The soft click of the intercom sliced the air like a tiny, refined bomb. It was so unremarkable that it would have been simple to overlook—except that Seo-yeon had spent the past month sensitizing herself to observe mundane events and interpret danger lurking in them. The hush which followed was like a waiting room holding its breath.
Her fingers clamped round the receiver, knuckles pearly white. They were still; she had made them still on purpose. Panic was a luxury she could not indulge. Fear, she had learned, was only functional when it caused you to move quickly. It was no good for her now.
