Many people have tried to define my story, but I feel that it's only tellable by the one who lived through it.

That's me.

My name is Jasmine Chin. Most of Detroit, however, calls me Cutup. I'm a police detective, on a team of superhumans called "Motown Heat." The other three members had pretty normal lives up to this point ... with the exception of my friend Meredith, who's deaf ... but I definitely didn't go through my life normally.

I was born in Korea. Yes, in fact, I am Korean by my father, but my mother was a red-blooded American girl. In fact, she was chairman of an automobile company when I was born. She had inherited it from her father when he passed on, several years before I entered the world. She had moved to Korea to personally oversee construction of four tool-and-die plants around Seoul.

She met my father in a small village near the northern border of South Korea called Hoang-Kin. He had been negotiating with her to prevent her from building a plant where Hoang-Kin was. Eventually, the two of them fell in love, and were married by the ambassador in Seoul.

The first few years of my life, as far as I can remember, were happy. We had a carefree life in Korea, living off my mother's residual wealth, while she watched over the construction of her plants. However, things would change in the middle of my fifth birthday party. I remember the talk we had when she found out about the news.

I had heard her crying in the room she shared with my father. Out of child- like curiosity, I walked in. She looked up at me, smiling as bravely as she could.

"What's wrong, mommy?"

She took me in her arms. "Oh, Jasmine, it's so terrible. We're going to be moving soon. Some of mommy's friends have done some things wrong, and now I have to go back and fix them."

"Where?"

"We're going to a big city."

"Bigger than Seoul?"

She smiled. "Oh, much bigger than Seoul. It's a city far away from here, across an ocean, and almost across the land. It's called Detroit."

"Will we come back?"

Her face drooped. "I don't know, Jasmine honey. That's the thing. I just don't know." She hugged me tighter.

What had actually happened? Simple -- some of my mother's investment partners had actually been small-time gang bosses, who had all been using her company as a front to launder drug money. Unfortunately, all of them were brought to justice, and all named my mother as an accomplice.

We were all moved with her to Detroit. After establishing that both my father and I were U.S. citizens, they let us in the country. However, as soon as we got out of customs, the police were there waiting for my mother. They quickly arrested her, carrying her away through my tears. My father had a small stock of cash on hand, however, and we managed to find an apartment to live in.

My mother's trial lasted for seven months, after countless witnesses and new evidence kept holding up an eventual verdict. When it finally came down, neither me nor my father were very happy to hear it: guilty of six counts of criminal racketeering. She was so distraught that she collapsed on the floor.

Later that night, the doctor told us that she had died.

I think it was the news that my mother had died which started my father down the road he eventually went down. I could tell it from the night after we came back from the hospital, for the first time without my mother. He sat me down on his lap and hugged me for a long time. Finally, he looked at me.

"We're going to have to be brave now, you and me."

I didn't know what he meant.

"Now that mommy is gone, I'm going to have to raise you alone, without any help."

He pressed me tighter to him. "From now on, it's just me and you, Jasmine."

From that point on, it seemed as if he wanted something, something which I couldn't tell what it was. His bearing was always down, his head hanging, sitting in the den nursing glass after glass of bourbon.

I settled into the role that my mother probably would have taken: that of the housewife. I did most of the cleaning chores around the house while my father worked. It became a hard thing, trying to balance schoolwork with housework, but I soon fell into the routine. I felt like I had to earn my father's love somewhat, since when I did a good job, he would reward me with attention and affection.

Our relationship continued like that for many years, up until I was 14, in the middle of my freshman year of high school at Chadsey. He had had what I could say was an extremely hard day. He seemed to be a little more angry than usual. He knocked aside the glass of vodka I offered him, as he looked up at me. The look in his eyes frightened me.

"What's wrong, dad?"

I could see something in his eyes, I didn't know what.

"You know what my problem is, Jasmine?"

Backing away from him, I frightenedly shook my head "no."

"Since your mother died, I haven't been able to get lucky."

I didn't know what he was talking about. I wish I had.

"Why not?"

He swung a fist at me. It caught me square alongside the head. I collapsed to the floor.

"Because of you! My whole sex life has been ruined because of you!!"

He grabbed my wrist, dragging me to a bedroom. I don't know if he knew he was hurting me or not.

"You're not standing in my way anymore! You're NOT standing in my way ..."

He threw me on the bed. My memories are clouded for a short period of time after that, but the last thing I remember is him hitting me in the face again while he tore off my jeans ...

When I finally awakened, I saw a light on in the den. I pulled myself out of the bed, looking around to find myself in my father's room. Hoping he wouldn't see me, I crept back into my room, getting new clothes (I was naked) and looking into the den to see what was happening. To my relief, he had passed out watching TV.

Suddenly, the revelation hit me: I had been violated in the worst manner possible. And not by any stranger, either: it had been my own father! I had to run away. That was the only thought running through my head: run away .... run away ... far away ....

I opened the door, not even closing it behind me, and began running. I ran through the night, tears flowing, not stopping at all. I ran and ran, hoping that I would lose the sad feelings I had, but not feeling any better. Finally, my legs gave way from below me, and I collapsed into a pile of trash in a back alley. It was suitable ... I felt like worthless trash.

The next morning, I was surprised to find myself awakening in a bed. When I had enough courage to open my eyes, I noticed that I wasn't in my room.

The memories of the night before rushed back to my mind: my father ... the pain ... NO!"

