Chapter One : The Great Pretender.

                 RED STAINS THE bathroom floor, pouring a waterfall onto the yellowing tiles, nearing a drab, watered-down coffee color. Piles of old, scratchy toilet paper press kisses against the ground, soaking up what's left of the leaking fluid.

Nimble hands bunch the paper and throw it into the trash, thick and sagging with sanguinary poison.

Chae Jiwoo exits the bathroom stall, one body lighter. In the public pipes sits her unborn baby, in her heart another soul.

The tap water runs, and the blood engraved against Jiwoo's fingertips begins to peel off. The ceramic bowl is stained red.

Still, Jiwoo cannot find herself to feel heartbroken over a child she couldn't carry. There are no maternal bones in a devil's body, nothing for her cold claws to hold onto gently.

Only fangs that serve to tear everyone apart, and that is exactly what Jiwoo wants.

She takes a look into the blurry mirror. Sometimes, if she stares too long at her reflection, Jiwoo realizes she has no conception of what she truly looks like. Beauty is all she knows will never fail her, and she takes that switchblade and wields it like a sword.

Her red lips ( The same color as the smudges of blood unable to be scrubbed from the ground, Jiwoo notes with an unsympathetic smile ) purse against her face, and she exits the bathroom.

The old building buzzes with the secret of Jiwoo's murder, every step another echo of her sins across the linoleum floor.

No one mourns the Wicked; Jiwoo supposes that should go for their children, as well.

Seoul is a carcass of empty shells and bustling streets, every dull color splattered against the ground, eyes trained to the floor. If they look up, they'll be seared by the sun.

Chae Jiwoo dares to defy the law; She is not bound by existential fear for anything but her own wellbeing, a trait neither good nor inherently bad.

The bustling streets part for the Jiwoo's arrival. The pavement opens its concrete jaws to greet the shoes that kiss its jagged lips.

Jiwoo is a woman on a mission, and that mission halts for no one.
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                     CHAE JIWOO DOES not take no for an answer. It's one of the codes of a King. She gets what she wants regardless of who she leaves bitten and bloody on the floor behind her.

Unfortunately, Jiwoo cannot be a King when she can't even afford basic necessities. She cannot rule over people who hold more power than her, and so she must burrow the hatred that seeps out of her, bite her tongue, and pretend that a specimen such as herself can be lumped against rotten peasantry.

There no longer exist massacres behind her every step. The splints against her neck, once perfectly straight, bend under the weight of false pretenses. Jiwoo likes pretending to be a King, but only a jester believes they are someone they clearly cannot be.

Her emperor is among the rats of Seoul, beady-eyed and eager to use his grubby hands to touch what he should not. He stands, staring down at Jiwoo ( The action alone makes her jaw clench, teeth begging to sink into his flesh. She holds herself back ) from the front desk.

With a voice as oily as his slick-back hair, leaving no forehead or receding hairline to the imagination, he gives Jiwoo a look of superiority and berates her with another one of his unbearable sermons. A carnal urge to unhinge his jaw and stuff it into her bag arises in the woman, but she stifles it down into a dull simmer.

"You're late, you don't even do your job right, and you still want to get paid in advance?" He scoffs, laying his three hairs to one side. The dirt on his upper lip wriggles, a caterpillar trying to crawl off his strangely humid skin.

"I told you — " Jiwoo tries to keep a calm exterior, tongue pressed against her teeth, white knuckles clasped against her lower stomach. "— I have something important coming up, and I need that money. It's not even that much."

His sausage-like fingers massage the bridge of his nose. "I don't give advances."

"Can't you make an exception?" Jiwoo sighs. "It's not that difficult. You're the boss here, aren't you?"

When Adam thinks he can outwit his creator, he is instead faced with another foe: The Serpent. She slithers against his body, squeezing him until he is nothing but pulp and dust in a suit of skin unbefitting of meaningless molecules.

Her boss purses his lips, wiping the sweat off his pudgy hands against his pants. The name tag against his wrinkled shirt is lopsided, his topmost button open. Jiwoo scours his body like a hungry animal, looking for what to devour within this man who thinks himself greater than her.

