The transfer corridor was long. The sense of length came before numbers. The end was not immediately visible, and people walked without checking it.
Doyoon did not slow down. He did not measure the distance ahead. He did not register the pressure from behind. He stayed within the corridor's average speed.
Near the entrance, traces of brief hesitation remained. Places where people had checked maps. Where bags had been set down and lifted again. Where direction changed without moving forward. The spaces were empty, but not erased.
Advertisements covered the walls. Old and new were mixed together. Faded paper stood beside fresh print. No one read them. People leaned, brushed past, and moved on.
Below the advertisements, hand marks remained. At a similar height. Elbows, shoulders, hands reaching out for balance.
The floor was polished. Clean. Not slippery. Only marked by many shoes moving in the same direction.
People were making choices. Right or left. Stairs or escalator. Following the person ahead, or stepping slightly aside.
Those choices referenced one another. Quietly. Without words.
Doyoon felt it. It entered without effort. He did not raise his head. He avoided specific faces.
The corridor narrowed at its center. A single pillar stood there. An old signboard remained beside it. People slowed by a fraction of a beat.
The delay was small. Scattered like error. But it repeated at the same point.
Someone quickened their step. Someone lifted their eyes from a phone. Someone adjusted a bag strap. Someone did nothing.
No one was wrong. No one was careless.
Doyoon could have stopped. He could have stepped aside. He could have leaned toward the pillar and split the flow. The alignment would have changed.
In the past, he would have done so.
This time, he postponed it. He chose not to intervene. It seemed like the least demanding option.
The air grew warmer. Body heat overlapped. Clothes brushed. Bags touched. Someone inhaled, then exhaled.
Nothing happened.
No one stumbled. No one fell. No warning followed.
The corridor widened again. People dispersed toward their lines. The flow loosened on its own.
Doyoon remained within it. He did not look back as he exited.
Relief did not arrive.
Before, nothing happening had been enough.
This time, it was different.
The choice not to intervene remained. It did not resolve. It stayed inside him.
Fatigue accumulated. Not in his body but in judgment.
He paused briefly at the stairs. Too short to be called a stop. People moved around him. Just enough not to disturb the flow.
No one looked at him. No one needed him.
That fact felt heavier than expected.
Doyoon walked again. The corridor ended, and the platform opened.
Nothing would happen this time either. He thought so.
The thought did not calm him.