Monday began as it always did—
with the calm cruelty of fluorescent lights, humming faintly like they resented being awake, and the sour scent of burnt coffee drifting from the office pantry. Yoo Minjae adjusted to the rhythm quickly. He always did. Routine made him comfortable; predictability meant fewer surprises, fewer risks, and fewer chances for someone to notice the cracks in his disguise.
As a newly minted Senior Analyst, he moved with a slightly different kind of attention from others. People made way for him in the hallway now—not dramatically, but just enough to show they had recalibrated their perception of him. His promotion meant increased expectations, tighter schedules, and more frequent invitations to brief the upper teams. But it also granted him one quiet luxury:
he could decide which questions were worth asking and which were better left unanswered.
That was what he preferred most.
In the morning meeting, while others stared intently at KPIs, quarterly projections, and pipeline adjustments, Minjae sat slightly back in his chair, pen tapping softly against the margin of his notebook. His colleagues traded opinions:
"Sales is inflating their forecast again, I swear," someone murmured.
"The conversion rate doesn't support the optimism," another countered.
"We need to push Purchasing to renegotiate Tier-3 contracts," one said louder, addressing the entire table.
Minjae nodded at the appropriate moments, but his attention was elsewhere. His eyes traced the anomalies on the shared dashboard—tiny deviations others dismissed as noise.
A mid-tier partner with an abrupt surge in demand.
A contract routed through three vendors before hitting payment.
A transfer timestamped two minutes after a system blackout.
Normal employees, even senior ones, would chalk these up to "admin issues" or "ordinary fluctuations."
But Minjae wasn't normal.
He wrote a single word in the corner of his notes, small enough not to draw attention.
Aberration.
It wasn't a finance term, not here, not in this world. But it fit.
He leaned back slightly. Someone beside him asked, "Senior Kang, any opinions?"
"No," he replied calmly. "Just observing the discrepancies."
"That's normal at month-start," the team manager said, waving it off.
"Of course," Minjae replied, though his expression didn't change.
---
After lunch, the office atmosphere grew softer, as it often did—people sluggish from food, the air-conditioning colder, keyboards clacking slower. That was when Yura stopped by his desk under the pretense of dropping off a report that was obviously not misfiled.
She leaned on the edge of his table, voice light.
"Your new title suits you. Congratulations again. But don't start locking your office like the managers upstairs. They act like someone's going to raid their drawers."
Minjae didn't look up immediately. He finished typing the last sentence of an email before lifting his gaze.
"I'd rather not have a room they can search," he said simply.
Yura blinked. "...Are you joking?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he just gave a faint shrug.
She stared a second longer, trying to read him. Eventually she let out a quiet snort.
"You're impossible sometimes."
She turned as if to leave, but before she walked away, she tugged lightly at her sleeve—once.
A signal.
Not an emergency.
Just 'something odd' in the market queue.
He gave the slightest nod. She left without another word, her expression brightening into neutrality the moment someone from HR walked past.
---
Later that afternoon, Seori passed by with her usual quiet grace. She didn't stop—she never interrupted unless necessary—but she slowed just enough to angle her voice low.
"You forgot to blink for five straight minutes," she murmured.
He blinked immediately. "That's not true."
"You were staring at your monitor like it wronged your family," she whispered. "Hyperfocus or caffeine overload?"
"Caffeine," he answered.
Seori arched a brow. "Lie better," she said gently, then continued walking.
Her shoulder-length hair swayed behind her as she disappeared around the corner.
Minjae watched her go. Seori had an uncanny ability to sense when he was overthinking—or letting his real self seep too close to the surface.
He didn't know if she understood what she sensed. Probably not. But she felt it.
And she wasn't the only one.
A few minutes later, Yuri approached. She didn't comment, didn't tease, didn't even greet him. She simply placed a data folder onto his desk—significantly thicker than the one she borrowed earlier—then said quietly:
"This wasn't here this morning."
Her tone was neutral, but her gaze lingered just long enough to be intentional.
Minjae allowed himself the faintest smile.
"Thank you."
She didn't answer. She just turned and walked away, posture precise, ponytail swinging with clinical efficiency.
Their dynamic was always like that—measured, sharp, unreadable.
---
When the clock struck 7 p.m., the office had already emptied. Only the cleaning staff and a few project managers remained tapping away at their keyboards. That was when Minjae finally rose from his seat.
Not to go home.
Never just to go home.
He slipped away silently, weaving through empty hallways and quiet elevators. No one questioned his direction; no one questioned his timing. Seniority had perks, especially for someone who never caused trouble.