"Of course I am." He looks proud of himself, and every breath he takes is another aching moment when his shirt is on the verge of bursting open. "I'd be more willing to make an exception if you were actually good at your job."

The sign that lays propped against the front desk glimmers in anticipation, waiting to be held once more, twirled in pirouettes and leaps like a dancer of sorts, to attract attention to a place where no attention is ever drawn.

"I work my ass off trying to get customers to come in! I wear every skimpy outfit you give me even if it's the dead of winter! How much better at my job do you want me to be?"

"It's not my fault the service at this motel is shit." Jiwoo adds in a mutter, once she has leveled the rage in her voice to be a soft trill, tossing her hair to one side.

The man considers this for a moment, probably imagining Jiwoo in those ridiculous outfits he made her wear ( Snow boots and a piece of clothing you could hardly call a shirt and shorts? The sight is almost blasphemous ) and hides a smirk beneath his hands.

"Fine." He submits. Jiwoo's smile grows wider. "But just this one time. I'll call the cops on you if you don't show up for work tomorrow. Got it, Ye-ji?"

Jiwoo flashes the man a coy smirk. "I'll be here. I swear."

Once the money is in her pocket, and her feet hit the concrete, the woman doesn't even bother looking back.

"Good riddance." She mutters to herself on the way out, an inflated sense of pride bubbling against her chest. "And good luck trying to call the cops on someone who doesn't even exist."

The bills fill her pockets with what feels like gold. The debt piling up against her back cries out weakly, but she ignores it. For now; It's time to focus on Chae Jiwoo and Chae Jiwoo only.

From the false lining in her jacket, Jiwoo feels for the cardboard-like card donning a triad of shapes.

She punches the number in, watching it ring. The earth swallows itself in anticipation.

The automated voice hums into her ear, the busy Seoul background fading into meaningless white noise.

"If you wish to participate, please state your name and birthdate."

Jiwoo's lips curve into her signature cheshire smirk. "Chae Jiwoo. September 8, 1994."
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The receiver trills softly, as if rewinding a message. "Confirmed."
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                     JUST ONE MORE time. Seo Hakyun can take the sting, he can take the lingering ache, so long as it means earning some free cash.

( Everything comes with a price, but when you can't afford that, then even the free things become more expensive ).

One more time, he locks his arm into place, ignoring the muscles that tense around his shoulder. If he pretends the pain doesn't exist, maybe by some miracle it'll go away. The nerves rise to his chest, and he closes his eyes in hopes it'll give him strength.

The folded red paper against Hakyun's grip trembles slightly under the piercing gaze of the impeccably dressed man.

Hakyun brings his fist down, and the small ddakji square lands with a loud smack on the floor, echoing throughout the half empty subway station.

He opens his eyes, blinking against his thick fringe. A silent prayer is uttered, left unanswered. The blue square sits unmoved.

"You lost." The man says matter-of-factly. There is no malice in his tone; Only a sick sort of pleasure.

Hakyun braces himself, eyes screwing shut and jaw clenching out of habit. From his lips escapes a string of curses, muffled by the sound of the roaring subway that passes by them in an instant.

The slap hits him like a sack of bricks, heavy against his cheek. The sound echoes impossibly loud against the walls of the subway station, louder than the ddakji hitting the floor earlier.

The man runs his tongue against the lining of his cheek and teeth, tasting the acrid blood that begins to seep from a nick on his lips.

"One more game." Hakyun insists with a sniffle, trying to hide the small trail of dry blood against his left nostril. His cheeks feel as though they've been set aflame.

Instead, the man hands Hakyun a small brown card. It feels almost fuzzy against his fingertips.

"If you want to play games like this one and win bigger prizes, we'll be waiting for you." He smiles placidly.

Hakyun stares at the card in disbelief. The small emblem of a square, triangle, and circle decorate one side, while the other has a number. There is no name. The man looks up in confusion, hoping to get at least some clarification, only to find himself alone.

Hakyun ponders this offer for a moment. In his pocket sits 300,000 won, and on his face, another 400,000. If the man isn't lying, he could win a lot more.

