The building was too large to feel welcoming.
Tall glass reflected the pale Busan sky. People moved quickly inside, ID cards hanging from their necks, faces already tired despite the early hour.
I stood before a sign listing departments.
Operations & Logistics Coordination Floor 7.
The elevator doors opened.
Inside, several people were already standing. In one corner, I saw a familiar face.
Her.
Hair neatly tied. Simple office uniform, too precise for a first day. She stared at the floor numbers without expression.
I didn't greet her.
I only confirmed one thing.
This wasn't a coincidence.
The seventh floor buzzed with low noise keyboards tapping, phones ringing, the constant hum of air conditioning. No large windows. No view of the port. Only screens filled with schedules and numbers that never stopped moving.
A man in a gray suit stood before us six trainees.
"Welcome," he said flatly. "You're not here because you're talented. You're here because you're cheap."
A few stiff smiles appeared.
"A small mistake here delays a ship," he continued. "And a delayed ship can cost billions."
He opened the folders one by one.
"You." A trainee from Seoul.
"You." A graduate from a famous university
.
Then his eyes stopped on me.
"Background?"
"Coastal village, sir."
"Ever worked at a port?"
"No."
He closed my folder. "Archives."
The word wasn't insulting.
It simply didn't expect anything.
Her turn came next. She stated her name and school calmly. No reaction followed, but I recognized the school ours, though from a different class.
I didn't look at her.
Not yet.
Tasks were assigned.
Shipping documents. Docking schedules. Foreign emails. English. Some Japanese.
Tension showed on a few faces. She sat straight, read quickly, then stopped, her brow tightening slightly.
I recognized that expression.
Something was wrong but she wasn't sure yet.
I returned to my own documents. One line didn't match the docking time conflicted with the actual route. I hesitated, then reported it.
The supervisor checked. "Correct," he said shortly. "Move to this desk."
That was all.
No praise.
As the afternoon quieted, she was still staring at her screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
The supervisor passed behind her.
"Why hasn't this been sent?" he asked.
"There's one confirmation that doesn't line up," she replied carefully.
He glanced quickly. "You misread the schedule. Send it."
She hesitated. "Sir, I"
"Send."
He walked away.
I saw the numbers on her screen
.
I knew the mistake.
Not fatal.
But enough to make someone's day longer.
I stood.
"Sir," I said to the supervisor, "may I check for a moment?"
He turned, impatient.
I pointed keeping distance, not touching. "If this is sent now," I said evenly, "the ship will still depart. But unloading will be delayed. The crane schedule overlaps."
The room went quiet.
The supervisor returned, checked more carefully.
"…Hold it," he said. "You're right."
She let out a small breath almost silent.
I went back to my desk.
We didn't look at each other.
Not yet.