Doyun noticed the place before anything happened.
That, in itself, was not unusual.
What unsettled him was how early the sensation arrived. The corridor was still several steps away when the pressure formed, faint but unmistakable, like a hand hovering just short of contact. He slowed without meaning to and let the flow of people carry on ahead of him.
The corridor was narrow, but clean. Recently polished floors reflected the overhead lights in thin, uneven lines. Framed notices were mounted along the walls at regular intervals, their corners aligned with excessive care. No one stopped to read them. No one needed to.
The space functioned.
People passed through with confidence, steps steady, shoulders relaxed. Their movements suggested routine, familiarity. Nothing about the corridor invited caution.
And yet.
Doyun stopped near the wall.
He did not lean against it. He did not cross his arms. He simply stood, close enough to feel the vibration of footsteps as others passed. The pressure sharpened, then stabilized, settling just below certainty.
This was the kind of place he had learned to avoid.
Not because something always happened here, but because timing mattered more than structure. Because a single hesitation, arriving a fraction too late or too early, could ripple outward.
He watched the people moving through.
A woman adjusted the strap of her bag as she entered the corridor. A man checked his phone without breaking stride. Someone laughed briefly, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the space.
Doyun focused on his breathing.
In through his nose.Out through his mouth.
He counted without numbers, marking time by the rhythm of passing steps. The pressure did not increase, but it did not fade either. It lingered, patient, as if waiting for him to do something.
He stepped back.
Just one step.
The change was immediate.
The pressure eased, not disappearing entirely, but loosening enough to register relief. The corridor remained unchanged. People continued through, unaware.
Doyun turned and chose a different route.
The detour was minor. Five minutes at most. He arrived later than planned, but intact. The corridor remained behind him, sealed off by distance and decision.
He waited.
Not physically, but mentally. He listened for echoes that never came. There was no sound of impact, no sudden interruption in the flow of the day. His phone remained silent.
Nothing followed.
At the office, the hours passed without resistance.
Reports arrived. Numbers aligned. Minor incidents were logged and categorized. The system functioned exactly as it was designed to. The corridor he had avoided did not appear in any summary, any alert, any footnote.
That unsettled him more than confirmation would have.
During lunch, he checked his watch out of habit. The second hand remained frozen at twelve. He frowned at it, then looked away. The watch had never told him anything useful. Still, he kept it on.
In the afternoon, a notification appeared.
A minor accident.
Location: a pedestrian crossing two blocks from the office.Time: approximately twenty minutes ago.
Doyun read the report twice.
He knew that crossing. Wide lanes. Clear signals. Good visibility from every direction. He had passed through it countless times without incident. He had not felt anything there. No pressure. No tightening.
The report was brief.
No injuries.A cyclist clipped a pedestrian's bag.Both parties apologized.Traffic resumed within moments.
An ordinary mistake.
Doyun leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
The timing bothered him.
He stood and walked to the window. From where he was, he could see the edge of the street. People crossed in steady flows, trusting the signals, trusting each other. Their movements overlapped smoothly, choices aligning without friction.
He tried to replay the day.
The corridor he had avoided.The crossing he had ignored.
In one place, his judgment had been precise. In another, it had been absent. There was no rule he could extract, no pattern he could name. The certainty he had relied on in recent days felt thinner now, stretched too far.
That night, he took the long way home again.
At the crossing mentioned in the report, he stopped and watched. People moved carefully, but without hesitation. The light changed. The flow resumed. A cyclist passed through without slowing.
Nothing happened.
Doyun felt no pressure.
He turned away.
A sharp sound echoed behind him.
Someone shouted. Tires scraped briefly against asphalt. His heart reacted before his thoughts caught up, and he turned instinctively, only to realize it was too far away to matter.
Later, he read about it.
A different crossing.Similar design.Different timing.
Doyun sat at his table and stared at the wall.
He had avoided what he felt.He had missed what he didn't.
For the first time, the possibility settled in fully.
He could be wrong.