Dr. Seo didn't speak when he entered the lab.
She was standing at the desk, coat draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled, hair tied up in a way that meant she had been there longer than planned. The main screen was split into several narrow windows, all filled with dense lines of text.
"You found something," he said.
She nodded once. "A personnel request."
She stepped aside so he could see.
The file was buried inside a routine staffing update. Temporary reassignment of medical support and logistics aides to an external Helix rehabilitation campus.
Location code: W-03.
He recognized it from the map.
The coastal facility.
"They're asking for people with low-profile access," she said. "Support staff. Sanitation. Transport handlers. Anyone who can move between departments without triggering high-level authorization."
"People like me."
"Yes."
She tapped the screen and pulled up a second window.
"And this."
Procurement logs scrolled past. Medical-grade preservation units. Mobile containment pods. High-volume sedative compounds.
All routed toward the same destination.
"They're consolidating," she said. "Whatever's happening there is big enough that they want more hands and more material on-site."
He studied the list.
"How soon?"
"Two weeks," she replied. "Transfers start next Monday."
He looked up. "Can you put my name on it?"
She hesitated.
"Officially?" she asked.
"Yes."
"That means exposure," she said. "You'll be inside a site we don't understand, under people who won't see you as invisible."
"I don't need invisible," he replied. "I need access."
She met his eyes.
"Once you're there, I won't be able to reach you as easily," she said. "Their systems will be separate. Their networks insulated."
"You'll find a way," he said quietly.
A faint, reluctant curve touched her mouth. "You've become very confident in my criminal abilities."
"In your persistence," he corrected.
She exhaled and turned back to the screen.
"I can attach your profile to the request," she said. "Support logistics. Night shift. That would place you near intake and storage."
"Do it."
Her fingers hovered for a moment before she began typing.
As she worked, he watched the reflection of her face in the glass of the monitor.
Focused.
Intent.
Carrying the weight of something she hadn't planned to carry when she first chose medicine.
"Once you're transferred," she said, "you'll be outside Helix Crown's immediate oversight. That means less protection."
"And fewer layers," he replied.
"Yes."
She finished the entry and closed the file.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The lab felt unusually quiet.
"When you get there," she said, "don't interfere unless you absolutely have to. We don't know how their protocols differ from B9. We don't know what kind of containment they use."
"I know."
"And if something starts to shift inside you again," she added, "you contact me immediately."
He inclined his head.
She studied him for a long second, then reached into a drawer and took out a small, flat device.
"Wear this," she said, handing it to him. "It's a modified bio-monitor. It won't transmit through Helix channels. It routes through a civilian health network and mirrors to a private server I control."
He turned it over in his hand.
"If your internal patterns destabilize," she continued, "I'll see it."
"And if I remove it?"
Her gaze lifted. "Then I'll know something has gone very wrong."
He closed his fingers around the device.
"Thank you," he said.
She waved it off lightly. "I'm being selfish. I prefer to know when the person standing in front of me is still himself."
The words settled between them.
He clipped the monitor beneath his sleeve.
"I'll need names," he said. "Supervisors. Medical heads. Anyone who controls intake at W-03."
"I'm working on it," she replied. "The facility director is listed under a subsidiary medical board. His records are clean. Too clean."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he was placed," she said. "Not promoted."
He nodded.
"I'll start building a profile."
She turned back to the screen, but then paused.
"Tae-Hyun," she said.
He looked at her.
"This move changes things," she said. "Once you're out there, the distance won't just be physical."
He understood what she meant.
The lab.
The quiet space.
The fragile rhythm they had built between tests and conversations.
The ability to intervene if something went wrong.
"I know," he said.
She held his gaze.
"Then promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That you won't disappear into this," she said. "Not completely."
He considered the request.
Not strategically.
Humanly.
"I won't vanish," he said. "I don't intend to."
She studied him, then nodded once.
"Good."
Outside the lab, a trolley rolled past. Somewhere above them, hospital doors opened and closed, admitting the ordinary into a building that had long stopped being ordinary for either of them.
In the system, a new transfer request processed quietly.
Han Jae-Min, logistics support.
Destination: W-03 Coastal Rehabilitation Campus.
And far from the tower where his old name was engraved in glass and steel, Tae-Hyun's path bent toward the sea.