Morning came as it always did—soft light against slate-gray skies, the hum of a city too fast for its own heart, and Minjae's silent presence threading through the hallways before anyone else arrived.
He poured his usual black coffee in the communal pantry—two sugars, not stirred—and leaned against the counter as steam rose between his fingers. He wasn't tired. Just… quieter than usual.
Last night's experiment hadn't borne fruit in the traditional sense.
But something had moved.
Not externally, not visibly.
But inwardly.
The rune hadn't flared or sparked—but it had acknowledged him. A strange pulse of warmth had hummed in his chest. Nothing more. And yet, that nothing whispered something.
His phone buzzed—Yura.
"Strategy team early, Room 6A. I brought snacks. Don't make me eat them alone."
Minjae smiled faintly—barely there, but real.
Minutes later, he stepped into the glass-paneled room.
Yuri was already there, adjusting the slides on the screen, her hair pulled into a tight twist, glasses perched perfectly as always.
"Morning, Minjae-ssi," she said, not looking up. "I've already color-coded your talking points. You tend to go off-script."
"I tend to make better decisions off-script," he murmured as he sat.
"You say that, but Seori tells me you once used the wrong HR metric for three months."
He blinked. "She still remembers that?"
"She remembers everything," Yura added as she entered with a cardboard tray of pastries. "Especially when you admit you were wrong."
Minjae exhaled through his nose. "Noted."
Yura passed him a chocolate croissant, brushing his fingers lightly in the handoff. A flicker of contact, accidental—yet somehow intentional.
Yuri rolled her eyes so subtly it was almost imperceptible.
Moments later, Seori arrived late, her coat half-buttoned, hair a little windblown.
"I'm sorry," she said, breathless. "I ran."
"You live five blocks away," Yuri deadpanned.
"I stopped to get coffee for everyone."
Minjae arched a brow. "We have coffee here."
"But it doesn't have your initials drawn in cream," Seori said sweetly, passing him a cup.
The foam bore a faintly drawn M.
She smiled innocently.
Yura narrowed her eyes.
Yuri hid a smirk behind her notes.
He took the coffee. Sipped it.
"…It's good."
Seori sat beside him with a triumphant sigh, pretending not to notice the reactions of the other two.
The meeting commenced.
Discussion flowed—quarterly KPIs, predictive risk forecasting, ongoing audits.
Minjae spoke when needed, nodded when appropriate, but internally, his thoughts kept drifting.
Dran.
Acknowledgment.
Life force given shape.
At one point, Yuri passed him a note—an old habit from when they used to sit side-by-side as junior analysts.
Focus. Your eyes keep drifting.
He folded the note quietly and slipped it into his pocket.
After the meeting ended, the three women lingered, finding reasons to organize cables or talk over each other's ideas.
Minjae escaped with quiet efficiency.
---
By afternoon, he was back in the lab.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the outside world away.
The air inside held a different texture.
Denser.
More attentive.
On the table, the rune for Dran sat inert.
He approached it slowly.
Today, he didn't try to force it.
No pushing.
No expectations.
Instead, he sat, and spoke aloud—not to activate it, but to speak *through* it.
"I saw a woman bend a steel rod in an accident last year. No evidence of mechanical failure. The police report said it was impossible. She had no history of strength training."
He wrote her case number on the side.
"Another man reported predicting a building collapse moments before it happened. People called it intuition. I think it was something else."
He closed the folder. Stared at the rune.
"Is it instinct?" he asked quietly. "Or is it will?"
His voice dropped lower.
"Or is it the part of us we bury so deep we forget it exists?"
Stillness.
He stood and walked to the counter, mixing an electrolyte packet into water. As he stirred, he caught his reflection in the lab's mirrored surface.
His eyes looked calm.
But behind them, the flicker still burned.
Not of power.
Of need.
Need to know.
Need to understand what no other being alive could remember—that runes weren't just constructs.
They were bridges.
Interfaces.
He placed a fresh copy of the rune on a copper disc. Instead of using voice, he tried another approach—body resonance.
He slowed his breath.
Regulated his pulse.
Then gently pressed his palm onto the disc while exhaling everything that weighed him down.
Not the weight of being a former dragon.
But the weight of being himself.
A man torn between memory and presence.
Between flame and flesh.
The disc warmed slightly beneath his hand.
A faint glimmer.
Then—nothing.
But as he stepped back, he felt something new.
The flame hadn't failed.
It had rested.
Paused.
Not rejection—
recovery.
