Han Joon-seok discovered an uncomfortable truth that week.
If you were quiet, competent, and related to an S-ranker, people would assume you were either:
hiding something terrifying, or
about to become terrifying.
There was no middle ground.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Joon-seok was neither.
At least, not in the way they expected.
White Fang's secondary training hall was unusually crowded.
Hunters who normally trained in small, efficient groups now lingered far longer than necessary. Some stretched. Some rewrapped bandages that didn't need rewrapping. Others stood around pretending to discuss technique while very obviously watching a single corner of the room.
That corner contained Han Joon-seok.
He stood with a clipboard in hand, posture relaxed, expression neutral.
He was not glowing.He was not chanting.He was not activating anything.
He was, quite literally, doing nothing.
"…Is he waiting for something?" someone whispered.
"Maybe his skill activates automatically?"
"No, I heard he decides when to use it."
"Then why hasn't he moved?"
Joon-seok checked the clipboard.
Warm-up: 15 minutes.Skill usage: Optional.
He circled optional.
From the balcony above, Han Se-rin leaned against the railing, arms crossed.
"They're spiraling," her vice-captain muttered beside her.
Se-rin hummed. "Good."
"…Good?"
"If they're distracted by him, they're not distracted by fear."
The vice-captain hesitated. "You're not worried?"
She glanced down at her brother.
He hadn't changed posture once.
"No," she said. "He's not reckless."
Below, three hunters abruptly stopped mid-conversation when Joon-seok adjusted his grip on the clipboard.
"…Did you feel that?"
"I think he's judging us."
"He's definitely judging us."
Joon-seok was, in fact, correcting a typo.
The first to crack was Kang Min-jae, an A-rank known for composure and self-control.
Which made his current discomfort all the more obvious.
"Support," Min-jae called out.
Joon-seok looked up. "Yes?"
"…Are you going to use your skill?"
Joon-seok blinked. "Do you want me to?"
Min-jae opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Around them, several hunters subtly leaned closer.
"I—yes. I mean—maybe. Low output. Standard duration."
Joon-seok nodded once. "Understood."
Skill Activated
Nothing happened.
No visual change.No pressure wave.No dramatic system effect.
Min-jae frowned. "…That's it?"
"Yes."
"…I don't feel anything."
"That's expected."
Min-jae stared. "Should I?"
"Only if you're paying attention."
That sentence hit the room like a dropped plate.
Min-jae trained harder than he had in months.
Not because his body felt stronger—but because his awareness sharpened. Every movement felt deliberate. Every mistake stood out painfully.
Ten minutes later, he stepped back, breathing hard.
"…My form improved."
"That happens when you focus," Joon-seok replied calmly.
Min-jae stared at him. "Are you saying this is psychological?"
"I'm saying you're A-rank," Joon-seok said. "You already know how to improve."
Silence followed.
Someone muttered, "That's worse than magic."
By lunch, rumors had evolved into something far stranger.
His skill only worked if you acknowledged it
He corrected mistakes before they happened
He didn't boost stats—he removed hesitation
If he watched you, you improved
Joon-seok ate quietly while three different hunters relocated to avoid sitting directly across from him.
This suited him fine.
It made observation easier.
The next incident involved a D-rank trainee who tripped mid-sprint.
Joon-seok didn't activate his skill.
He didn't move.
He simply said, "Your balance is off."
The trainee froze. "…It is?"
"Yes."
"…How do you know?"
"Your left heel lands early."
The trainee corrected unconsciously.
His next sprint was clean.
Someone whispered, "He didn't even use it."
Another whispered back, "What if that is the skill?"
Joon-seok finished his lunch.
The Association arrived that afternoon.
Unofficially.
A man in a neat gray suit stepped into the training center, smile practiced and professional.
"Han Joon-seok?"
"Yes."
"I'm Assistant Director Choi," the man said, offering a card. "Just a chat."
Se-rin appeared instantly beside her brother, expression polite and dangerous.
"About?" she asked.
"Curiosity," Choi replied.
"That's never just curiosity."
Joon-seok gently touched her arm. "It's fine."
She hesitated, then stepped back half a pace.
Choi smiled wider.
As they walked, he spoke lightly. "You're popular."
"That's unfortunate."
"You don't like attention?"
"I like clarity."
Choi nodded. "Then let me be clear. Support skills that affect performance without visible output make people uneasy."
"Because they can't measure them."
"Exactly."
Joon-seok tilted his head. "Then measure results."
Choi stopped walking.
"…You're not supposed to say that."
"Why?"
"Because then we have to admit the definition is wrong."
They stared at each other.
Choi laughed softly. "You're going to cause paperwork."
"I apologize in advance."
That evening, Se-rin confronted him at home.
"You confused an Assistant Director."
"I answered honestly."
"You enjoyed it."
"I enjoyed surviving it."
She sighed. "You're not planning something stupid, right?"
"No."
She relaxed.
"I'm planning carefully."
She stiffened. "…That's worse."
Later, alone in his room, Joon-seok reviewed the day.
No overuse.No exposure.Maximum disturbance.
Comedy, he realized, was camouflage.
If people laughed, they relaxed.If they relaxed, they missed patterns.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
"Support who does nothing," he murmured.
Not a bad reputation.
Outside, the city hummed.
Inside Association servers, flags stacked quietly.
And somewhere, someone stopped laughing.