The building sat there like some rusty old memory squeezed between a couple of beat-up warehouses. It didn't have any name or sign or anything. Just this skinny steel door, a number up top that's all faded, and some cracked pavement nobody bothers with these days.
Minjae pushed his thumb against that scanner thing hidden under what was once a utility box, you know. It clicked softly, then the lock let go with a quiet sound. He stepped in, made sure to close it behind him, and waited for those tumblers to click back into place.
Nobody followed him. Nobody ever does, really.
He stopped in that tight hallway for a bit. Let his eyes get used to the dimness. The air had this faint smell of old concrete mixed with electrical dust, like the leftover from a place the city forgot about ages ago. The floor creaked when he walked on it, wood under the tile, all warped but not rotted through. Walls were bare as could be, paint peeled off long time ago, just dry gray stuff left with some scorch marks where outlets used to be.
Perfect spot, it was.
Took him months to get this place set up without leaving any trail behind. Started with those shell companies, layered one on top of the other, staggered buys through more shells, and they all dissolved right after the deals went through. Then came the quiet pickups, boxes left by guys who didn't ask questions, vans pulling up at weird hours to unload, payments funneled through accounts that were gonna disappear anyway.
By the time he got that last lock in, nobody breathing could tie this spot back to him.
Now all the stuff he needed was right there inside.
The lab wasn't big or anything, just the empty main floor and a back room with steel doors beefed up. But it belonged to him completely. No corporate bosses breathing down his neck, no department checks, no security cameras staring with their cold eyes. Here, forget ID badges to swipe. No coworkers peeking from glass hallways. No board folks looking through their profit numbers and all that.
Here, he could just be himself without faking it.
Minjae put his laptop down on that long metal table. Then he pulled the cover off his sensor setup. He ran his hand over the interface, slow and careful, making sure not to mess with the calibration.
The surface moved a little under his palm. A weak pulse spread out from it. Lights came on one by one, dim at first, like eyes waking up slow.
The machine knew who he was still.
He stayed there longer than he needed to, hand just resting light on the console. It was like a reminder of what he used to be, and what the world thinks doesn't exist anymore.
Back at work, the week went on like usual, or at least it seemed that way.
On Monday morning he got there five minutes early. Ha Seori hit the elevator right then too. That little coincidence made her smile softly.
Oh, she said, her voice all gentle. We're in sync or something.
He nodded a bit, acknowledging it. Not cold or anything, just measured, you know.
She didn't push it. Didn't talk a bunch. Just rode up to the 20th floor in quiet with him. At one point she looked over, not prying or searching, just aware like.
That was enough for the moment.
On Tuesday he came out of a procurement meeting right as Yuri left the room next door. She had these three thick binders full of budget stuff, juggling them.
She almost bumped into him in the hall, then laughed at herself. Oh sorry, these things are a real hazard.
He moved without thinking, held the door so she could get her load steady.
Her eyebrows went up, all playful. Chivalry in the finance department? Must be some simulation we're in.
He didn't say a word, but something flickered on his face, faint like. Not a full smile. Maybe just recognition.
It vanished quick, in a breath. But she saw it.
She walked off with her own half-smile, didn't look back.
By Thursday, after that long logistics meeting, most everyone had gone home. Minjae stuck around, fixing some numbers in a quarterly sheet, quiet as usual.
Ten minutes later Yura came back with two cups of tea.
Wasn't sure how you like it, she said, setting one down careful near his keyboard. But you look like you haven't blinked in ages.
He looked at the cup, then at her. I prefer coffee. His voice was flat, just stating facts.
She shrugged it off. Try the tea anyway. You're always so precise. Might surprise you.
Didn't wait for him to say anything. Just walked away calm, like it didn't matter, leaving a little trace of her being there.
He stared at that tea for a good long time. Finally reached for it.
Didn't drink it though. Didn't throw it out either. Just left it sitting there, untouched. Its meaning hung heavier than any taste could have, basically.
By Friday, people were starting to whisper about it.
Is it just me, someone said in the kitchenette, or are Seori, Yuri, and Yura always hanging around when Minjae is?
Another one laughed. Not just you. Seori walks with him like their schedules match up perfect. Yuri starts cracking jokes when he's close. And Yura brought him tea. Tea of all things.
Does Minjae even drink tea?
No, that's the whole point.
They laughed low, but there was curiosity under it all.
You got to admit, he's different. Doesn't push or pull. People just lean in toward him.
Still waters run deep, huh?
Still and kind of confusing. But magnetic, apparently.
They said it light, no harm meant. But the words spread further than they figured.
Because in a department where everything's predictable, three of the smartest, most capable women were starting to circle this one quiet guy. And nobody could figure out why.
Minjae didn't say a thing about it.
But he noticed, of course he did.
The way Seori hesitated a step when he held the elevator door.
That subtle change in Yuri's voice when she asked him to check some data.
The unspoken something in Yura's look as she put the tea down and left.
He noticed all of it. Just chose not to react.
Still, each bit stuck with him. Longer than it should have.
He kept thinking about the cool elevator air when Seori was right there next to him. The way Yuri's laugh echoed in a hall that should've been empty. How Yura's hand curved against his desk for a second before she pulled back.
Small stuff. Harmless things. Not threats. Not yet anyway.
But unfamiliar.
And Minjae didn't handle unfamiliar feelings well, especially the affectionate kind.
That night he sat staring at his screen way past quitting time, eyes not really focusing. A simple code line took him fifteen minutes to fix. His mind was off somewhere else, and he hated that it was.
Meanwhile, three blocks over in this rooftop cafe where the city sounds faded into neon glow, the three women ended up sitting together again.
Wasn't planned or anything. Didn't need to be. Some quiet pull brought them into the same spot.
Seori took a slow sip of her drink. He doesn't respond much, you know.
That's not it, Yuri said back. It's how he listens, I mean.
Yura nodded, barely noticeable. He picks up on details. Even when he says nothing, it sticks.
None of them said the thought out loud. But they all knew it deep down.
This wasn't about rivalry. Not yet.
Wasn't a confession either.
Just recognition, like.
They got pulled in not by what Minjae said. But by how he moved around, like he didn't think anyone would remember him.
And each one, in her own way, wanted to show him different.
Elsewhere, in that forgotten warehouse squeezed between rusty giants and shadows, the lab came alive a bit.
The sensor pulsed once in the dark, faint but on purpose, like a heartbeat in some machine.
Minjae stood next to it, quiet. His hand hovered over the console as it blinked again. The rhythm wasn't regular, alive but hard to read.
Something faint was responding. Not totally measurable, but not random oh and.
Something that had moved before.
And could move again, so yeah.
He pressed his hand flat on the table, grounding himself like.
For now, things were moving. Threads pulling tighter. Shadows getting closer.
And nobody knew about it.
Not Seori.
Not Yuri.
Not Yura.
Not Rennor.
Not the board folks.
Nobody.
Only the machine kept pulsing, its dim light matching the beat of something huge, silent, and waiting.