Seong-Jae clenched his teeth, but made himself hold still while the strange man patted over him. Glock first, then the second Glock against his spine, then the Colt at his hip, the dagger against his calf, the second dagger up his left sleeve, the brass knuckles in his coat pocket—until the man was having trouble juggling everything. “What the fuck, Seong-Jae,” Malcolm said.
