The first knock came at 7:03 a.m.
Lee Joon-hyun was already awake. He'd been awake since 5:40, lying still on top of the sheets, listening to the building breathe—pipes ticking, distant traffic, a neighbor's alarm muffled through concrete. When the knock sounded, it didn't startle him. It confirmed something he'd been quietly expecting.
Three knocks.
Not loud. Not hesitant.
Measured.
He checked the time again, though he already knew it. 7:03. Early enough to be inconvenient. Late enough to be intentional.
He stood, smoothed his shirt, and walked to the door.
Through the peephole, he saw a man standing slightly to the side, not centered. Late thirties. Casual jacket. Hands visible. Empty. He looked like someone waiting for an elevator, not someone at your door.
Lee unlocked it.
"Mr. Lee," the man said with a polite nod. "Good morning."
"Yes," Lee replied. The word came easily now.
"I'm here for a brief verification," the man said. His tone matched his posture—neutral, unthreatening. "This won't take long."
Lee hesitated just long enough to register as human, then stepped aside. "Okay."
The man entered, wiping his shoes carefully on the mat without being asked. He glanced around once, quick and professional, eyes cataloging rather than judging.
"Nice place," he said, as if commenting on the weather.
"It's small," Lee said.
"That usually makes things easier," the man replied.
He produced a slim folder from inside his jacket. Not thick like yesterday's. This one looked temporary. Disposable.
"Just a few confirmations," the man said. "We like to align records with reality."
Lee nodded. His pulse thudded steadily in his ears.
"Primary residence," the man read. "This address. Confirmed."
He checked a box.
"Living alone?"
"Yes."
"No pets?"
"No."
"Emergency contact," the man continued, eyes flicking up briefly. "You listed Min-ha Lee. Relationship?"
"My daughter."
The man nodded once, as if that explained everything.
"Age?"
"Nine."
Another checkmark.
"She lives with her mother?"
"Yes."
"Weekends?"
Lee hesitated. Just a fraction too long.
"Sometimes," he said. "It depends."
The man smiled faintly. "Most things do."
He moved on.
"Employer," he said. "Office downtown. Hybrid schedule."
"Yes."
"Fridays remote," the man added, not asking.
"Yes."
"Commute time averages forty minutes," the man said. "Shorter if traffic is light."
Lee's mouth felt dry. "I guess."
The man closed the folder.
"That's all," he said. "Thank you for your cooperation."
Relief flickered through Lee before he could stop it.
As the man turned toward the door, he paused.
"One more thing," he said lightly. "We noticed you forwarded a document to a personal email yesterday."
Lee's heart lurched.
"I—just for reference," he said quickly. "In case—"
"It's fine," the man said, holding up a hand. "We just wanted to confirm it was intentional."
"Yes," Lee said. "It was."
The man nodded. "Good. Transparency avoids confusion."
He stepped out into the hallway.
As he left, he added, almost as an afterthought, "We'll keep visits minimal as long as routines remain consistent."
The door clicked shut.
Lee stood there for several seconds, hand still hovering near the handle.
Visits.
Plural.
At work, Lee found it impossible to focus.
Every sound felt like a prelude. Every email notification tightened something in his chest. He caught himself checking the clock more often than usual, not because he was waiting for lunch or the end of the day, but because he was tracking patterns.
At 10:12, a message arrived.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Routine alignment complete. Thank you for maintaining accessibility.
Accessibility.
The word sat uneasily with him. It suggested openness. Willingness. As if he were offering something, not having it taken.
At 11:30, his manager stopped by his desk.
"You okay?" she asked. "You look… distracted."
Lee forced a smile. "Just tired."
She nodded sympathetically. "Try to take lunch today."
He promised he would. He didn't.
That evening, Lee adjusted his schedule.
He left work ten minutes earlier than usual. Took a different route home. Not dramatically—just one extra turn, one unfamiliar block. He told himself it was nothing. Curiosity. A way to feel in control again.
Halfway down the street, his phone buzzed.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
He stopped walking anyway, as if defiance could be measured in inches.
"Mr. Lee," the same compliance voice said. "We noticed a deviation."
Lee closed his eyes.
"I just—"
"No explanation needed," the man said calmly. "We're just checking. Everything all right?"
"Yes," Lee said. "I was just… walking."
A pause.
"We encourage consistency," the man said. "Variations increase friction."
"I didn't know I wasn't allowed to—"
"You're allowed to do anything you want," the man interrupted gently. "We simply adjust our expectations accordingly."
The call ended.
Lee stood on the sidewalk, heart hammering, aware of how exposed he felt in the open air. He turned around and retraced his steps, taking the route he always took.
When he reached his apartment, his phone vibrated again.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Thank you for correcting course.
On Thursday, another visit.
Different man. Same manner.
This one stayed closer to the door, didn't remove his shoes. He asked fewer questions, but his eyes lingered longer.
"Everything remains in order," he said. "That's good."
"What happens if it isn't?" Lee asked before he could stop himself.
The man tilted his head, considering. "Then we intervene earlier."
"Intervene how?"
"With assistance," the man said. "Guidance. Support."
Support.
Lee nodded, because nodding had become second nature.
By Friday night, Lee felt smaller inside his own life.
He declined a drink with coworkers. Ignored a call from his ex-wife because he didn't know what he was allowed to say anymore. He spent an hour reorganizing his apartment, not because it needed it, but because order felt like compliance he could control.
At 9:18 p.m., his phone buzzed.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Reminder: availability window begins tomorrow at 18:00.
Saturday.
His throat tightened.
He typed a response, erased it, typed again.
Understood.
The reply came instantly.
Confirmed.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall until his eyes burned.
This wasn't pressure.
Pressure pushed.
This was alignment.
They weren't forcing him.
They were teaching him how to stay in place.
Saturday passed slowly.
No visits. No calls.
The silence felt deliberate, like the pause before a held breath was released.
At 5:59 p.m., Lee's phone vibrated.
He didn't wait this time.
"Yes," he said.
"Mr. Lee," the woman from the confirmation call said. "Thank you for your continued cooperation. Please remain available. Further instructions will follow."
"Tonight?" Lee asked.
"Possibly," she said. "Or tomorrow."
"Sunday."
"Yes."
The call ended.
Lee looked at the clock. 6:01.
The window was open now.
He sat very still, afraid that even movement might count as a deviation.
For the first time since this began, a clear thought formed in his mind, sharp and undeniable.
This wasn't about debt.
It wasn't even about control.
It was about training.
And he was learning faster than he wanted to admit.