Pitbabe S2, Chapter 23 pg 7

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 23 pg 7

   “But the higher-ups told us to hold off for now, sir.”

   “Those guys are just scared of getting caught. But ask yourself, if we pull this off now, won’t they be thrilled? Just send word, and in a few hours, they’ll come wagging their tails.”

   “I’m just worried it’s too risky, sir.”

   “If you don’t take risks, what do you get?” The boss shot me a look, as if teaching me a lesson through his gaze. I wanted to bite my tongue for blurting out something unnecessary, knowing full well this room never had space for my opinions. But with the changes happening in this house—and in me—I kept forgetting my place in ways that were unforgivable.

   “We’re not the only ones with goals. Others have them too. And in the real world, the first to arrive gets to pick the best cut of meat.”

   His teachings were nothing but the truth. Bitter and hard to hear, but I could never deny them. Maybe because I grew up with lessons like these, they were both my scripture and my lullaby, nurturing and shaping me into someone useful to him, at least to some extent.

   “What we’re doing now is trying to persuade our rivals to back off nicely. But if they won’t budge, we have no choice but to pull them in as our vehicle to move forward faster. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Then answer me. If a rival keeps getting in our way, why don’t we just eliminate them?”

   “Because ‘nothing in this world is useless,’ sir.”

   “Excellent.” Boss Tony smiled with pride, pleased that I’d memorized his teachings by heart. “Before we discard anything, we need to be sure we’ve squeezed every bit of use out of it. Opportunities don’t slip from our hands—we’re the ones who throw them away.”

   If he hadn’t made it big in business, I think he’d be a famous motivational speaker. It’s not just his simple, relatable metaphors, but because he sees things most people overlook. To be fair, you can’t blame the average person—not everyone gets the chance to experiment endlessly like he does.

   “If you understand what I’m saying, you know what to do next, right?”

   “Yes, sir,” I replied confidently. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it from here.”

   “Good.”

   “I’ll take my leave then.”

   “Yeah, go do what you need to,” he nodded, giving me permission to go, but not without his usual parting order, like it was tradition. “Wherever you go, take the kids with you, or at least bring Winner along. It’s dangerous to go out alone.”

   Lately, though, his parting words seemed to carry a hidden meaning. I’m sure I’m not overthinking it, but his use of “dangerous” doesn’t seem to refer to external threats at all.

   “Yes, sir.”

   “And… come back home to sleep sometimes.”

   He’d never once told me to stay at the house, not in all the years I can remember. It was always me, shamelessly lingering, convincing myself this was my home and that I had a grand duty to protect my benefactor with my life.

   But now that I have “another home,” it’s like he’s just realized I might not always be around.

   “Yes, sir.”

   That’s all I said before walking out of his office, leaving the house he told me to return to sometimes, and heading toward the other home I’ve been staying at for a while.

   A tiny house, no bigger than Tony’s bathroom, but to me, it feels like a grand mansion.

   “I’m back.”

   I say the same thing every time I open the door to this apartment, my hands loaded with giant shopping bags from the supermarket, while my mouth never forgets its duty. I never understood why people say “I’m back” before. My whole life—eating, sleeping, working—was in that same old mansion. No one ever waited for me to come home. No one ever asked where I was going. But since I upgraded myself from the mansion and started spending most of my time here, I’m beginning to get this kind of culture.

   “Ken, is that you?!” a voice called back. “I’m in the kitchen!”

   Just from that short phrase, I could sense the chaos in their tone and couldn’t help but chuckle. But my mood faltered when my eyes caught a pair of leather shoes by the entrance. The size and style were unfamiliar—definitely not the apartment owner’s. Suspicion shot through my mind instantly. I quickly stepped out of my shoes, kicking them off, and hurried to the kitchen, hoping to find answers to the questions nagging at me.

   “Hey! You went to the supermarket and didn’t tell me? I could’ve asked you to grab some beer.”

   The mystery was quickly solved. The owner of the leather shoes was standing in the kitchen, chewing on dried squid, while the apartment’s owner, dressed in a purple eggplant-patterned apron, stood frowning at a packet of instant noodles by the stove, not even bothering to acknowledge me.

   I’d told Kim from the start that I didn’t want anyone knowing I was staying here, even his inner circle. But, as usual, he caved. Seeing Babe struggling and emotionally vulnerable, Kim brought him over to comfort him at the house. And what’s the result? Now Babe has become a regular drop-in member of this household. Whether I like it or not, there’s nothing I can do about it—because this is Kim’s place, not mine.

   “What are you doing here?” I asked, setting the supermarket bags on the counter.

   “Came to mooch some food,” Babe replied shamelessly, even rummaging through the bags I’d just put down as if he owned the place. “What’d you buy?”

   “Kim,” I ignored Babe and turned to Kim, who was still staring at the back of the noodle packet like he was deciphering a treasure map.

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