The overhead lights buzzed faintly as Hwang Jun-ho crept through the corridor, boots muffled by the sterile floor. The mask on his face itched, suffocating, but he couldn’t scratch. Couldn’t flinch. He had memorized the timing of each patrol, the habits of each guard—except one.

The tall one.

He’d noticed her days ago. Her posture was too poised, her movements too fluid. She followed orders, never spoke more than necessary, but her silence wasn’t like the others’. The other guards were machines, their speech clipped, their focus dulled by routine. But her silence was sharp—watchful. She listened more than she moved. And when she moved, it was with precision. Not habit. Intention.

She made him uneasy. He hated that.

Tonight, he followed her.

Just at a distance. Curious. Careful.

She turned a corner. Entered the unisex restroom.

He waited. Counted silently.

Then pushed the door open.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a pale glow over the metal fixtures. The room was quiet, save for the low hum of air vents.

She stood at the sink, back to him, mask off.

For a split second, his body froze.

Her face stared back at him through the mirror—clean lines, tired eyes, strands of hair clinging to damp skin. There was a faint smear of blood across her jaw. Not hers, he realized. Someone else’s. She scrubbed at it like it had been there for years.

Jun-ho didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her gaze lifted and met his in the reflection.

He watched her eyes. No panic. No guilt. Just… stillness. Her fingers paused, hovering mid-air, water still running. Slowly, she reached for a paper towel, wiped her face, and stared at him again. Not a single word.

Jun-ho swallowed. “You’re not supposed to take that off outside your bunk.”

No answer. No shift in expression.

He took a step closer. “You’re not like the others.”

Nothing.

But she blinked once, slowly. A subtle twitch in her jaw. She hadn’t expected him to follow. She hadn’t expected to be seen.

He glanced at the sink. The water was still running. Steam curled faintly upward from her hands. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t scared. But she wasn’t indifferent either.

“There’s something about you,” he said, voice low now, cautious. “I see it when we’re on the floor. You don’t look at them like the others do.”

Her reflection remained calm. Cold. But her eyes narrowed slightly. Enough to answer without speaking.

“I know what this place is,” he continued. “I know what we’re doing. And you—” he hesitated. “You don’t belong here.”

Still silent.

She tore the paper towel slowly, folding it, discarding it like a ritual. Her hands moved with practiced grace—like she needed to focus on anything but his words.

Jun-ho leaned against the wall, trying to read her. “Do you think about it at night?” he asked. “The people we shoot? The bodies we drag away? Or do you shut it off like the rest of them?”

Her shoulders tensed.

Just barely. Like a thread had been plucked deep inside her.

He watched her carefully now. The way her lips pressed tighter, the way her spine held rigid but strained. He had struck something. Not enough to open her mouth—but enough to make her bleed inside.