Page 7 of Damian & Jun, Episodes 1-4 (The Residency Boys #6)

His dad rifled through the papers. “Do you know what these are?”

“Yes.”

“Say yes, sir.”

Jun frowned. They weren’t in the military, were they? His mother had always taught him to say “Yes, Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so” if they were very important or older.

“Say yes, sir!”

Jun blinked. His father was right in front of him now, eyes wide and angry like someone in a movie.

“Yes, sir?”

The man glared down at him. He probably needed dinner and sleep, but he probably didn’t want to be told that. The hard part of this adventure was happening really fast.

“Always say yes, sir to your betters.” These,” his father held up his passport and birth certificate.

“These are your old life. No one can ever know about them. You are”—he pulled a new paper out of his pocket and held it up—“Gang Junseo. That is your name now. Forget any other name you think you’ve had.

That’s your real name. This…” He held up Jun’s US papers. “This is trash.”

His father tore Jun’s passport in half and then ripped Jun’s birth certificate and school records into a dozen pieces each, letting them fall to the floor.

“You’re not American. You’re Korean. Your name is Gang Junseo. Now tell me your name.”

“Gang Junseo.” Jun frowned. He looked back down at his passport and birth certificate on the floor.

“No matter what your mother may have told you, your life is here now. You’re never going back. You’re never going to see her again.”

“But… she said we could go back? My friends?”

“You’re not American anymore. The minute I tore that up, you stopped being American.

You can’t go back. They won’t take you. Your mom gave you to me, which means I decide which country you belong to.

This is who you are now. Your name is Gang Junseo.

You’re Korean. You’ve always been Korean.

You are Korean and nothing else. You are Gang Junseo. You’ve never had another name.”

He waved something written in more of those hangul characters in front of Jun’s face. His photograph was on the paper.

Jun raised his hands and took it, looking over it. There were only a few things on it he recognized, one of which was the Chinese character for his name, Jun.

“My Korean name is Gang Junseo?” he asked. It sounded odd. He’d always been Jun River in Seattle or Jiāng Jùn Ruì when speaking Chinese with his mother.

“Your only name is Gang Junseo.”

Jun swallowed. It didn’t feel like his name.

But maybe this was the part that his mother meant when she said that there were things only his father could give him.

He’d had his Chinese name and his English name as long as he could remember.

Maybe he could get used to a third name.

But his family name was supposed to be Bak.

“Why do we have different names?”

“Because we’re different people.”

“Mama said your family name is Bak, that in Korean I’m a Bak.”

His father turned, his eyes and his nose doing a weird flaring thing that made the hair on Jun’s arms stand up.

“You’re not a Bak until I decide you’re a Bak. And you’re not my son until I decide you’re my son. We’ll see if you’re worth my time.”

His father turned away, rifling through more of Jun’s things.

Jun looked down at the scraps of paper. He knelt and grabbed as many as he could of his birth certificate.

It felt important. His mom had always said it was one of his most important pieces of paper, and she kept it in a locked box in their apartment when she didn’t need it for something like registering him for school.

She didn’t keep his school records there.

But she always kept his birth certificate there.

Even if he wasn’t American anymore, he felt like he would be a bad son if he didn’t try to keep the pieces. It was the one paper that said she was his mother. He wanted that. He could be Korean if he had to be, but she would always be his mother.

He left the rest of the papers on the floor and quickly stuffed the scraps into his jacket pocket and then the hole in the pocket where his hands went to stay warm.

“You don’t need any of this.” His father pushed a bunch of Jun’s things to the side.

He was keeping a small pile of clothes and tossing it back into the suitcase.

Remaining on the bed were Jun’s video games, his books and papers, his fun sneakers, his Spider-Man hoodie, and his Winnie-the-Pooh bear.

“I want my bear.”

“It’s a want, not a need.”

Jun lifted his chin. “It’s mine.”

“You own nothing. You don’t even own yourself. Anything you think is yours is mine.”

Jun rushed to the bed and grabbed the bear. “It’s mine.”

“Everything you own is mine.”

Jun tightened his arms around the bear. His father was lying, but he didn’t know how to tell him that.

“Fine, keep the stupid bear. Everything else goes.” He swept it off the bed and into a bag. “Let’s drop you off.”