He scribbled in his notes:
Theory: Dran responds to emotional clarity without intensity.
Stable will. Still flame.
Minjae closed the journal.
His watch buzzed—dinner with his parents at 7.
And knowing his mother, she had already invited "those nice girls from your office again."
He sighed, resigned.
But not annoyed.
Maybe the lab had taught him that attention—when subtle—was still meaningful.
And some flames didn't need to roar to burn.
---
He left the lab, coat slung over one arm, the elevator ride descending in soft metallic hums. On the ground floor, the receptionist waved absently, and he stepped into the evening air.
The city had shifted again, slipping into its twilight rhythm—horns blending with chatter, street vendors calling out prices, lights flickering awake in tall towers.
He walked toward the station at an unhurried pace, letting the bustle swirl around him. For all its noise, the city felt familiar in a way that soothed rather than overwhelmed.
It reminded him of the way dragons once perceived life below—patterns, flows, pulses. Except now, he walked *within* it, as part of the pattern rather than above it.
He wasn't sure which felt stranger.
---
Dinner at his parents' home began as it always did—too many dishes on the table, his mother fussing, his father pretending not to care but commenting on everything anyway.
What was different were the guests.
"Well, look at that," his father muttered when the doorbell rang. "I told you she'd invite them."
"It's good for him," his mother huffed.
"Is it? Or do you just enjoy feeding other people's daughters?"
"Both."
Minjae pinched the bridge of his nose.
Seori arrived first, coat neatly folded over her arm. She bowed politely to his parents and practically floated inside with far too much grace for a casual dinner.
Yura arrived next, carrying a fruit basket because "it felt rude to come empty-handed." His mother fussed over her instantly.
And finally Yuri, who pretended she hadn't wanted to come but still wore her nicest cardigan.
Minjae sat at the corner of the long table, observing the three of them orbit around one another with practiced ease.
His parents exchanged glances that were far from subtle.
At one point, his mother leaned close and whispered, "You seem less lonely these days."
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
---
Dinner stretched into small talk—reports of office mishaps, Seori teasing him about his diet, Yura asking his father about fishing, Yuri subtly trying not to enjoy herself but failing whenever dessert appeared.
Minjae watched them more than he spoke, noticing details he hadn't before.
Seori served everyone before herself.
Yura listened more than she talked.
Yuri corrected facts under her breath even while smiling.
There was warmth here.
Weight too, but a gentle kind.
A presence he wasn't used to anymore.
His chest tightened—not painfully, but in recognition.
These things anchored him in ways the lab never could.
---
After dinner, he walked the three of them to the bus stop.
The air was cold enough to see their breaths.
A cat darted across the sidewalk.
The streetlamp above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to stay awake.
Seori hugged herself. "Your mom is lovely."
"She wants grandchildren," Yuri muttered.
"I don't think that was subtle," Yura added.
Minjae groaned softly.
Yuri elbowed him. "Relax. She adores you. It's harmless."
He hesitated. Then, with unusual straightforwardness, he said:
"Thank you… for coming."
The three of them paused, surprised.
Seori's expression softened.
Yura's lips curved gently.
Yuri blinked, caught off guard.
The bus arrived, its doors hissing open. One by one, they boarded, offering small waves before the vehicle pulled away.
Minjae stood there until it faded from sight.
The cold didn't bother him.
It never really had.
But tonight, something inside him felt warmer than the streetlamps above.
---
When he finally returned home, he set his coat aside and sat at his desk. The apartment was silent, save for the occasional distant wail of a siren and the hum of the refrigerator.
He pulled the rune notes toward him again.
Dran.
Acknowledgment.
Response without brilliance.
His fingers traced the lines absentmindedly.
He remembered—dimly, distantly—how dragons once treated runes. Not as tools, but as reflexes. Extensions of existence. Breath given form.
It wasn't supposed to be complicated.
He was the one making it complicated.
Maybe that was humanity's influence.
Or maybe it was his own fear of what acknowledgment might demand of him.
He placed his palm over the page.
No activation.
Just contact.
Quiet.
Still.
He exhaled.
Something inside him unwound.
Not power.
Not flame.
But permission.
To take his time.
To exist here, in this blend of past and present.
He closed the notebook gently.
Tomorrow, he would try again.
Not to chase the flame—
but to understand its silence.
And as he turned off the lamp, the faint pulse in his chest hummed once more.
Warmer.
Steadier.
A soft promise in the dark—
I'm still here.
And so are you.