Lee Joon-hyun learned the new rules without being told.
He learned them the way animals learned electric fences—by watching what hurt, and remembering where it happened.
Monday passed without incident. No calls. No visits. His phone stayed silent except for the ordinary noise of work emails and automated notifications. By Tuesday, the silence felt intentional. Not absence, but allowance.
He adjusted.
He left for work at the same time each morning. Took the same route. Ate lunch at his desk. Declined invitations. Answered messages within seconds, not minutes. He stopped forwarding emails. Stopped saving screenshots. Stopped thinking in terms of evidence.
By Wednesday, he felt almost normal again.
That was when Min-ha's school called.
It came just after noon, her teacher's name lighting up his phone like a small relief. Something familiar. Something safe.
He answered immediately.
"Mr. Lee?" the woman said. "This is Min-ha's homeroom teacher."
"Yes," he said, smiling despite himself. "Is she okay?"
"She's fine," the teacher replied. "Nothing serious. We just had a question regarding pickup authorization."
Lee frowned. "Pickup?"
"Yes. We received an inquiry this morning. Someone asked whether Min-ha might be leaving early today."
Lee's stomach tightened. "Who asked?"
"I'm not sure," the teacher said. "They identified themselves as an administrative contact."
Administrative.
The word dropped into him like a stone.
"No," Lee said quickly. Too quickly. "No, she's not leaving early. No one is authorized except me and her mother."
"Of course," the teacher said. "That's what we thought. I just wanted to confirm."
"Thank you," Lee said. "Thank you for checking."
When the call ended, his hands were shaking.
He sat perfectly still at his desk, eyes fixed on the spreadsheet in front of him while his mind raced backward through the last few weeks, searching for the moment he'd allowed this to happen.
He hadn't given them her school.
Had he?
His phone vibrated.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Minor clarification resolved. Thank you for your responsiveness.
Clarification.
Not inquiry. Not attempt.
Resolved.
Lee stood up so abruptly his chair scraped the floor. A few coworkers looked over. He forced a smile, grabbed his jacket, and walked to the restroom, locking himself into a stall before the shaking in his legs could give him away.
They hadn't threatened her.
They hadn't touched her.
They'd simply made sure he understood where the boundary was.
That evening, the visit came.
No knock this time.
The man was already waiting in the hallway when Lee opened his door, standing near the stairwell like he belonged there. Different face. Same posture. Same careful distance.
"Mr. Lee," he said. "Do you have a moment?"
Lee nodded.
"Good," the man said. "We'll keep this brief."
He didn't step inside. That felt deliberate.
"We noticed a spike in your stress indicators today," the man continued conversationally. "Elevated heart rate. Irregular movement. Temporary work absence."
Lee stared at him. "You can see my heart rate?"
The man smiled faintly. "Indirectly."
"How?"
"You'd be surprised what correlates," the man replied. "We don't monitor everything. Just enough."
Lee swallowed. "What do you want?"
The man tilted his head slightly. "We want alignment."
"About what?" Lee asked, his voice hoarse.
The man held up a thin envelope. No logos. No stamps.
"Collateral clarification," he said.
Lee didn't take it.
"Collateral?" he repeated.
"Yes," the man said. "You've been treating collateral as financial. Assets. Vehicles. Income streams."
"And it's not?" Lee asked.
The man's smile didn't widen. It sharpened.
"Collateral," he said, "is anything that motivates compliance."
Lee felt cold spread through his chest.
"You contacted my daughter's school," he said.
The man didn't deny it.
"We confirmed access protocols," he said calmly. "No action was taken."
"You scared her teacher," Lee said.
"Teachers are trained to handle uncertainty," the man replied. "Children are not."
Lee's hands clenched at his sides. "You said you wouldn't—"
"We never said that," the man interrupted gently. "We said we prefer efficiency."
Silence stretched between them.
Lee forced himself to breathe.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
The man looked almost pleased.
"Nothing new," he said. "Just continue as you have been. Maintain availability. Predictability. Transparency."
"And if I don't?"
The man shrugged lightly. "Then we expand our understanding of your collateral."
The envelope rustled softly as he extended it again.
"This document outlines acceptable boundaries," he said. "It's for your reassurance."
Lee took it.
Inside was a single page.
No legal language. No signatures.
Just bullet points.
Primary residence
Vehicle
Employment
Immediate family
Secondary dependents
Next to each item was a status indicator.
ACTIVE
RESTRICTED
CONDITIONAL
Min-ha's name appeared under Immediate family.
Status: CONDITIONAL
Lee felt something inside him fracture—not loudly, not cleanly, but enough to change the shape of things.
"You don't need to sign this," the man said. "It's informational."
"This is illegal," Lee said again, weaker this time.
The man nodded. "It would be. If it were enforceable."
He stepped back toward the stairwell.
"Think of it as a map," he said. "We prefer you stay within safe zones."
He paused, then added, "By the way—your daughter's school trip next month? We recommend you attend the orientation meeting."
Lee looked up sharply. "Why?"
"So there are no misunderstandings," the man said.
He left without another word.
That night, Lee didn't sleep.
He sat at the kitchen table with the envelope open in front of him, reading the same bullet points over and over until the words blurred.
They hadn't hurt her.
They hadn't even touched her.
They'd done something worse.
They'd made her relevant.
Around 2 a.m., his phone buzzed.
He flinched, then picked it up.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Status update: collateral conditions unchanged. Thank you for maintaining alignment.
Alignment.
He pressed the phone to the table and leaned forward, forehead resting against the wood.
For the first time since this began, a clear, undeniable truth settled over him.
This system wasn't designed to collect money.
Money was just the excuse.
It was designed to identify what you loved, what you feared, what you couldn't afford to lose—
and turn it into leverage.
By the time dawn crept in through the blinds, Lee had made a decision.
Not a brave one.
Not a smart one.
A necessary one.
He would not resist.
He would not deviate.
He would survive long enough to keep Min-ha untouched.
Even if it meant becoming exactly what the system wanted.