The notice didn't arrive with sirens. No black cars. No uniformed officials standing at the door. It came quietly, the way things that changed your life usually did.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the Kwon house kitchen, catching dust in the air. A pot simmered on the stove, lid rattling softly. The television murmured from the living room—some afternoon news segment about traffic in Seoryon, faces too calm for anything important.
Tae-Yang sat at the table, one foot hooked around the chair rung, finishing homework he didn't care about. Math problems blurred together, numbers behaving exactly as expected. Predictable. Safe.
His mother's phone buzzed.
Once.
She glanced at it absently, thumb swiping the screen as she stirred the pot with her other hand. Then she stopped. The spoon hovered over the stew, unmoving. The bubbling continued, unaware.
Tae-Yang didn't look up at first. He felt it instead—the way the air changed when something unplanned entered the room.
His mother read the message again.
Her shoulders didn't tense. Her expression didn't crack. If anything, she became more careful, as if every movement now required intent. She set the spoon down. Picked up the phone with both hands.
Tae-Yang's pencil paused mid-stroke.
"What is it?" He asked, keeping his voice neutral.
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze flicked briefly toward the hallway—toward the study, where his father would be home soon.
"It's…" She searched for the word, then chose one that wasn't loaded. "Administrative."
That alone told him everything. The phone rang. She answered on the second ring. "Yes." She said quietly. "This is Kwon." Tae-Yang stared at the margin of his notebook, listening without seeming to.
"…I understand."
A pause.
"Behavioral anomaly screening." She repeated, voice steady, as if she were reading from a recipe. "Yes. We received the notice."
Behavioral anomaly.
Not an incident.
Not risk.
Not power.
Clean words. Safe words. The kind institutions used when they didn't want to be accused of anything, yet.
"Yes. Of course." His mother continued. "We'll comply."
Another pause, longer this time.
"…Thank you for informing us."
She ended the call and set the phone face down on the counter. The stew bubbled over. She moved automatically, lifting the pot, lowering the heat, wiping the spill before it could burn. Everything is done with practiced calm.
Tae-Yang's chest felt tight.
"Is it school?" He asked.
She turned to him then. Really looked at him. Her eyes softened just a fraction. Not enough to break. Just enough to be human. "They want to observe you." She said. "Some assessments. Interviews."
"With who?" He asked. She hesitated. "A clinic liaison." There it was. The word sat between them, heavy and precise.
Clinic.
Tae-Yang leaned back in his chair, forcing his shoulders to relax. "I didn't do anything." He said. Not defensive. Stated like a fact. "I know." She replied immediately.
That was worse than comfort. That was in agreement with the system's logic: doing something was never the requirement.
They stood there in the quiet, mother and son suspended between steam and sunlight. The front door opened.
His father stepped inside, briefcase in hand, tie loosened but posture unchanged. He took in the scene with one glance—the phone on the counter, the way his wife stood too still, the way Tae-Yang wasn't pretending to study anymore.
Dae-Hyun didn't ask what happened. He set his briefcase down carefully. Removed his shoes. Washed his hands. Only then did he sit at the table, folding them neatly in front of him.
"The clinic called." His wife said. "Yes." He replied. Just that.
No anger.
No lecture.
No disappointment made loud.
Silence stretched. Tae-Yang waited for the judgment, for the tightening of rules, for the familiar pressure of expectation to come crashing down. It didn't. His father looked at him, gaze unreadable behind his glasses.
"You will attend." Dae-Hyun said finally. "You will answer their questions honestly. You will not embarrass this family."
"Yes, sir." Tae-Yang said. "That is all." The conversation ended there.
No reassurance.
No defense.
No protest on his behalf.
His father stood and left the room, already done with the matter. That hurt more than yelling ever had. Later that night, Tae-Yang lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The house had gone quiet again, every sound folded neatly away.
Behavioral anomaly. He rolled the phrase around in his head, testing its edges. So that was what they called pressure when it didn't explode.
He pressed his palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat—steady, controlled, contained.
Strength equals permission to exist, he thought.
And someone, somewhere, had decided to check whether he was allowed to keep it.