Lee Joon-hyun stopped thinking in terms of days.
Time had become something softer and more dangerous—windows, thresholds, availability periods. Hours mattered only in relation to when he could be reached, when he might be interrupted, when something could be corrected.
Tuesday arrived without announcement.
So did the message.
REGISTERED CONTACT:Please confirm availability between 09:00–12:00.
Lee was already at his desk. He replied immediately.
Confirmed.
A second message followed, less than a second later.
Do not alter location.
That was new.
He sat back in his chair and stared at the screen. Around him, the office moved in its usual rhythm. Phones rang. Chairs rolled. Someone laughed too loudly near the windows.
Do not alter location.
He checked the time. 9:04.
For the first time since this began, Lee considered calling in sick. The thought came fully formed, tempting in its simplicity. Go home. Close the door. Be unreachable in a way that still looked reasonable.
He dismissed it just as quickly.
Reasonable had stopped protecting him.
At 9:17, a man appeared at the edge of his cubicle.
Lee hadn't seen him approach.
"Mr. Lee," the man said quietly.
Lee looked up.
Mid-thirties. Plain clothes. No badge. No folder this time. He held a paper coffee cup in one hand, steam curling faintly into the air.
"Yes," Lee said.
"Mind if I sit?" the man asked, already pulling the spare chair closer.
Lee nodded. He felt exposed suddenly, acutely aware of how visible he was. How public.
"This won't take long," the man said, settling in. He took a sip of his coffee. "We're just conducting a routine containment check."
"Containment?" Lee asked.
The man smiled apologetically. "Internal term. Don't worry about it."
"I am worried," Lee said before he could stop himself.
The man's eyes flicked up, sharp for just a moment, then softened again. "Of course you are. That's expected."
He leaned back slightly, casual, like a colleague dropping by to chat.
"We noticed you've been fully compliant," he continued. "Response times excellent. Movement stable. No deviations since Sunday."
Lee said nothing.
"That's good," the man said. "But compliance alone doesn't always mean containment."
"What does?" Lee asked.
"Isolation," the man replied easily.
Lee felt a chill creep up his spine. "Isolation from what?"
"From risk," the man said. "From unnecessary variables."
He glanced around the office, at Lee's coworkers. People Lee had worked beside for years. People who knew his coffee order, his weekend habits, his quiet reliability.
"Social interactions introduce unpredictability," the man went on. "Unpredictability increases exposure."
"Exposure to what?" Lee asked.
The man shrugged. "Misunderstanding."
He stood, placing the empty coffee cup neatly in the trash.
"For the next two weeks," he said, "we recommend minimizing non-essential communication."
Lee stared at him. "At work?"
"Especially at work," the man said. "Professional environments create documentation."
"That's not possible," Lee said. "I have meetings. Emails."
"Essential communication is fine," the man replied. "We'll define essential."
Lee felt something tighten in his chest. "How?"
The man pulled out his phone, tapped the screen once, then slipped it back into his pocket.
"You'll know," he said.
He nodded politely and walked away.
At 9:29, Lee's inbox refreshed.
Half his meetings for the week were gone.
No cancellations. No explanations.
Just… removed.
By noon, people had started to notice.
"Did you drop off the calendar?" a coworker asked, leaning over the partition.
"I think there was a sync issue," Lee said automatically.
She frowned. "IT again?"
"Probably," Lee replied.
At 12:14, his manager sent a message.
Can you come by my office?
Lee's heart stuttered.
He checked his phone. No new instructions. No warnings.
He stood up anyway.
The walk to her office felt longer than usual. Each step seemed to echo too loudly, like he was announcing himself to something unseen.
"Hey," she said when he entered. "Close the door?"
Lee did.
She studied him for a moment, concern softening her expression.
"You've been… distant," she said. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes," Lee said.
She raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
He swallowed. "I mean—work's been stressful."
"I can see that," she said. "You missed two meetings this morning. No responses. No messages."
Lee's mouth went dry. "I didn't see them."
She sighed. "I know you're reliable, Lee. That's why I wanted to check before escalating."
Escalating.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
"I'll fix it," Lee said. "It won't happen again."
She nodded slowly. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
Lee forced a smile and left.
At his desk, his phone buzzed.
REGISTERED CONTACT:Containment breach avoided. Thank you for exercising restraint.
Restraint.
He stared at the word, understanding dawning with a sick clarity.
They hadn't blocked the meetings.
They'd waited to see what he would do.
That evening, Lee didn't answer his ex-wife's call.
He watched the phone vibrate on the table until it stopped.
Ten minutes later, a message arrived.
Can you call me when you get this? It's about Min-ha.
His pulse spiked.
He picked up the phone, then froze.
Was this essential communication?
He waited.
At 6:42, another message appeared.
REGISTERED CONTACT:Reminder: non-essential communication increases exposure.
His hands shook.
He typed a reply to his ex-wife, deleted it, typed again.
Is Min-ha okay?
The response came almost immediately.
She's fine. She just asked why you didn't come to the meeting today.
Meeting.
Orientation.
The one the man had mentioned days ago.
Lee closed his eyes.
I'll explain later, he typed.
He set the phone down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling until the world steadied again.
This was containment.
Not confinement.
They weren't locking him away.
They were narrowing his life until nothing unpredictable remained.
On Thursday, the walls closed in further.
His building manager emailed about a routine inspection scheduled for next week. His bank app sent a notification asking him to review updated terms. His phone provider suggested a plan "better suited to his usage patterns."
Patterns everywhere.
At lunch, he sat alone, pushing food around his plate. Two coworkers sat nearby, laughing about something unrelated, something harmless.
He felt a strange, aching urge to join them. To speak. To remind himself he still could.
His phone buzzed.
REGISTERED CONTACT:Isolation reduces error. You're doing well.
Well.
That night, Lee stood in his apartment doorway and looked out into the hallway for a long time before closing the door.
He turned off the lights he didn't need. Silenced notifications he wasn't sure were allowed anymore. Sat at the table and waited.
At 10:03, a final message arrived.
REGISTERED CONTACT:Containment phase complete. Status stable.
Lee exhaled shakily.
Stable.
The word should have comforted him.
Instead, it terrified him.
Because stability, he realized, wasn't safety.
It was a shape they'd forced his life into.
A smaller one.
And once something fit, there was no reason to loosen it again.