3. Seojun

CHAPTER 3

SEOJUN

I 'm watching the door and everyone who enters like a hawk, drumming my long manicured nails on the coffee table.

There's a girl with pink hair—jealous!—in denim overalls who stares at her phone the whole time before she picks up a frappuccino and goes back out into the jungle of the New York streets.

A guy in a business suit would fit the criteria if he didn't sit in one of the six-people sitting areas, occupying it all by himself and talking loudly on the phone about his wife and lover.

Or the older white gentleman in his late forties who looks like he's escaped from Woodstock and stolen Bob Marley's dreads in the process.

So many people. So many potential suspects, yet it's none of them. No. They're normal people, living their normal lives, making their normal way through their normal world.

I check my watch. This person's late. Figures. Maybe this is a trap. Maybe they're watching me, assessing me.

Maybe they're about to throw a hood over my head, shove me into a black van, and take me out of this world like they did with my family.

"Another coffee?" the girl who works here asks me as she picks up my empty glass, and I nod.

Maybe it's her. Maybe this whole Espresso Blues establishment is under their control and everyone is playing their role until it's time to "take me out."

"Here you go," she says after a couple of minutes, setting a new iced espresso on my table.

The scent of the fresh ground coffee infiltrates my nostrils, and I shrug as I take my first sip.

Oh well. If I'm already trapped, I might as well enjoy it.

The girl points her card machine at me, and I swipe my card.

"Oh no. It looks like the card was declined. Do you want to try?—"

I set the glass back down and take the card machine from her.

"Probably just a glitch," I say and sign the blank screen again before I show it to her.

She takes it, looks at the blank screen, and thanks me before walking away.

Works every time.

When it comes to small purchases, I could literally sign for it in the air and it would be accepted.

I sit there sipping my coffee, wondering how long I should give these people before they reveal themselves, when someone, a guy with short black hair, a five o'clock shadow, and acne across his cheeks in a T-shirt and distressed jeans, approaches me, and I raise an eyebrow.

"What?" I ask him.

Only two types of people fit this guy's simple profile. A guy who needs to charge his laptop and you're sitting in the only available outlet. Or the overconfident guy who wants to ask for your number in between shitting himself.

"Are you Jay, by any chance?"

I'm already opening my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but I somehow manage to snap it shut and smile.

"You must be with SPAM," I say.

He extends his hand and pulls up the chair across from me.

"John McTarget, a pleasure to meet you. I believe you contacted us."

I narrow my eyes and try to reassess him with this newfound information. He certainly doesn't look like a secret agent type of guy. He doesn't have the muscle or the jaw for it, which only makes me wonder what kind of mess I have landed my ass in by putting myself on their radar.

Because, let me tell you, when I found out from one of the private detectives I've hired to help me find my family that there's a mysterious government body that monitors and manages people with superpowers, the first thing that came to mind was Men-in-Black .

I don't know why, but that's what I thought.

But John McTarget is no Will Smith or Chris Hemsworth.

Now, I'm not exactly sure what to anticipate from this Special Processing And Management agent.

"Why yes, I'm Jay. In the flesh and Gucci. Thank you so much for answering my call. Would you like a coffee, John?"

It's easy to switch from regular old Seojun into the Sinister Seomyeong hard at work supervillaining, despite my surprise.

"Oh no, that's not necessary." John shakes his head and adjusts on the seat, dragging the chair closer to the table. "Please, Jay, tell me. How can we help you? You mentioned something about power shortages when you're around?"

Fine. Cut to the chase then.

I purse my lips, widen my eyes, put on the innocent boy fa?ade I've perfected over the years, and lean closer to John.

"Yes, John. Can I call you John?" He nods, but I'm already continuing the spiel I have prepared. "See, I've always had…devices blow, go on the fritz in my hands. I just thought I was unlucky, you know? But lately…it's worse. I will step into a building, and it will just go poof!" I open and close my hands to indicate how serious my fictional power is. "All the electrics go out."

John nods and looks at the espresso machine whistling on the other side and I sigh.

"It's random. I can't control it," I add to get back his attention. "It's impossible to live my life normally anymore. That's why I contacted you. I saw your ad in the paper." Who even reads the paper anymore? No wonder it took me so long to find out they exist. "And I thought, maybe they can help. What do I have to lose?" Other than my life , of course . But I kept the last part to myself.

I don't know why, but the more I speak, the more John watches me, and the more convinced I become that they're behind Omma's and Min's disappearance.

"That's right, Jay. SPAM can help you. We've helped countless others with their powers. Helped them regain control of their lives and become safer for those around them."

Safer, huh? Is that why you took my family ? To make everyone else safer ? Then why didn't you take me ? That is what I want to say. What I actually say is, "Oh, that's amazing, John. That's what I want. I want my life back. When do we start? I'm sure we need to go to your office so you can process me…"

I let the words hang in the air, inviting him to finish my sentence, but the fucker doesn't.

