The first thing Tae-Hyun noticed was the silence.
He had grown used to the subtle presence inside him—the constant awareness, the faint internal rhythm that mapped the living world around him. It had become background, like breath. Something he only realized was there when it wasn't.
He was wiping down a counter in Section C when the sense dulled.
The hum receded.
The corridor seemed to stretch slightly, the edges of things losing their precision. He paused, cloth still in his hand, and waited for the familiar clarity to return.
It didn't.
The cloth slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor.
He stared at it longer than necessary, unsettled by how much effort it took to bend and pick it up. His body felt distant, as though a thin layer of glass had formed between him and himself.
He straightened slowly.
A faint shimmer crossed his vision, subtle enough that he might have dismissed it if he weren't already paying attention.
He rested his hand against the counter until the floor steadied beneath his feet.
Around him, Helix continued its quiet industry. Monitors pulsed. A technician laughed softly somewhere down the hall. The world showed no sign that anything inside him had shifted.
By the time his shift ended, the sensation had faded.
But it hadn't disappeared.
It lingered, like a hairline crack beneath polished stone.
He went to the hospital lab that night without calling ahead.
Dr. Seo was alone, seated at the desk, reviewing neural charts under the soft yellow light. She looked up as he entered.
"You're early," she said.
"Something's wrong."
The words came out easily.
She was already moving, pulling the scanner toward him, guiding him into the chair.
"Tell me what you're feeling."
"Disconnected," he said after a moment. "Like something's out of alignment."
She placed the sensors along his wrist and temple, her movements precise and familiar.
The machine chimed.
Her eyes shifted to the screen.
Then narrowed.
She adjusted the settings, pulled up earlier data, layered one scan over another.
The room grew very quiet.
"…There's drift," she murmured.
"Drift."
"Yes. The internal response pattern. It's still functioning, but the structure isn't as stable as it was."
He watched her face. The slight crease between her brows had deepened.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means your system is carrying more than it can organize," she said. "Every time you interfere, every time you absorb something from someone else, it leaves a trace. Those traces are beginning to overlap."
He leaned back in the chair.
"So it builds."
"Yes."
"And if it keeps building?"
She didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was softer.
"Then the boundaries inside you start to blur. Memory, sensation, impulse. You lose the clean lines."
The words settled slowly.
He thought of the girl in C-21. The lingering weight in his chest afterward. The dreams filled with unfamiliar faces.
"Is there a way to stop it?" he asked.
"I don't know yet," she said. "But I know what eases it."
She stepped closer.
Didn't speak.
Just reached for his wrist.
Her fingers rested lightly against his skin.
Something in him shifted almost immediately. The faint tension he hadn't realized he was holding eased. The quiet inside him reorganized, subtle but undeniable, like a structure finding its original shape.
She glanced at the monitor.
Then exhaled.
"It's stabilizing," she said.
Her hand remained where it was.
Neither of them commented on that.
"How long does it last?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," she replied. "Longer when you're near me. Shorter when you're not."
He studied her face, the calm that masked concern, the focus threaded with something more personal now.
"So you're my anchor," he said quietly.
Her gaze lifted.
"Yes."
The word was simple.
The weight of it was not.
She withdrew her hand.
The sense inside him stirred, but it held.
She stepped back, arms folding loosely in front of her.
"You can't keep working on instinct," she said. "We need structure. Boundaries. You can't absorb everything you touch. And you can't use your ability without knowing what it costs you."
He nodded.
"We'll set rules," she continued. "And we'll monitor every change. If something shifts, I need to know immediately."
"Agreed."
She studied him for a moment, then added quietly, "And if you start to lose yourself… I won't pretend not to see it."
He met her gaze.
"That's all I'm asking."
He stood, feeling steadier than when he'd arrived.
At the door, he paused.
"Dr. Seo."
"Yes?"
"When that happens," he said, "when the lines start to go… tell me."
Her throat moved.
"I will."
He left the lab, the corridor lights reflecting softly off the floor.
Behind him, Dr. Seo remained where she was, staring at the screen that still showed the echo of his living pattern.
And for the first time, the question in her mind was no longer what he was.
It was how long he could remain himself.