I spent the next few hours polishing off the yogurt and fruit Mira and Theo had smuggled in for me. Between bites, I listened to their old stories, their pointless arguments, and their increasingly ridiculous attempts at making me laugh. The normalcy of it all felt… soothing. Grounding. Almost enough to make me forget how close things had come.
Almost.
Eventually, a nurse came in, smiled, and handed me my discharge papers. It was official: I was free to go.
Ten minutes later, I stood in front of the Bureau of Anomalous Affairs' main headquarters — towering, familiar, and entirely too cold-looking for a place that managed the weirdest things in existence.
Inside the lobby, I headed straight for the elevator and pressed the button labeled [70].
The metal doors slid shut with a soft chime.
The elevator hummed as it ascended — floor after floor ticking by on the screen above the doors.
Feels awkward being here while I'm on paid leave…
A weird mixture of guilt and confusion twisted in my stomach. But before I could dwell on it, the elevator stopped and opened with a sharp ding.
Floor 70, just as Mira said.
I stepped out — and froze.
This floor, like most of the upper levels, was sleek and perfectly symmetrical. Gray walls, polished tile, modern lighting. Everything screamed "bureaucratic cleanliness."
Except for one thing.
A small, secluded room sat tucked into a corner of the hallway, framed by a dark wooden door that did not match anything on this floor. It looked… old. Domestic. Comfortably wrong.
That doesn't fit the rest of this floor. Like, at all.
My eyes narrowed.
Is that the Counseling Anomaly?
I approached carefully. On the door, a single piece of paper was taped slightly crooked. Someone had written, in friendly handwriting:
"Mirage Counseling Office: Waiting Room :)"
A smiley face.
Of course.
I grabbed the handle and stepped inside.
Warmth washed over me immediately.
The room felt nothing like the Bureau. Nothing like any anomaly I'd encountered, either. It reminded me of an old-fashioned therapist's office someone tried to redesign after binge-watching interior design videos.
Soft, amber lights glowed from lamps instead of the usual sterile fluorescents.
A faint scent of mint — clean, cool, but not overwhelming — lingered in the air.
The waiting room itself was small and cozy:
Eight cushioned chairs lined the right wall, all mismatched but charmingly so.
A bamboo plant sat proudly in the left corner, its leaves swaying slightly despite the lack of wind.
A round table stood nearby, holding neatly stacked plastic cups, a water dispenser that hummed gently, and a single half-filled bowl of hard candy.
An old-fashioned analog clock ticked steadily above it all, its hands moving just a little too smoothly.
Several art pieces hung around the room — landscapes, abstracts, one painting of a fox sipping tea for reasons I chose not to question.
The atmosphere was warm. Welcoming.
Suspiciously welcoming.
Even the dark wooden door at the far end of the room — presumably the counselor's office — seemed to radiate a comforting sort of patience.
Do I just… sit down and wait?
That seemed to be what normal people would do.
So I did.
The chair sank slightly under my weight, cradling me in a way Bureau chairs absolutely did not. A wave of unexpected tiredness washed over me, like someone had draped a soft blanket over my brain. My eyelids drooped. My limbs tingled.
I yawned — loudly, embarrassingly — and blinked hard.
What…? Why am I suddenly… tired?
The minutes passed strangely.
Time felt slippery.
My thoughts swam somewhere between awareness and dream.
Then—
〔Please come in〕
The words didn't hit my ears.
They hit my mind.
A quiet vibration.
A gentle tug.
A ripple through my thoughts.
I snapped fully awake with a jolt, my heart skipping a beat.
"What the hell—"
I stood quickly, eyes darting to the dark wooden door at the end of the room. The air around it felt different now — like it was waiting. Like it was aware.
A little spooked but trying not to show it (despite being completely alone), I took a steadying breath, approached the door, placed my hand on the handle—
And stepped forward.
The door clicked softly behind me as I stepped through, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe.
The room on the other side didn't just look different from the waiting room.
It felt like I had walked into another world entirely.
A wave of warm air brushed over me — carrying the scent of sandalwood, steeped tea, and something faintly floral, like cherry blossoms right before they bloom. The lighting shifted instantly, soft and golden, as if the room itself dimmed the outside world into silence.
I blinked.
'The Counseling Office was… Japanese themed?'
Not in the cheap, themed-restaurant way.
Not in a "tourist postcard of Kyoto" way.
It was authentic,
Minimalistic,
Serene.
Balanced in a way that made my heartbeat automatically slow.