"I'm so glad you reached out. There's no need to go to my office. Actually, it's not allowed. But what we can do to start with is set up regular meetings so we can monitor your powers at work. What happens, when it happens, if there are any triggers, whether emotional or physical?—"

"Oh, screw that," I breathe out. That's gonna take too long. Time to switch tactics. "Actually, John, I know all about SPAM," I tell him, dropping the innocent act and assuming my most serious expression. "I'm actually…an inspector. Yeah. An inspector and I need to…inspect your department. So you need to take me to your office. Now."

John's stance immediately changes. He arches his shoulders back and fills his lungs with air, making his chest look bigger.

Peacocking? Really?

I almost laugh, but I restrain myself.

"Inspector? We don't have inspectors," he says under heavily hooded lids before he pushes his chair back. "I don't know who you are or who you think you are, but…goodbye."

He starts walking away from me, and I rush after him. I'm not going to let him run on me that easily. Not when I'm so close.

"One more moment." I grab him by the shoulder and step in front of him. "I can prove it to you."

I dig my hand under my fur coat and bring out my pen, searching for something, anything to sign.

"Prove it how?" he asks when I spot just the thing.

I reach for the dirty napkin on the table next to mine and look at John. "Here is the proof you need that I am an inspector and you need to take me to your office right now."

I sign the napkin without breaking eye contact and pass it to him.

He grimaces in confusion, but as soon as he glances at my signature, his face changes.

"Oh my…I'm so sorry, sir. I…didn't know. Of course. I will take you to my office right away, sir. Please follow me."

I smirk and follow him out into the street.

"I didn't realize we even had inspectors. This is the first I've heard of it. I hope you can forgive me and won't mark me down on your inspection."

He turns to me with puppy-dog eyes, and I take great pleasure in making this man squirm.

"We'll see, darling John. Now lead the way," I tell him, and he walks ahead. "Oh, and one more thing. You've been signed. By the Sinister Seomyeong."

He nods as if he knows what I'm talking about, but they never do. They're always in such a trance when they're signed. I could tell them I'm a clown god, and they'd agree.

John McTarget walks frantically around the block, but I wasn't born to walk, so I have to stop him when he attempts to cross the street. "Can we take a cab, John?"

"No need, sir. It's not far at all. Just around the corner."

I stop and take in my surroundings. It's not Midtown, but I still know Harlem better than I know Brooklyn, and I'm sure I'd have noticed a government building all these years.

The little guy turns green, and John starts crossing the street, but I keep one eye on him, twirling my pen in my fingers in case my signature is already wearing off or he's leading me to a trap and I need to sign him again.

After another block and a half—seriously, does he think I'm an Olympic sprinter or something?—he stops short in front of a stonemason building and smiles.

No, correction.

An abandoned, dilapidated stonemason building.

"What?" I ask him when he doesn't say anything, even after three whole seconds.

"This is it," he says.

"This is what?"

"This is our office."

I grimace and glance back and forth between him and the building. It has shutters across the first-floor windows, while the top windows are covered by a huge For Sale sign.

"You're trying to tell me your department works out of a derelict building you can't even access. Cut the bullshit and take me to your real office." I raise my pen in the air, ready to sign his fucking forehead if I have to.

"But, sir, this is the real office."

I glance behind him, still holding the pen in a threatening manner. "I'd have an easier time buying that the bodega next door is your real office than this abandoned building."

"P-please, sir. Follow me," he says, ducking into the alley on the other side of the bodega and turning to look at me.

"You better not be lying to me, McTarget."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

As I follow him into the alley, I wonder if I can sign someone dead. I've never tried it. I'm not a monster. But I can't help but wonder. Maybe John doesn't deserve that fate, but what about the people who made my family disappear? Can I sign them dead?

He stops in front of a garbage skip and smiles like an idiot while there's a big muddy puddle between us.

"Let me guess. The skip is your office," I say.

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"Of course not, sir. Come on," he says.

I huff.

"You expect me to fly there, John?"

He gives me the once-over like many people have done in the past—I'm used to it—but if he finds anything wrong with me or my appearance, he doesn't say so. At least not while he's under the influence of my signature.

"You can walk, no?"

"Walk?" I laugh. "Walk through the mud? Darling, these"—I point at my pink trainers—"are Jimmy Choos. And they're not going anywhere near that puddle."

John rubs his chin, staring at the puddle for a moment before he turns and kicks his foot underneath the skip. It slides to the side, revealing an entrance.

"Whenever you're ready," he says and goes down a set of stairs. My jaw drops.

Did he seriously just leave me here?

"Wait!" I run through the puddle before thinking about it since I don't want to lose him, and I catch him by the shoulder. "I might just mark you down for that."

Redness colors his white face, and I wish I was an inspector just so I could get him in trouble.

"I'm sorry—" he starts.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Take me inside."

He nods and turns, walking down the rest of the staircase the leads into a clean, sterile hallway.

"Now we're talking."

"See? I told you this is our office," John says, stopping in front of a metal detector.

"Any weapons, sir?"

I shake my head.

"I don't carry weapons. I'm an inspector," I tell him.

The Sinister Seomyeong doesn't need weapons. I've got all my power in my fingertips. Why carry guns when you can sign for things?

