Starving Port (3) - The Trembling Giant
Ever since that white, fog-shrouded winter day in the Trembling Giant forest, when I gained control over water, one small convenience had entered my life. I could now easily remove the moisture that built up between the silicone mask and my skin. In a hot country like Mexico, that was a massive advantage. In the past, I'd wondered how CIA agents—the originators of this disguise tech—managed to wear or apply these things all day without issue. Did they have some secret trick? Now, it was more or less manageable for me too. I was just substituting their tech and endurance with a bit of magic.
Still, continuous wear over several days was impossible. Even draining the moisture left oil behind, and no matter how thin and meticulously sculpted the mask, the inherent stuffiness couldn't be fixed. Plus, for perfect synchronization with my facial muscles, it required pressure to tighten against the face and adhesive, so when the material's elasticity or stickiness wore out, I'd need to swap in a spare. That was even more true for non-full-cover types. The better the camouflage and comfort, the more maintenance it demanded.
So, when operating incognito outside, I rarely stayed in a room alone. Primarily for security, of course, but secondarily as a safeguard against accidentally exposing my bare face during rest.
"Let me check for a moment."
On the twelfth morning in Puerto Vallarta, Suyeon meticulously inspected my mask as I prepared to head out. She'd originally handled the application and adhesive finishing with her deft hands, but lately I'd been doing it myself in front of a mirror—using precise telekinesis incantations instead of my fingers. She poked my cheek, gripped my chin, and turned my head this way and that before nodding in approval.
"No issues."
With her passing grade, I turned my now-free gaze to the glass jar on the table. The mad queen ant I'd dug up from Texas soil was being fed by worker ants kidnapped alongside her. Since leaving Houston, checking this every morning had become routine. My subordinates each carried identical jars in their personal bags.
Across the table, morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, glowing softly. Through a gap in the drapes, I could see the calm sea sparkling like a river. The port was still at peace.
"Señor Perucho is waiting outside."
At Suyeon's report, I let out a light chuckle through the lingering drowsiness.
"That guy's acting like he wants your job."
"What do you mean...?"
"He's behaving just like my secretary."
It was a simple joke, but Suyeon's eyes chilled over. I'd noticed it before—her obsession with her position as my chief secretary had a distinctly compulsive edge. Even brushing against it made her bristle.
It's probably because of her brother's legacy in the end.
Suyeon had told me in Singapore that she'd been living for herself these past ten years. But to me, it looked like a younger sister's possessiveness over the role that should have been her brother's. An unchanging possessiveness, sharp as frost and eternal as glacial ice, unmoved even as mountains turned to dust.
Did I hate it? Not at all. Why would I? As long as that obsession held, her loyalty to me would too.
I shifted her attention with a casual question.
"What time did that guy show up today?"
"Five a.m."
"Very devoted."
"He didn't even go home yesterday. Stayed at the hotel."
Did he have the money for that? The doubt faded quickly. Of course not—he'd probably leveraged our "close relationship" for perks, or the hotel had groveled preemptively. I'd gauged his character well enough over the past few days. He fancied himself above the common herd, but he was just another petty small-timer.
"Any issues at the other sites overnight?"
"None."
"Not that they'd screw up anyway, but tell them not to let their guard down for a second. We can't leave empty-handed after all this setup—no blueprints, no deal."
"Understood."
The "other sites" were, naturally, the field command post and safe houses. Even I, playing the businessman and crashing at the hotel, planned to relocate when the time came. The teams there monitored beyond my line of sight using satellites and drones. They were eavesdropping on Northeast Faction comms and collecting Sinaloa Cartel radio frequencies. Securing even the low-level sicarios' channels helped map their overall movements.
"Kyung-tae."
"Yeah?"
"Grab a decent watch. We're heading out."
"For who?"
"Perucho."
Kyung-tae fetched the watch for my approval. I nodded silently and stepped off.
"Let's go."
Passing through the suite's reception room and out the door, Perucho—who'd been waiting in the hall like a servant—lit up.
"Presidente Hwang! Good morning!"
"Yes, good morning. You're as diligent as ever."
"It's my job. Serving you without inconvenience."
No matter how I looked at it, he meant it sincerely—it was almost comical. Gone was the mildly annoyed vibe from our first meeting. Now he always addressed me as "Presidente" or with the honorific "Don." His worship had turned downright fervent.
"I'm grateful, but isn't your official duty more important? I heard you just got reinstated."
A fleeting twitch crossed Perucho's face at my words.
"No, no. Don't worry about that. A port with barely any incoming ships—what complications would need me? Your business is the real path to prospering this port. I'm right where I belong."
His flattery had ramped up considerably in days. I nodded lightly.
"If you see it that way, then. I'll impose on you a bit longer."
"Impose? Nonsense, Presidente."
In truth, Perucho had switched from leave to active duty two days ago. But this potbellied man ignored his recovered status and duties, zealously shadowing me as my local secretary. The sole reason I kept this low-level civil servant close? He looked easy to manipulate.
Everyone—regardless of age or gender—would ruminate on the chance encounters, connections, and luck that could have made this neighborhood-uncle type theirs.
I snapped my fingers at Kyung-tae. He caught the gesture, stepped up to Perucho, and opened the watch case.
