5. Chapter 5
SEAN
THIS SECURITY CONFERENCE IS A maze of corporate exhibits and overeager salespeople who act like they're selling the cure for death instead of fancy tech shit.
I've been fake smiling so much my face hurts, which is ironic since I usually get paid to look intimidating, not approachable.
But hey, at least I'm getting a workout.
When I texted my mom about my aching cheeks, she responded in Korean, saying something like: Oh! Smiling is good for you! Helps your resting intimidation face, honey rice cake!
I rolled my eyes; if clients knew the dumb baby names she calls me, I wouldn't come across as so intimidating. But also, I have to completely disagree with her. I'm intimidating at work , but I can be very charming in the right situation.
I shift my weight as I'm standing behind the NexaProtect booth, really wishing they'd let me read or listen to an audiobook. Four hours of being NexaProtect's living, breathing advertisement has left me desperate for a break.
This morning, I stood on stage like some kind of trained attack dog while Davis gave his presentation.
Davis is the current CEO who took over after Declan stepped down.
Thankfully, I didn't have to speak. I only needed to stand there looking capable of disassembling a threat with my bare hands while Davis talked about expanding NexaProtect's personal security division.
Honestly, he held the stage like he was Steve Jobs introducing the Next Big Thing.
"And this is what sets us apart," he'd said, his sharp but friendly brown eyes bouncing to me for a second. "Our personnel aren't just physically capable. They're strategically trained to anticipate threats before they materialize."
Translation: Look at this guy. He can probably kill you with a paperclip, but he's house-trained.
Then he went through my credentials, which embarrassed the hell out of me. I'm not someone who likes attention, but I stood there, resting-intimidation-face on display, while Davis went down the list.
"Eight years in the Marines," he started. "Got picked up for a Special Reaction Team. CQB, high-risk entry, counterterror operations. Spent his last couple years on Personal Security Detail, protecting officers and foreign dignitaries in unstable regions. He left as a Staff Sergeant."
Davis paused and people clapped. I focused on a point in the distance, staring at the back wall and trying to forget a few hundred eyes were on me.
"He didn't slow down after leaving the Corps, though.
He's a certified Executive Protection Specialist. Close Protection Level Four, UK standard.
Trained in threat assessment and risk management.
Firearms and tactical training… Basically, if there's a threat, Sean sees it coming before you even know you should be worried. "
I really hated that last statement. I like Davis, but that comment is no longer true.
And since that presentation, people keep coming up to NexaProtect's booth to ask if they can hire me, offering obscene amounts of money.
Each time, I politely decline, telling them I'm not available but NexaProtect has plenty of other personal security agents with a background similar to mine.
Or, people walk by and simply say, "Thank you for your service."
I know they're trying to be kind, but I keep thinking, Thank me for what?
Thank me for the French diplomat I was supposed to protect in Baghdad, the one who's paralyzed from the waist down because I misread the security landscape? We had four different evacuation routes planned. I chose the wrong one. The IED was strategically placed exactly where I led our convoy.
Thank me for the civilians, a mother and her two children, who got killed when our squad moved through their village? I was the one who cleared that building. I was the one who said it was safe. I was fucking wrong .
It doesn't matter if my record has hundreds of successful assignments with only a few errors—something everyone, including higher officers, said was remarkable and above average. When it comes to people's lives, fuck-ups should be zero .
The people with good intentions coming to the booth today don't know what this job actually means.
They see the credentials, the posture, the heroism.
But they don't understand how each assignment gets heavier and heavier.
They don't see what happens when you make the wrong call.
They don't understand that this isn't about looking impressive or having tactical skills.
It's about the weight of someone else's life balanced on your judgment.
And the violence… one person's nervous system can only take so much. Any situation can go from calm to horrific in an instant, and certain gory visuals you just can't forget. I wake up in cold sweats, just remembering.
My previous client, Wunmi, left a particularly nasty tear in my heart.
I catch the gaze of a man in a suit who is approaching the booth.
His eyebrows are raised like they're resting on top of all the questions in his head, and his lips curve up more and more the closer he gets to me.
He's bursting at the seams. I just know he's going to bombard me, asking if I know martial arts, if I can do security for his company event, teach his current security team how to be proactive.
Whatever's on his mind, I can't bear to give another canned response.
"Hey," I tell Patricia, one of the employees working the booth. "Cool if I take a break? Really need to get some air."
Her head bobs. "Of course, Sean! You've worked so hard and been so helpful. Thank you. Yes, please go take a break." She flashes a smile and nods.
I grab my jacket and walk away from the booth before the guy in the suit reaches it.
Weaving through the crowd, I slip my leather jacket on, covering my black polo that has NexaProtect's logo on it.
I expected this exhibition hall to be warm from all the body heat, but someone must've cranked the AC to 'Arctic Tundra' because it's chilly.
I don't mind since it gives me an excuse to wear my jacket and attempt to look like any other attendee wandering the floor.
Just a normal guy. Not responsible for anyone's safety.
A shoulder jabs my arm as I'm lost in thought.