It was easier to drag the suitcase this time. And he hadn’t been allowed to keep his backpack. They walked down the street for a long time and took a few turns and then went into a dull-looking building and up the elevator to the third floor.

A man met them. He was younger looking with a bit more hair than Jun’s father.

He gazed at Jun and said something Jun couldn’t understand.

Jun’s father pushed Jun toward a door, and then they all went into a space with mirrors all along one side and a lot of empty space with a wood floor.

There was a metal desk by the far wall and papers on top.

“He likes to sing and dance,” His father said in English.

The other man looked at Jun again and shrugged. “I saw the video.”

“Junseo,” Jun’s father said, “this is Bak Gyeong. You will do as he tells you.”

Then his father and Bak Gyeong stood around talking and signing things on the desk, and when they had gone through all the papers, Jun’s father held out his hand and shook Bak’s hand. He turned and walked out of the room without looking back.

Jun stared after him and then up at Bak.

Bak stared back and then did that thing that adults did sometimes with their lips that was supposed to be a smile but looked more like they had eaten something not quite good but were happy about it. “Welcome to BBB3, Gang Junseo. You’re our youngest trainee.”

“Where did my dad go?”

“Back to his life. Maybe someday he’ll come back and see you—if you’re good enough. It’s a shame you don’t speak your paternal language. Think of how painful it must be for him that you can’t even talk to him in the proper words. What kind of son is that?”

Jun thought about that. “So, I have to speak Korean for him to come back?”

“That and many more things. Come. I’ll show you the dormitory. Tomorrow, you start lessons. Singing, dancing, language. You have a lot to learn.”

“Who’s going to teach me?” It was supposed to have been his dad, but evidently, he couldn’t give Jun this part of Jun’s self that belonged to him any more than his mother could.

“Think of me as your Uncle Bak.” Bak squeezed Jun’s shoulder and grabbed his suitcase, lifting it easily. “If I can’t teach you, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Promise?” Jun looked up at the man. At least he didn’t smell like he’d spilled on himself while cooking.

Bak grinned widely, and for once, an adult that day looked actually pleased. “Oh, I promise.”

* * *

Present Day: Jun

On the floor of his freshly tossed room, Jun hung his head between his knees.

Bak had kept his promise, he supposed. At least a promise.

But so many others he hadn’t kept at all.

Or had he? It was hard to remember or even figure out anymore.

So many times, he’d been absolutely sure Bak had said that one thing would happen, but Bak and others had sworn Jun had misunderstood, inferred, or layered his own meaning on Bak’s words.

At some point, maybe it didn’t matter. Except that there was this general feeling of slowly going insane, of being out of touch with any sort of touchstone reality that he could grab and know was real.

Jun’s hands trailed down to his waist. On a very strong, thin chain, tucked in his pants, his mother’s jade Buddha, wrapped in paper scraps and stuffed inside a tiny bag, rested against his hip.

No one knew about it outside of Yohei, not even Damian.

He had a hundred different ways he’d learned to wear it or transfer it from one place to another on his body.

The only time he’d let go of it had been during his tour in the military, and then Yohei had kept it in a safety depot box for him in Japan, back in his hometown.

It was paranoia, for sure, but it had let him rest easier.

He clutched the Buddha through the bag, afraid to rub it and wear away the lines of the carving.

Promises were for children. Adults didn’t believe in them.

Sometimes he wanted to be a child so he could have promises again, but age was a one-way road.

He stood up and slowly went back to cleaning.

The goons had spilled one of his drinks on a pile of clothes and the edge of a blanket.

He sighed. If it had been just water, it would have been fine, but it had been one of his hydration drinks.

He gathered up the mess and went out the door.

At least there was a laundry in the central area of the dorms.

There were four rooms in this wing on this floor.

For safety and security, there was a swipe card reader at either end.

At one point, there had been a good reason for swiping in and out because the hallway had been a pass-through from one area to another, but now it was a leftover annoyance.

Jun reached into his pocket for his card.

Nothing.

Of course.

He walked back and checked his desk, then the floor, then the entire room. No card. At all. And no phone to call out with. Nothing.

He leaned with his hands against the desk and closed his eyes. He was stuck.

Or a prisoner.