"No what, honey?"

A strange looking woman walked into the room, holding a pile of clothes.

"You know, I'd have to say that a bed is much more comfortable than that pile of trash I found you in last night."

I pulled my legs toward my body, wrapping my arms around them. "What's it matter? I'm trash anyway."

A stern look, almost motherly, came across her face. "Now don't you ever think that, sweetie. No matter what you've done, you're not trash."

She set the pile of clothes on the bed and approached me. Slowly, she reached her hand out to mine. I reluctantly took it.

Mom had always told me I should never trust strangers. But after what my father had done to me, who could I trust?

"Listen, there's a reason why I plucked you out of that trash bin. You look like you need a friend."

I nodded slowly. I think I trusted her from the start.

"Let's start slowly. What's your name?"

I could barely whisper it. Finally it came out.

"Jasmine. Jasmine Chin."

"That's a start, Jasmine. Well, Jasmine, you can just call me Rocky."

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I had reason to smile.

"Now, I suggest you clean up and change your clothes. I've got breakfast waiting for you." She smiled one last time before walking out of the room.

I looked at the pile of clothes on the bed. It looked like workout gear for a health spa. I shrugged it off, figuring any clothes that were clean were better than what I was wearing at the time, so I picked up the pile and walked into the bathroom.

Over the course of that first day, I came to know Rocky much better. She had been a military knife instructor for a while before she retired. Never married. No children of her own. Having been retired for about six years, she needed something to keep her time occupied, so she started plucking runaways from the streets and helping them in any way she could. Unfortunately, that didn't make her very popular with the city department of child services.

Finally, it came up.

"Why did you really take me out of that trash bin?"

Rocky sighed, then started her explanation.

"You looked like you had potential. Jasmine, if you'll allow me, I'd like for you to live with me for a while. While you're here, I'll continue your schooling, in more ways than one."

"You say I have potential. For what?"

"I see you as someone who never had to defend herself for any reason. Leaving you out on the streets would have killed you in one way or the other. I figure that before you end up on the street again, you should have some knowledge of how to defend yourself. That's exactly what I'm going to teach you."

I nodded. It had hit me all of a sudden: this was a woman who cared about my welfare unconditionally. At the least ... she was a substitute mother.

"All right."

"Good. We will be starting early tomorrow morning, so hit the sack for now, and get as much rest as you can."

I nodded, walking into the bedroom that Rocky had set up for me and slipping into the bed. I slept easier that night than before I could remember.

"UP AND AT 'EM, GIRL!"

The sound of Rocky's voice awakened me with a start. I leapt out of bed and broke into a run to the bathroom.

"Ten minutes to get showered and dressed before breakfast, Jasmine. It's 4:30 in the morning, time's a-wastin'!"

After breakfast, we went into the basement of Rocky's house, where she had a full gym set up, or what appeared to me to be one. There was a large crowd of weight equipment in one corner, the floor was covered with a gymnast mat, and in another corner rested four hanging dummies for fight practicing. Rocky led me to the middle of the floor and handed me a strange long object.

"My dear girl, this is your best friend. Learn to use him correctly, cherish him, love him. This, Jasmine, is your knife."

It didn't look like a knife. It looked like a jagged piece of rubberized plastic with a wood handle.

"Oh, of course, that's not a knife knife. That's a practice knife, one you'll use when you don't want to cut off any bodily extremities."

I nodded, understanding. Rocky led me over to the dummies.

"Now, when someone wants to efficiently attack with a knife, how do you suppose they hold it?"

I turned the dummy knife in my hand so that the blade pointed out from the thmbside of my hand. Rocky nodded.

"That's good, Jasmine, but there's an even better way to do it."

Rocky picked up a butter knife from one of the tables, placing it in her hand so that the blade of it pointed downward from the heel of her hand.

"This way allows you more control over the direction your knife goes."

She turned her attention to one of the dummies. "I'll tell you this, the dummies' surfaces replicate human tissue as closely as they possibly can. There's no way anything non dangerous can harm them."

She suddenly jumped into the air, hands in front, knife pointed outward toward the dummy. With a smooth motion, she planted the blade of the butter knife into the left shoulder of the dummy, putting all her weight on it as she flipped over the dummy. Landing on the other side, she paused to catch her breath.

"Take a look for yourself, Jasmine."

I did. The butter knife was planted entirely in the dummy, up to the handle.

"Remember, any knife is dangerous. If enough weight is placed on it, even a butter knife can pierce skin and muscle."

I nodded, in understanding. Rocky smiled.

"Good. Now, let's continue ..."

My lessons with Rocky continued like that for the next three years. During that time, she taught me everything I would ever need to know about bladed combat, as well as the use of throwing knives and a limited amount of tae kwon do. I only occasionally collapsed to the point that I didn't want to go on. Every time, though, Rocky was there, guiding my actions and helping me regain enough strength to continue.

A relationship with her developed as well. After a while, it seemed as if we were the mother and daughter that were always meant to be. She seemed more like a mother than my real mother had been, she had definitely been more of a parent than my father, and we were also the best of friends.I finally got up the courage to tell her what had sent me out on the strets. She didn't react with revulsion toward me, or with disdain: all she did was take me in her arms and hold me until I had cried my peace.

The year I turned 17, a new development occurred.

Rocky liked picking up her newspaper every morning, and as I looked through the front section, I noticed a loud column headline.