"This is...?"
Sapphire crystal over a dial etched with blue wave patterns. It was a mid-range Omega Seamaster. The potbellied official alternated glances between the watch and me, equal parts flustered and expectant. I gave a casual wave to confirm.
"Your watch looked worn. Prepared this for you."
"Oh my God!"
"It's under ten grand. Wear it comfortably."
"Thank you! Thank you!"
Entry-level, sure, but still over six thousand dollars. On a civil servant's salary, he'd have to save for five months without spending a dime. A luxurious splurge.
With the new watch on, Perucho preened like a man donning a suit for the first time. He couldn't stop fiddling with it on his wrist. Thus, his potbellied impression shifted from approachable to outright foolish—the exact effect I'd aimed for.
Six thousand dollars for boosting an unwitting actor's performance. Not a bad price. Especially when scamming hundreds of thousands.
As we reached the lobby, the crowd outside the main entrance erupted at the sight of me.
Hwang! Hwang! Hwang! Hwang!
My false name echoed in a massive, offbeat roar. Armed police struggled to hold the line. Once through the lobby doors, the noise drowned everything—like standing center-field during a walk-off homer in the MLB finals. I waved to the adoring citizens for a good while, making sure to flaunt the watch-wearing actor, before boarding the waiting limousine.
Thud. The door shut.
I turned to Perucho across from me.
"I feel like I'm getting treatment beyond my merits. All I've done is hand out a bit of food to everyone."
"Beyond your merits? Absolutely not!"
The potbelly shook his hands and head vigorously.
"You're doing what even the government couldn't! That damn government hasn't given us a single grain of rice or kernel of corn!"
He swung a fist at the air in excitement.
"Can you believe it? In these hard times, with the poor suffering, the government won't spare a single peso! Other countries hand out cash and food—how can it be so different? Delaying taxes isn't enough!"
"Calm down."
A single measured word sufficed to settle the agitated potbelly. As he'd said, the Mexican government had proposed zero relief for individuals amid the health and economic crises. Thanks to that, my 141-peso aid kits per person had exploded in impact across this starving port.
I owed the Mexican government a debt of gratitude. 141 pesos—about 7,900 won. The per-person kit included: 4kg tortillas, 4kg rice, 2kg tomatoes, 2kg bananas, 1 liter cooking oil, 48 eggs, a 500g loaf of white bread, and 1kg chicken.
The eggs and bread were practically bonuses compared to wholesale prices, thanks to bulk discounts plus Catholic diocese influence. Bishop Perez Ortega of the Autlán diocese—who'd helped orchestrate this—was connected through three handshakes from the easy mark potbelly.
"Um, Presidente. May I ask something...?"
"What?"
As I looked his way, Perucho rolled his eyes cautiously before forcing out the words.
"It might be rude, but... are you particularly close to Señorita Choi?"
Señorita Choi—Choi being the fake surname Suyeon used. In other words, this fatso was asking if Suyeon and I were an item.
Right after the question, Suyeon fixed him with an icy, unblinking stare. Perucho struggled to pretend he didn't notice.
"No."
I shot back a sharper query.
"But you knew it was rude—why ask?"
"Haha... She's so outstanding, and even with multiple bedrooms in the suite, you share it, you're wealthy but don't call other women, she's always by your side... I just wondered..."
Listening grated on me.
"I'm a pre-marital chastity advocate. Satisfied?"
"Of course. Naturally. A true faithful believer."
The potbellied official snapped to an unnaturally rigid posture, like a string-puppet.
I suppressed a sigh and gazed out the window.
Chastity advocate, my ass.
I might lack "proper" experience so far, but not for some idiotic purity ideal. These eyes. These goddamn unremovable eyeballs.
How many perverts could get hard peering through pulsing veins, throbbing hearts, bile-spewing livers, and shit-filled colons? Especially when every human component flashed with data, souls, and mana hues?
I wasn't some freak aroused by anatomy textbooks. I could analytically recognize "objective" beauty, but "subjective" allure? No dice.
Visual stimuli dominate human lust. Probably no one felt that more acutely than me.
Better off blind to visuals.
I could barely imagine a human body without twitching flesh and organs—constantly bombarded by superhuman sight beyond normal limits. Photos and drawings preserved objective images, but linking them instinctively to real people? Tough.
A congenital visual blind might outdo me sexually. Yet desire built up, turning torturous.
Experience? Technically yes—unavoidable in this line of work, and prep was needed. But it was just sophisticated mimicry and technique masking the flaw. Far from normal, deeply shameful.
In short, I was eye-fucked.
Suyeon's earlier chill? Likely irritation at unwittingly prodding my sore spot.
The view outside flowed northward. A short path to the Guadalupe Virgin Church. Judging the awkward moment passed, Perucho resumed his prattle—boasting his daughter was a good girl who'd dropped out of college but could've graduated with money; Korea was amazing (repeated ad nauseam); a dutiful wife stabilizes a man's life (slipped in whenever).
I cut him off.
"Perucho."
"Yes, Presidente!"
"Korea's great, but Mexico's great too. Where else in the world can you find such beauty?"
"......"
Defeat shadowed the potbelly's mustached face.