Page 3 of Signed, I'm Yours!
“It’s acceptable. Now go. Get us out of here. I’ve got business to attend to.”
And an arrest to avoid.
I don’t know how long the effects of my signature will last, and I’ll have to go through the same shenanigans to get out of this.
“Right away, sir,” he replies, and we set off to the City.
As soon as we’re out of the airport, I relax against the seat and wipe the smugness from my eyes.
Being the Sinister Seomyeong can be exhausting sometimes. Especially when there are guns aimed at me. Which happens more often than I care to admit.
I just need my bathtub and a good, long soak. Then, I can resume my search.
Halfway through Brooklyn, I fish out my phone from my back pocket and check my notifications. My screen is flooded with welcome-back-to-the-country text messages and pointless app updates, but one catches my attention.
An email.
Ever heard of SPAM? the subject line reads.
“SPAM?” I mutter under my breath. “The canned meat?”
CHAPTER 2
JACK
“Ithink I’m gonna be sick.” Bob covers his mouth and nose with his arm, turning away from our victim.
“Come on, Bob, don’t be so dramatic,” I tell him.
He gives me his signature stare that I’m sure is supposed to rattle my chains but never does, and I smile.
“Just because this shit doesn’t bother you doesn’t mean the rest of us are being dramatic, Happy.”
“Whatever you say, Bob,” I reply.
I know the nickname is meant to annoy me, but for some reason, I can’t find it in me to be annoyed by such a cool and positive nickname.
Bob takes a few steps back from the body to take a breather and looks away. Typical Bob. He’s been with CREEP for over thirty years and is still not used to the bloody cases we have to deal with.
Light floods my eyes, and I flinch.
“Sorry,” the photographer says, and I blink a couple of times before I can look at him.
“That’s okay. You know what they say. A flash here and there is good for eye endurance.”
The photographer nods a couple of times before he frowns. Probably realizing there’s no such saying.
I turn my attention to the victim. White. Male. Age indeterminate due to the condition of the body.
Where his eyes should be are just empty sockets, blood dripping down his face like tears. His mouth is foaming, and his chest is split open as if something crawled out from inside him. His heart is blown to smithereens, his stomach and guts are spilled on the floor. His testicles have suffered a similar fate to his heart, as have his kneecaps. The only parts of him not touched by blood are his fingers and toes.
“Well, I guess that’s a start.” I crouch and take his fingers in my gloved hands, shining a flashlight under his nails.
I can’t see any DNA or anything else lodged in there. Not with the naked eye. But maybe the coroner will find something. He may be our fifth Pulverizer victim this month alone, but I can’t give up trying. Right?
“Why do you even bother?” Bob asks from the door, still covering his face and avoiding looking at the body or me.
“What do you mean? I’m just doing my job.”