Tatami mats stretched across the floor in neat, perfectly aligned rectangles. Their straw texture muted my footsteps, absorbing sound like the room wanted to keep everything quiet, gentle, undisturbed.
A low chabudai table sat at the center, polished to a dark shine. Two cushions faced each other across it — deep indigo with subtle geometric stitching. A ceramic tea set rested neatly on a tray, steam curling softly from the spout even though no one seemed to have touched it.
My eyes wandered.
To the shoji screens lining the walls — translucent paper filtering the warm light, casting soft, shifting shadows that made me unsure if something moved behind them… or if the room was just breathing.
To the delicate ikebana arrangement placed on a narrow side table: twisted willow branches, white lilies, and a single vibrant red camellia. Beautiful. Precise. Symbolic, probably in the kind of way that made people uncomfortable if they thought too hard about it.
To the wall scroll hanging behind the far cushion — painted calligraphy strokes flowing like they were written mid-exhale. I couldn't read the characters, but they radiated a strange calm, like a whispered mantra meant for someone who wasn't me.
Even the air felt curated.
Quiet but not silent.
Still but not stagnant.
Warm but carrying a hidden coolness beneath it.
Like the room was trying to ease tension while quietly peeling my thoughts open one by one.
I swallowed.
Okay… this is fine. Not ominous at all.
My gaze drifted to the far corner.
A small bonsai tree rested on a raised wooden platform. Its branches curled with deliberate artistry — too perfect to be natural, too organic to be artificial. A faint hum brushed the back of my mind when I looked at it, like it was studying me the same way I was studying it.
I forced myself to inhale slowly.
Japanese-themed counseling room. Cozy. Calming.
Definitely an anomaly.
…Obviously an anomaly.
But despite everything — despite the Bureau, the anomalies, the last few days, the questions I still didn't have answers to — a part of me eased as I took in the space.
Like the room wanted to say:
Sit. Breathe. You're safe here.
For now.
I stepped forward once more, the tatami sighing softly under my weight—
And that's when I felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a shadow.
Not even a shift in temperature.
Just a presence — quiet, patient, and deliberate.
Like someone standing beside you in a dream, waiting for you to notice.
"Greetings," a familiar voice echoed behind me. "I've been expecting you, Yuwon."
I turned, and—
"…Seriously?"
The golden-eyed Vice-Director stood in the middle of the room, hands folded politely behind his back as if he'd just finished supervising a board meeting.
He blinked slowly. "Pardon?"
"I—sorry, sir." I rubbed my face. "But… what are you doing here?"
A soft chuckle escaped him, warm and apologetic, yet uncanny in the way it didn't quite match the air.
"Ah. I'm not the Vice-Director of the Bureau of Anomalous Affairs. I merely took the form of someone you recognize. I apologize if that caused confusion."
"Confusion" was putting it lightly.
The Counselor gestured toward the low table at the center.
"Please, have a seat. I prepared everything for your arrival."
The chair wasn't quite a chair — more like a wooden cushion with hidden give, molding perfectly to my posture the moment I sat. Comfortable, but in that engineered way that made me suspicious.
By the time I looked up, the Counselor was no longer Han Dojin.
It was… me.
A perfect copy.
Same hair, same eyes, same build — except its posture was too proper, its expression too courteous. And one of its irises still gleamed gold like a subdued sun.
'When did he even change? I blinked away for like a second.'
The Counselor lifted a kettle and poured steaming tea into a simple porcelain cup. The set hadn't been there when I walked in. Or maybe it had. The room made it hard to tell.
'Wow. It didn't even ask if I wanted—'
"Tea?" my copy finished gently.
"Wha—...?"
"My apologies. Politeness is… a tendency of mine."
It waved an identical hand dismissively, the gesture oddly natural.
"I brewed green tea. Warm drinks often help visitors unwind."
'Isn't this place supposed to cleanse contamination? Why does this feel like I walked into a meditation retreat? Actually—why am I even here if I'm not contaminated?!'
Still, I took a sip.
Perfect temperature. Smooth, earthy, calming.
Across from me, the Counselor watched with a look of polite satisfaction — the kind you give someone who finally follows your advice.
I caught my own reflection in its expression.
'…Have I always looked this handsome?'
My doppelgänger folded its hands neatly.
"So, Yuwon," it said softly. "How are you handling the events within the Nine Frequency Anomaly? That must have been a horrifying experience for you."
I nearly choked on the tea.
'…?!'
'How the hell does it know about THAT?!'
The Counselor continued smiling — my smile, but gentler, almost sympathetic — as if it hadn't just dropped a bomb in the quietest voice imaginable.