Page 26 of Signed, I'm Yours!
“I’m not a baby. I’m fine.”
“Is it only babies who get hurt?”
I see his shoulders move up and down, despite the heavy fur coat, and once he’s taken his deep breath, he spins back around.
“Listen here, Mr. Happy! I’m the Sinister Seomyeong, and you’ve been signed. So you will do what I ask or face the consequences.”
I lean back on my chair and cross my arms.
“Whatarethe consequences exactly?”
His face twists this way and that, lips opening and closing, nose moving side to side before he speaks again.
“I only need to find a couple of people for fuck’s sake. Why are you making it so difficult?”
“Because you don’t work here, Sinister Seomyeong-slash-Seojun Bae-slash-Jay Walking.”
“That’s just semantics.” He brushes me off as if we’re discussing takeout, not my job.
“It’s still a federal crime.”
“Oh, and abducting and disappearing people isn’t? Go to hell with your holier-than-thou attitude.”
“Holi—” What is he talking about? “I’m not being holier-than-thou. I would never do that. But why do you think we abduct and disappear people? We don’t do that.”
He blows raspberries again, but I’m too intrigued by his story to focus on his lips. This time, I look him in the eyes.
“Yeah. Right. And I’m not a supervillain.”
“You’re not.”
Not that I would know, considering we just met, but…he doesn’t look or act like a supervillain.
“I—Stop trying to distract me. You people are cruel.”
“Says who?” I ask.
“Says me. Why? Are you denying it?”
“Vehemently.”
“Vehemently,” he mocks me. “You said it yourself. You’re a CREEP.”
“Which means I investigate terrible crimes by superabled individuals.”
Seojun bends down, bringing his eyes, lips, his whole face right in front of me, and I catch a whiff of citrus that makes me salivate.
I love citrusy scents.
“And what do you do with those superabled criminals?”
“What we do with regular criminals. Lock them up. Put them through trial and let the system take care of them after.”
His face contorts this way and that again, but not out of frustration. This time, it’s sheer anger, and he’s trying to tame it.
“So tell me, Mr. Happy Creep, what crime did my family commit to deserve to be locked up?”
The anger hides more. So much more. It hides pain. So much pain that the person I’m seeing, with the flashy appearance and sharp personality, is obviously a facade. A facade of a kid who’s lost something. Or someone. My insides twist in response to him showing me his true colors even though I don’t think he realizes he has, or if he does, he simply doesn’t care.
