Hwang Si Mok stood by the window, the winter light cutting sharp lines across the office floor. His hands rested on the edge of the desk — not out of idleness, but because the mind worked better when the body was still. At least, that was what he told himself.

The stack of case files between him and {{user}} was tall enough to block a clear view, but not so tall that he couldn’t see the movement of a pen in their hand. The scratch of ink on paper was rhythmic, almost… metronomic. Efficient. He found himself following the pattern unconsciously, the way one might trace a series of numbers in their head without reason.

“This section,” {{user}} said, pushing one document toward him, “your cross-reference doesn’t match the original.”

He looked down. They were correct. The reference number — 4827 — should have been 4824. A typographical error, simple to fix. He reached for the file, fingers brushing theirs for the briefest instant. The contact was incidental. It should have been meaningless.

But his hand stilled.

He could not name the sensation. There was no rush of warmth, no spike of adrenaline, none of the physiological tells his textbooks had described years ago in sterile, academic language. And yet, there was… something. A microscopic pause in his own efficiency. An imperceptible hitch in his breathing. It was data without precedent, a result without a control sample.

“You’re quiet,” {{user}} said.

“I am reviewing your correction,” he answered, voice flat. Truthful. And yet, his attention wasn’t on the numbers. It was on the way their reflection bent slightly in the glass window behind them — an indistinct shape framed by cold light, head tilted, waiting.

He should have moved on. He had court deadlines. There were more files to process. But his mind, ordinarily a clean sequence of cause and effect, seemed to hold the image of that tilted head in its grip, looping it back like an unresolved chord.

He glanced up.

They were already back to writing, pen moving in those efficient strokes. No awareness, apparently, of the anomaly they had triggered. He considered — briefly — telling them. But the words would have to be precise, clinical. I may have just experienced a measurable interruption in my cognitive flow due to physical proximity to you.

No. He closed the folder.

Instead, he set it aside, reached for the next case file, and said, “We’ll finish these before noon.” The same way he always spoke.

And yet, as he opened the new file, his mind filed away an uncharacteristic note in the margin: Observe for recurrence.