caught up in his anger would be unwise, so she calls to change her flight. Despite the paranoia, the events make her feel better about the ruined dress that lie in a black plastic bag in the back of her closet, untouched and collecting dust.
The only reason it wasn't already gone was because every time she'd catch sight of it she'd get sick to her stomach.
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