The confirmation call came at 11:42 a.m.
Lee Joon-hyun was mid-scroll through an email he'd already read three times, pretending to work because pretending was easier than deciding what to do next. His phone vibrated once on the desk. Not aggressively. Not urgently. Just enough to be noticed.
He didn't answer it.
The vibration stopped. Five seconds passed. Then it vibrated again—longer this time, patient, as if whoever was calling had all the time Lee didn't.
He picked it up.
"Yes," he said.
"Good morning, Mr. Lee," a woman's voice replied. Calm. Pleasant. Young enough to sound reassuring, old enough to sound competent. "This is a confirmation call regarding your updated agreement."
Lee swallowed. "I already signed."
"Yes," she said. "This is just to make sure there are no misunderstandings."
Her phrasing was careful. No misunderstandings. As if confusion were the only danger left.
"I understand," Lee said. He didn't. But saying so felt safer.
"Excellent." He could hear a faint clicking on the other end, keys or a stylus. "I'll keep this brief. First, availability. You've been marked as available on Sunday. Can you confirm?"
"Yes," he said, too quickly again. He hesitated. "Sunday… what time?"
Another pause. Shorter than yesterday's. Less theatrical.
"That will be provided later," she said. "Time windows are assigned dynamically."
Assigned. Not scheduled.
"Okay," Lee said.
"Second," she continued, "asset disclosure. Since your last agreement, have there been any changes to your financial situation? Additional income, property transfers, or liabilities?"
"No," Lee said. Then, because silence felt dangerous, he added, "I don't think so."
"Please be precise," the woman said, still polite. "Accuracy protects you."
Lee's fingers tightened around the phone. "No," he repeated. "There haven't been any changes."
"Understood." More clicking. "Third, contact discipline. From this point forward, you will be contacted only through registered numbers. If you receive a call or message from an unregistered source, do not respond. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"If you fail to respond to a registered contact," she added, "we will assume unavailability."
"And that's… bad?" Lee asked before he could stop himself.
The woman laughed softly. Not mocking. Not amused. Just acknowledging the question.
"It's inefficient," she said. "We prefer efficiency."
The call ended.
Lee stared at the dark screen for a long moment before setting the phone down. His reflection stared back faintly, distorted by fingerprints and glare. He looked like someone who'd just been given instructions for a task he didn't remember agreeing to.
Around him, the office carried on.
Someone microwaved lunch. Someone complained about a spreadsheet error. A printer jammed and was un-jammed. Normality pressed in from all sides, almost aggressively, as if daring him to believe he was overreacting.
He forced himself to stand up.
The restroom mirror showed him the truth he'd been avoiding. He looked pale. Not sick. Not exhausted. Just… hollowed slightly, as if something inside him had been scooped out with care.
He splashed water on his face and leaned over the sink, gripping the edge until his knuckles whitened.
Accuracy protects you.
That sentence echoed louder than the rest.
At 2:17 p.m., an email arrived.
No subject line.
Just an attachment.
Lee hesitated before opening it. He checked the sender address twice. It looked legitimate. Corporate. Boring. The kind of address you trusted without thinking.
The attachment was a single-page PDF.
Asset Verification Checklist
His name was printed at the top. Under it, a list.
Primary residence
Vehicle (if applicable)
Employer details
Emergency contacts
Emergency contacts.
Lee's stomach tightened.
At the bottom of the page was a deadline.
Submission required by Saturday, 18:00.
Not Sunday.
Saturday.
He read the list again, slower this time. The items themselves weren't alarming. They were things banks asked for all the time. Insurance companies. Government offices.
But this didn't feel like bureaucracy.
It felt like inventory.
He hovered over the reply button, then stopped. The woman had been clear. Registered contacts only. He didn't know if email counted. He didn't want to find out the wrong way.
Instead, he forwarded the email to his personal address, then closed it. A small act of defiance disguised as practicality.
At 3:30, his phone buzzed with a text.
REGISTERED CONTACT:Checklist received. Please confirm submission timeline.
They already knew.
His pulse spiked. He typed a response, erased it, typed again.
I will submit by Saturday.
The reply came almost immediately.
Confirmed.
No thanks. No encouragement. Just confirmation.
That night, Lee stopped by the convenience store on the corner instead of going straight home. The fluorescent lights were harsher here, the aisles narrower. He wandered longer than necessary, picking up items he didn't need and putting them back.
At the counter, he paid in cash without thinking about it.
Outside, the air was cool. He leaned against the brick wall and checked his phone again. No new messages.
Sunday loomed in his mind, shapeless and heavy.
He thought of Min-ha. Of the day trip he'd promised. He pictured her disappointment with uncomfortable clarity—not anger, just quiet acceptance. She was getting used to that. To him apologizing.
After Sunday, he told himself. I'll fix it after Sunday.
The thought brought a flicker of relief.
That was when his phone rang.
This time, the number was saved.
He answered.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Lee," a man said. Different voice. Older. Lower. "I'm with compliance. We noticed a discrepancy."
Lee's heart slammed hard enough to make him dizzy. "What discrepancy?"
"Your employer information," the man said. "You listed your office address. But you also work remotely on Fridays. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Lee said. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes," the man repeated. "Consistency matters."
"I didn't mean—"
"It's not a problem," the man said smoothly. "We just need to understand your routines."
"My… routines?"
"Yes. Arrival times. Departure times. Variations." A pause. "Predictability reduces friction."
Lee's mouth felt dry. "Why do you need that?"
Another pause. This one was different. He could feel the man on the other end deciding how much to give him.
"So we don't inconvenience you unnecessarily," he said at last.
The call ended.
Lee slid his phone into his pocket and stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the soft chime of the store door opening and closing behind him.
Predictability reduces friction.
He walked home faster than usual, keys clenched between his fingers like a small, useless weapon.
At home, he spread the checklist out on the kitchen table and began filling it in carefully. Too carefully. He double-checked addresses he'd known by heart for years. He paused over the emergency contacts field longer than necessary.
He wrote Min-ha's name.
Then erased it.
Then wrote it again.
At the bottom of the form, in smaller text, was a final line he hadn't noticed before.
Failure to disclose may result in reassessment.
Reassessment of what, it didn't say.
He submitted the form at 7:58 p.m., two minutes before an arbitrary internal deadline he'd invented for himself. When the confirmation message arrived seconds later, relief washed over him again, thinner than before.
He went to bed early but didn't sleep.
Every sound outside his apartment felt louder. Every vibration of his phone—real or imagined—pulled him halfway out of whatever shallow rest he managed.
By morning, his jaw ached from clenching it all night.
On his commute, he noticed things he hadn't before.
The security cameras in the lobby. The way the elevator paused slightly longer on certain floors. The unfamiliar car parked across from his building, there long enough to be normal, short enough to be deniable.
He told himself he was imagining it.
He told himself a lot of things.
At his desk, a new email waited.
No subject.
Just a single sentence in the body.
Thank you for your cooperation. Please maintain availability.
Lee stared at the words until they blurred.
Availability.
Not compliance.
Not obedience.
Availability.
He minimized the email and opened his spreadsheet, hands moving automatically through motions he'd practiced for years. Numbers filled the screen, comforting in their honesty. Numbers didn't smile. They didn't pause before answering.
But even as he worked, a new understanding settled in his chest, cold and precise.
This wasn't about money anymore.
It was about access.
They weren't collecting yet.
They were positioning.
And somewhere ahead, waiting patiently, Sunday was no longer just a day.
It was a line.