Thinking back to his dingy one-room apartment and the leaky roof, Hakyun shivers into his dirty jacket. He's two months behind on rent, and it's a miracle he still has electricity and water. The bills keep mounting higher and higher, the dept piling up into a mountain Hakyun doesn't know if he can climb.

He pockets the card. For later, he tells himself.

( He knows he'd be a fool to let an opportunity such as this slip through his fingers. What he doesn't know is that he is a fool regardless ).
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                     DRAINED OF THE beating he had just received, Hakyun arrives back to his home in a heap of messy hair and aching limbs.

His face hits the rickety old bed before his body does, smothering the air from his nostrils and digging his own rib bones into his old flesh. The fading scent of lint and detergent lingers like a whisper upon the worn sheets, and Hakyun buries himself further beneath the cool material.

When he feels an awkward jab by the pit of his stomach, he finally undresses himself, stripping off his large sweater. The thin card peeks out from the dark pockets, an inviting expression on its multishaped face.

A small droplet of moldy water falls onto Hakyun's shoulder. He scowls. The offer grows even more enticing than ever.

"Should I call?" He asks no one in particular. Having lived alone for so long, a man develops strange habits, among those being the act of talking to oneself.

When he lets his thoughts stray too far, they crumple up and return to a place that he can never escape from; Cold eyes and sharp teeth, sweet smiles and fake promises.

He shakes his head. Chae Jiwoo could be dead for all he cares.

( And yet, still, she lingers ).

The temptation begins to eat him alive. When you have nothing, even something so fake as winning millions upon billions of dollars can be an opportunity if you so choose to believe it.

To Seo Hakyun, that cardboard card is made out of gold, and he must follow the paper trail to where it ends.

He really should blame those who made him who he is for instilling such a carnal greed in his blood flow.

Hakyun's phone rings. Dread fills his gut.

( Is this truly what he wants? Then, in a swirl of dark hair and sweet whispers, he gets his answer. Absolutely ).

When the voice asks for his name, there is no hesitation that lingers in his deep, almost nasally voice.

"February 16, 1995. Seo Hakyun."

"Confirmed." The robotic voice echoes against the walls.

Hakyun's fate has been set into motion.

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‎ ‎‎♱ AUTHOR'S NOTE !

five days too late but finally here is the first chapter !!! pretty boring and basic but trust things will get more interesting once the games start

anyway hi and welcome to bloodsport! i hope you are all enjoying the story so far even though my writing is lowkey ass at the moment LMAOO and also the chapter is so short (i planned a 4k work chap, ended up w a 2.5k word chap)

a bit more background on jiwoo's character than hakyun's and a small snippet of her life and how she feels that she can't be responsible enough to care for a child so she'd rather get rid of it 😞 also that small snippet takes place a few months before the games even start LMAOO so no she did not abort her fetus right before the games it was just to delve a bit deeper on how she feels about herself and also others ^^

if you couldn't tell already, jiwoo is narcissistic el oh el if you didn't notice that's probably because it's really hard to write a narcissistic character when they don't have anything to boast about (aka jiwoo is broke as hell) !!! also hakyun's personality is kinda iffy rn but trust once we get to the games it's all sad pathetic yearning and i'm living for it ^^

since hakyun is more on the timid and quiet side, i'm trying to keep him sort of mysterious until he begins opening up, in which the writing of his character will also open up and you guys will slowly get to know more about him and how he begins to detach himself from jiwoo!!! ahh i love this fic sm hopefully i don't lose motivation ‼️

so far i have some ideas for love interests for both of them, which is still a surprise, but for the most part i want to focus on developing their characters further... i promise they are more complex than they seem i js really suck at first chapters unfortunately 😞

also now that im going over their dynamics hakyun probably has like stockholm syndrome or something cuz jiwoo is alwaysssss on his damn mind 😭 i love him tho hes everything to me

other than that pls lmk if there are any mistakes in the spelling or anything so i can fix it !

also don't b afraid to vote or comment, i will probably (very likely) reply!!!! and if you don't understand something, plsplspls lmk!! i want yall to fully understand what's going on

happy reads!

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─── ANNIE