The evening commute stretched across the city. The streets glowed with neon, headlights streaking across asphalt. In the distance, the skyline shimmered under the fading sun. Minjae kept his head down, hood pulled forward, steps deliberate.
His destination was a small, unremarkable research annex—one most people passed without noticing. On paper, the building supported low-level biotech prototyping. In reality, no one visited it. No staff. No payroll. No equipment requests. Nothing.
Only one keycard existed for this place.
Only one person ever entered.
Him.
He stepped through the door. The corridor lights flickered awake, one section at a time, illuminating the sterile interior. The quiet was absolute—no hum of machines, no talkative coworkers, no footsteps other than his own.
His hidden lab wasn't large, but it was organized with a precision he never displayed at work. At the front were basic workstations, screens filled with research tabs and spreadsheets of metadata. The back room was more critical: reinforced tables, sensors, and a wall pinned with photos, graphs, and news clippings.
Some were printed reports of unexplained human feats—videos paused mid-action, expressions twisted in fear or adrenaline. Others were atmospheric readings, pulse spikes, temperature anomalies.
At the center sat a glass case.
Inside it lay the 'Dran rune', etched in a strange, angular pattern—one he created from memory, stitching dragon-script with geometric approximations human physics could support.
It had ignited once.
Only once.
Never again since.
Minjae stepped closer, staring at it.
"What did I do differently?" he murmured.
He sat, pulling up files. Footage of human feats filled the screen: a woman lifting a car to save her trapped son, a teenager leaping across rooftops during a fire, a man breaking through a metal door in a moment of panic.
He whispered, "This isn't coincidence…"
He zoomed in on the biometric metadata. Pulse spikes. Temperature surges. Cortisol peaks.
"Stress," he muttered. "Emotion. Desperation."
He pressed his palm against the surface of the glass case, fingertips brushing the rune.
Nothing. Not even warmth.
"Come on…" he whispered.
He activated his neural monitors—EEG pads, biometric readers, sensors he'd wired together himself. The screens lit up, displaying lines of brainwave and cardiac activity.
"Can I recreate it?" he wondered aloud. "Panic without danger? Rage without trigger?"
He scoffed. "Humans can fake emotions all the time. Dragons can't."
He stared at the readings again.
One monitor blinked:
Will Signature: Low
Vital Force Variance: 0.00%
His expression darkened.
"Still nothing…"
He flipped through notes. In his previous life, spellweaving relied on will—raw, focused intent. But here, it seemed muted, as if the human body filtered everything down to a dull ache.
One word caught his eye. A term from the early days of his dragon life.
Vitalia.
Raw living force.
Primitive.
Untamed.
Alive.
"I didn't ignite the rune with knowledge," Minjae whispered.
"I ignited it with something primal."
He stood, stepping back onto the center pad. He closed his eyes. Summoned memories he tried to bury. Fear. Uncertainty. The moment he first arrived in this fragile human body. The helplessness that came with it. The loss of power. The silence of instinct.
His chest tightened.
His hand trembled.
And then—
Fwoom.
A soft blue glow burst under his palm, illuminating the room. The rune lit up, flickering like a heartbeat struggling to stabilize.
And then—
darkness.
The light died.
Minjae stumbled backward, breath unsteady, hand trembling violently.
"I did it," he whispered. "Once."
He tried again immediately.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
"Of course," he muttered bitterly, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Of course it only works when you're not trying."
He sank into the chair, letting out a shaky breath.
---
The next morning, he arrived late.
Not by much—but late for Minjae was enough to raise eyebrows.
Yuri caught his eye the moment he entered the bullpen. Her gaze narrowed, sharp as always. She didn't say a word, but she didn't need to.
Seori arrived soon after. Instead of handing him black coffee like usual, she placed a warm cup of tea on his desk.
"You look dehydrated," she said softly. "Drink this."
He blinked. "That obvious?"
"Painfully."
Yura approached next, pressing a clipboard against his chest.
"You look like someone dragged you out of a coma," she muttered. "What happened? You didn't reply to my ping."
He rubbed his temples. "I was… working through something."
"Work-related?"
"Sort of."
"You're avoiding the question."
"Yes."
She sighed. "Fine. But don't collapse at your desk. You're too tall to catch safely."
He let out a quiet exhale. "I'll try not to."
That entire day, none of the three strayed far.
Yura circled his area often, pretending to deliver documents.
Seori subtly blocked unnecessary meetings from landing on his schedule.
Yuri intercepted a couple of department heads before they could ask why he seemed drained.
They didn't confront him directly.
They didn't push.
They simply stayed close.
And Minjae noticed.
He always noticed.
Even when he pretended not to.