"Oh, sorry," a tiny voice says.
I glance down at the woman who bumped into me.
She's petite and completely hidden under a gray hoodie.
I open my mouth to respond and tell her no harm done, but she's already walking off.
My eyes track her for a moment because there was a lot of nervous energy pulsing from that small frame.
She disappears into the crowd, so I turn my attention back to where I was headed.
In an attempt to hide myself more so no one else recognizes me from the presentation, I hit the bathroom and comb water through my hair. Normally, my long black bangs hang down, but I sweep them back.
I study myself in the mirror. Ugh, I do have resting-intimidation-face.
I blame Mom and her high cheekbones I inherited.
My Dad's European-American DNA contributed to my wide jaw, but those Korean cheekbones are killer.
This new, swept-back hairstyle, though? Not bad.
Maybe I'll do it more and mix up my look a bit.
After leaving the bathroom, I head to the coffee shop near the front of the convention center. I buy some ginseng tea, then return to the exhibition hall to wander.
The woman at the tech booth to my left has been drinking from an empty cup for the past minute, too caught up in her sales pitch to notice.
The guy manning the finance software exhibit keeps glancing at the emergency exit.
Probably a smoke break overdue. Two security guards near the main entrance are discussing lunch plans instead of watching the crowd.
Damnit.
I drop my head, trying not to let my gaze bounce around so much. Will I ever stop doing this? I'm not on assignment, so I don't need to scan for threats all the time.
Movement near the bathrooms catches my attention.
It's the woman who bumped into me, only now she's wearing a black baseball cap under the hoodie.
Large black glasses hide most of her face.
Her shoulders are hunched as she tries to make herself smaller, and her head is constantly swiveling like she's expecting someone to grab her.
Wonder what's got her so anxious. She's clutching her tote bag against her chest like it contains state secrets, knuckles white with tension, and when someone brushes past her, she flinches hard enough to jostle the lemonade she's holding.
She doesn't even seem to notice the growing wet spot on her sleeve.
It's a red-flag response and I hope she's okay but… not my problem. I have to figure out how to stop my brain from doing this. I'm not actually in security anymore. I don't know what my life is now, but it can no longer be protecting people.
I continue past the woman, letting my gaze drift over the sea of corporate logos above booths. There are some pretty fancy setups here—big signage, LED screens everywhere, I've even seen a few robots.
Guess RoboCop will replace me soon. Probably for the best.
A guy at a blockchain booth is wearing mismatched shoes, one black and one brown. The woman handing out branded stress balls has a security badge that doesn't match the conference lanyards. Probably a last-minute hire.
Damnit, stop noticing shit!
Instead of walking around, I should listen to an audiobook in a dark corner where my brain can't be so active.
I pick a corner and start moving toward it.
On the way, I pass a display of surveillance tech where I spot Hoodie Woman again.
I try not to take notice and let my eyes linger, but I fail.
She's moving with purpose now, approaching each booth systematically.
Ask a question. Shake head. Move on. Her pace is tight and fast, like someone running out of time.
With each rejection, her shoulders climb higher toward her ears.
I watch her approach a competitor to NexaProtect. There's a current of barely-contained panic under her movements.
I'm too invested now, so I inch closer, casually sipping my lukewarm tea.
I follow behind with a wide berth as she visits more booths.
I'm not tracking her exactly. Just... maintaining awareness.
Professional curiosity. That's all. I'm wondering what she's looking for and why it has her so panicked.
A lost child maybe? I haven't noticed many kids here, and they've always been with adults.
Fifteen minutes pass, which is longer than I should be on break. Yet something in me won't return to the NexaProtect booth until I know what Hoodie Woman is searching for. Part of me needs to know she found it.
She pauses her mission and heads to the noisy food court. As I follow, the smell of hamburger meat hits me and my stomach growls. I'll eat later but damn, that smells good.
Hoodie Woman stops at a sandwich vendor, pays for a wrap, then sits alone at a corner table. She unwraps it halfway, stares at it like it just insulted her grandmother, then abruptly drops the whole thing in the trash along with her empty lemonade cup. Her hands are trembling.
My stomach is tight as I glance at my watch. I should really get back to the booth, but this woman has worried herself so much she can't eat…
I can observe just a few more minutes. I'll feel better once she finds what she needs.
After scrolling through her phone for a few minutes, Hoodie Woman leaves the food court and returns to her methodical booth-hopping, her movements growing more agitated with each interaction. Her shoulders are so tight now they're swallowing her ears.
Without warning, she glances my way. I grab a brochure off the nearest table and pretend to read about cyber attacks.
What am I doing? I should stop . This is definitely not my problem.
I trash the rest of my tea and loop back toward the NexaProtect booth, determined to stop obsessing and get back to work.
Hoodie Woman veers and walks the same direction. I coincidentally pass within earshot as she approaches a security services company with a pricey black and silver display.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice quiet and pinched, like she's forcing it out through a straw. "Do you know if any of your security guards have the last name Walker-Choi?"
I freeze mid-step.
Walker-Choi?
Me?