The call came at 6:14 a.m. on Sunday.
Lee Joon-hyun answered before the second vibration finished.
"Yes," he said.
"Good morning, Mr. Lee," the woman said. Same voice as before. Same measured warmth. "Thank you for maintaining availability."
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, heart already racing. Outside, the city was quiet in the way it only ever was early on Sundays—empty streets, muted traffic, a pause most people mistook for peace.
"This will be brief," she continued. "We've identified a minor inconsistency."
Lee closed his eyes.
"Inconsistency?" he asked.
"Yes. Nothing serious." A pause. "Yet."
He waited. He'd learned not to fill silences.
"Your asset verification listed your vehicle as non-essential," she said. "However, our review suggests it may be more central to your routine than initially indicated."
Lee swallowed. "I use it for work sometimes. That's all."
"That's exactly the issue," she said gently. "Sometimes."
The word again. The same one the man at his door had used. It felt heavier now, sharpened by repetition.
"We need to resolve this today," she said. "Please be outside your residence at 7:00 a.m. Do not be late."
"Outside?" Lee asked. "For what?"
"For correction."
The call ended.
At 6:59, Lee stood on the sidewalk in front of his building.
He'd dressed carefully—clean clothes, neutral colors, nothing that suggested resistance or desperation. He told himself he was being practical. Prepared. The truth was simpler: he wanted to look cooperative.
A black sedan pulled up at exactly 7:00.
It didn't park directly in front of him. It stopped a few meters down the curb, as if proximity were a choice rather than an entitlement.
A man stepped out. Early forties. Plain jacket. No visible insignia. He nodded once in greeting.
"Mr. Lee," he said. "Thank you for being punctual."
Lee nodded back. He felt foolish for the relief that flickered through him at the word punctual.
"Your vehicle," the man said, gesturing toward the small sedan parked behind Lee. "Please unlock it."
Lee hesitated. Just long enough.
The man watched him with mild curiosity, like a teacher observing a student decide whether to answer honestly.
Lee unlocked the car.
The man didn't open the door. He circled the vehicle slowly, taking pictures with his phone. License plate. Windshield. A small scratch near the rear bumper Lee had never bothered to fix.
"Do you rely on this vehicle for your daily routine?" the man asked.
"Yes," Lee said. "For commuting. Groceries. My daughter—"
The man held up a hand. "No need to justify. We're just aligning records."
He tapped something into his phone.
"This vehicle represents flexibility," the man said. "Flexibility complicates predictability."
Lee felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "Are you taking it?"
The man looked up, surprised. "Taking? No. That would be premature."
He smiled slightly, as if amused by Lee's imagination.
"We're restricting it," he said instead.
"Restricting… how?"
"You won't be using it for the remainder of the day," the man said. "Possibly longer. We'll update you."
Lee stared at him. "I need it."
"I'm sure you feel that way," the man replied. "That's why it's effective."
He handed Lee a small envelope. Inside was a printed notice, official-looking, stamped with a logo Lee didn't recognize.
TEMPORARY USE SUSPENSION — PENDING REVIEW
"This isn't legal," Lee said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
The man's smile didn't change. "It is administrative."
He gestured down the street. Another man had appeared near the corner, leaning casually against a lamppost. Watching without watching.
"Please return to your residence," the man said. "We'll contact you later."
Lee stood there as the sedan drove away, leaving his car behind like a prop in a lesson he didn't fully understand yet.
When he turned back toward his building, his legs felt unsteady.
The hours crawled.
No calls. No messages.
Lee paced his apartment, stopping himself each time he reached for his phone. He didn't know what counted as availability anymore. Whether he was supposed to wait by the door. By the window. By the device itself.
At noon, he received a message.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Correction in progress. Please remain accessible.
Accessible.
He sat on the couch and stared at the blank television screen. His reflection looked distorted in the dark glass, stretched and uncertain.
At 1:46 p.m., there was a knock.
Not at the door.
At the neighbor's.
Lee froze, listening.
Muffled voices. Polite. Calm.
Then the sound of footsteps moving away.
His phone buzzed.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Minor inconvenience reported. Resolved.
Lee's chest tightened. He didn't know what inconvenience they meant, but the implication was clear enough: other people existed in his life now as variables.
At 3:12 p.m., the call finally came.
"Mr. Lee," the older male voice said. The compliance officer. "We've completed our review."
"And?" Lee asked.
"And we've identified an opportunity for improvement."
Lee closed his eyes.
"You've been cooperative," the man continued. "Responsive. That's good. However, you still demonstrate occasional independence."
Independence.
The word sounded almost obscene in this context.
"We don't discourage autonomy," the man said. "We simply calibrate it."
"How?" Lee asked.
"With consequences that remain proportional," the man replied. "Today's restriction was mild. Educational."
Educational.
Lee thought of his car sitting uselessly at the curb. Of the neighbor's door. Of the man at the lamppost.
"What happens if I don't learn?" he asked quietly.
The line went silent for a moment.
"Then the lessons become more specific," the man said.
The call ended.
By evening, Lee felt hollowed out.
He ordered food instead of going out, ate without tasting it. When his ex-wife called again, he let it ring until it stopped. He couldn't risk saying the wrong thing. He didn't know what the wrong thing was anymore.
At 7:58 p.m., his phone buzzed.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Vehicle restriction lifted. Thank you for your cooperation.
Relief hit him so hard it made him dizzy.
He stood, grabbed his keys, then stopped himself.
He didn't go outside.
He sat back down instead, keys clenched in his fist, heart pounding with a realization that scared him more than the restriction itself.
He'd been corrected.
And the correction had worked.
That night, sleep came in short, broken pieces.
He dreamed of schedules and checklists, of people smiling as they moved his life around with gloved hands. He woke before dawn, soaked in sweat, his jaw aching from clenching.
When morning came, Monday looked exactly like it always had.
The car was where he'd left it. The streets were busy again. The city had resumed its normal rhythm.
Lee drove to work slowly, obeying every signal, every sign. He felt exposed behind the wheel now, as if the car itself had become a test.
At his desk, a final message waited.
REGISTERED CONTACT:
Correction complete. Routine restored.
Routine.
Lee stared at the word for a long time.
He understood now.
This wasn't punishment.
Punishment ended.
This was conditioning.
And it had only just begun.