John, however, does carry a gun, which he unholsters from the small of his back and puts on a little plastic box.

I knew it. I knew SPAM is evil. Why would they carry guns otherwise?

John walks clear through the detector, and so do I, despite carrying my fountain pen. So much for security. Idiots.

"And who might that be?" asks a gorgeous Black lady with a name tag that reads Karen behind a desk that I assume also hosts the metal detector and thermal monitors.

"This is Inspector Jay. He's here to inspect our offices," John tells her.

She gives me the once-over, but since she's not under my influence yet, she raises an eyebrow.

"Inspector? We don't have inspectors, John. We're a secret organization, remember? Who are you?"

I'm too busy running through her sentences in my head to notice she's speaking to me.

Secret organization? I knew it.

They must be behind my family's disappearance. The evidence is irrefutable.

Plus, I have a gut feeling, and my gut is never wrong. Except when it decides to react to me eating enchiladas, which, if you ask me, should never be wrong. Apparently, my gut disagrees.

"What are you doing here, sir? You need authorization to be in these offices," Karen continues, and I shake off thoughts of exploding enchiladas and twirl my pen in my fingers.

"I can prove it. Hold on." I approach and grab a manila envelope labeled Confidential from her desk.

She starts to raise her voice, but I look her right in the eyes as I sign the envelope.

"This signature proves I am an inspector and I'm meant to be inspecting these offices. Okay?"

I hand it back to her, and her distraught expression changes to a more agreeable one.

"Of course, sir. Please. Go right through. And if there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

I nod and am about to walk away when I squelch.

Huh?

I look down at my beautiful Jimmy Choos and almost burst into tears. They're covered in mud. Damn it. Fucking John!

"Actually!" I turn around. "Is there anywhere I can clean my shoes?"

Karen looks from me to my trainers to John.

"Oh, that doesn't look good, dear."

"You think?"

"Hang on," Karen says, grabbing a walkie-talkie from her desk. "Mortie, do you copy?"

She waits for an answer but nothing.

"Mortie, wake your ass up and answer me."

"I'm here. I'm here," says someone on the other end of the line.

"You're supposed to say copy," Karen reminds him.

"Copy," Mortie answers.

"No. You're supposed to say I'm here. Copy." She rolls her eyes, and I cross my hands, trying to make sense of what's happening.

"What do you want, Karen?"

"I've got a pair of shoes that need cleaning." She turns and smiles at me.

"What?" Mortie asks.

"Get your ass in here, Mortie. Copy."

"Is that your costume supervisor?"

Karen grimaces. "Our what?"

"Your costume supervisor. Does he take care of stains, rips, and everything in between?"

I didn't know they had those kinds of people in government agencies.

"Of course not, sir. He's the other security guy. Now, give me your shoes, and he'll do a mean job, I swear."

I shake my head, but I've already wasted enough time here, and I have limited time before my signature expires.

It's not like there's a timer on it. My signatures are unpredictable. Sometimes, they last longer. Sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, I can sign back to back, and others…it doesn't even work the first time. I hate that about my power, but by this point in my life, I've learned to expect the unexpected. Besides, there's always a workaround, whichever problem arises. I just need to know the right place to put my signature.

"Fine," I say and take my shoes off.

Karen wants to find me another pair to put on, but I refuse and ask John to show me around instead.

Which he does, bless him. He shows me from door to door. Floor to floor, raving about the agency, how great it is, how perfectly everything works. What great work they do here at SPAM, and all the while, I'm trying to figure out if this would be the right kind of building to keep prisoners or if there's another building.

I'm about to fall asleep when John takes me to the basement and shows me to an office that's creepy…or something—I'm not paying attention—and I've just about had it. I'm hungry, and I want him to shut up.

But then I take a good look at the office—square box, barely ten by ten, yet somehow housing two desks, two computer monitors from the eighteenth century, boxes everywhere, and filing cabinets so full the drawers won't shut. One of the two computers is unlocked, the image of a beaver or something as a screensaver.

Bingo.

"Say, John, I'm famished. Is there any way you can get me something to eat?" I turn to John and push him out the door.

"Of course, yes, right away. We can go up to the canteen?—"

I take a deep breath, bunch up my shoulders, and purse my lips.

"But I'm so tired. From all the inspecting, you know. Can't you get it for me? I'll wait for you right here."

John looks from me to the room, pushing his mouth from side to side, and I tilt my head to the side, blinking slowly and seductively like a cat, and he nods.

"You're a doll. Thank you. Get me something…vegan. And gluten-free. Oh, also sugar-free and carb-free. Thanks." I push him farther into the hallway and wave at him as he goes in search of my lunch.

That should keep him occupied.

I duck back into the office, slam the door shut, and rush to grab the mouse before the computer goes into screensaver mode and locks me out.

I scan the screen for clues, but the software is so slow it's like it's operating Windows 98 or something.

Eventually, I manage to find a database in one of the minimized windows, and I start typing my mom's name when the door opens and a bear of a man walks into the room.

"Who are you?" he asks with a voice as sweet as molasses.