The problem with surviving a dungeon incident was that everyone suddenly wanted to talk about it.
Han Joon-seok did not.
He lay on a medical cot inside White Fang's temporary recovery ward, staring at the ceiling tiles and counting the tiny cracks that branched off from a single stress fracture above his head.
Twenty-seven.
He had counted them three times already.
"Stop pretending you're asleep."
He sighed.
Se-rin's voice carried no panic now. That was how he knew things were bad.
"I'm not pretending," he said. "I'm resting."
"You're hiding."
"That's also resting."
She pulled a chair closer and sat down hard enough to make a point.
"You scared people today."
Joon-seok glanced at her. "I was hoping it wouldn't be noticeable."
She snorted. "You collapsed mid-operation."
"Minor detail."
"You rewired how an adaptive dungeon responded."
"…That one too."
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You're not E-rank."
He closed his eyes. "On paper, I am."
"That paper is about to catch fire."
Outside the ward, the atmosphere was anything but calm.
White Fang staff moved with forced efficiency, whispers trailing behind them like loose threads.
"Did you see the mana spike graph?""That wasn't an S-rank output.""It synced to someone.""Support types aren't supposed to do that."
Assistant Director Park stood at the observation window, hands clasped behind his back.
From here, Joon-seok looked harmless.
Too harmless.
Park didn't like that.
Inside the ward, Se-rin finally said the thing she had been circling.
"You felt something change."
Joon-seok nodded slowly.
"When I focused on you," he said, choosing his words carefully, "the dungeon stopped adapting globally."
"And?"
"And it started… prioritizing."
Her eyes narrowed. "Me."
"Yes."
"That's not new," she said lightly. "Everything prioritizes me."
He smiled faintly. "This was different."
He sat up slightly, ignoring the medic's glare from across the room.
"My skill doesn't just enhance growth," he said. "It creates a reference point."
Se-rin went still.
"A reference for what?"
"For learning."
Silence stretched.
Then she said quietly, "You mean… enemies learn faster around you."
"Yes."
"And allies?"
"…Also yes."
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling now.
"That's dangerous."
He nodded. "That's why I didn't want to test it."
"And you still did."
"I didn't have a choice."
She didn't argue that.
Comedy arrived, as it always did, in the form of bad timing.
The curtain slid open.
A nervous-looking Association clerk stepped in, clutching a tablet like a shield.
"E-excuse me," he said. "Han Joon-seok?"
"That's me," Joon-seok replied.
The clerk visibly flinched.
"I-I'm here to, um, collect a preliminary statement."
Se-rin smiled sweetly.
The clerk turned pale.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
Immediately.
The questioning was… awkward.
"So," the clerk began, voice cracking slightly, "your registered skill is—"
"Growth Assistance," Joon-seok said.
"Yes. Right. And during the dungeon, you—uh—"
"I panicked."
"That's… not what the report says."
"I panic very efficiently."
The clerk blinked. "Is that… a known trait?"
Se-rin covered her mouth.
"Please," she said, "continue."
The clerk scrolled frantically. "It says here that your skill output spiked briefly, then stabilized onto a single target."
"Yes."
"And that target was—"
"My sister."
The clerk swallowed.
"That's… unusual."
"Yes."
"…And you can do that voluntarily?"
Joon-seok hesitated.
Park's presence loomed behind the curtain, unseen but felt.
"I can choose focus," Joon-seok said carefully. "Not outcome."
That was true.
Mostly.
The clerk nodded, clearly relieved to write something down that didn't explode his worldview.
"I'll, um… forward this to my superiors."
"Please don't embellish," Joon-seok said politely.
"I won't!"
The clerk stood too fast, bowed too deeply, and escaped.
Se-rin burst out laughing the moment he was gone.
"You broke him."
"He came broken," Joon-seok replied.
Laughter faded.
Reality crept back in.
Se-rin looked at him seriously.
"You can't stay invisible anymore."
"I was hoping to," he said.
"I know."
She reached out and flicked his forehead lightly this time.
"We'll control it."
"We?"
She smiled. "You don't get to do this alone."
He exhaled slowly.
That helped more than he expected.
Across the facility, Assistant Director Park finally spoke.
"Prepare a reassessment request."
A subordinate hesitated. "For Han Joon-seok?"
"Yes."
"Rank adjustment?"
"Not yet."
"Then what?"
Park's gaze sharpened.
"Classification."
Back in the ward, Joon-seok lay down again, staring at the ceiling cracks.
Twenty-seven.
Still.
But now, every one of them looked like a branching path.
He wasn't afraid of being strong.
He was afraid of being useful in the wrong way.
And deep down, he knew—
This was only the beginning.
Assistant Director Park disliked ambiguity.
Not because it was dangerous.
But because it was contagious.
He stood inside a narrow conference room deep within the Association's regional branch, arms crossed, staring at a projection filled with charts that refused to settle into anything clean.
Han Joon-seok's name sat at the center.
E-rank.Support-type.Non-combat.
Every label fit.
None of them explained what had happened.
"Run it again," Park said.
The analyst sighed and replayed the dungeon data.
Mana flow.Reaction curves.Environmental adaptation.
The spike appeared.
Then the collapse.
Then the sudden stabilization around a single point.
"…That doesn't happen," one of the analysts muttered.
Park nodded. "Yet it did."
"This is proximity bias," another analyst argued. "The dungeon reacted to the strongest presence."
"Then why didn't it prioritize earlier?" Park countered.
Silence followed.
Someone cleared their throat. "Because the support… guided it?"
The room stiffened.
"Choose your words carefully," Park said.
The analyst swallowed. "Because the dungeon learned what mattered."
Park exhaled slowly.
That was the problem.
Meanwhile, at White Fang's private office wing, Han Se-rin was doing something far more dangerous than fighting monsters.
She was negotiating.
"You want him reassessed," she said calmly.
The Association representative across the desk nodded. "Eventually."
"And until then?"
"He remains E-rank."
Se-rin smiled. "That's convenient."
"It protects him."
"It hides him."
"Exactly."
She leaned back. "You don't hide assets by pretending they don't exist."
The representative hesitated. "He's not an asset."
Se-rin's smile sharpened.
"He is to me."
Back at the recovery ward, Joon-seok sat alone.
The room was quiet now. Too quiet.
He opened his system interface.
The skill description glowed faintly, text shifting like it was struggling to settle.
Skill: Growth Assistance (Passive / Active Hybrid)Description: Enhances the growth efficiency of connected targets through observation and synchronization.
He frowned.
Synchronization?
That word hadn't been there before.
He reached out mentally, touching the interface.
A pulse answered.
And for a fraction of a second—
The room tilted.
He saw something that wasn't his.
A training hall.A familiar stance.A blade moving through the air with terrifying precision.
Se-rin.
Her form.
Her rhythm.
Her habit of shifting weight before striking.
Joon-seok gasped and nearly fell off the bed.
The vision snapped away.
He stared at his hands, heart pounding.
"…What was that?"
No pain.
No backlash.
Just… understanding.
Deeper than before.
He didn't tell anyone.
Not yet.
Some information was too dangerous to share immediately.
Especially when he didn't understand it himself.
That night, Se-rin returned.
She looked tired.
That worried him more than blood ever did.
"They're creating a new internal label," she said without preamble.
He stiffened. "For me?"
"Yes."
"Rank?"
"No."
"That's worse."
She smirked faintly. "You're learning."
She sat beside him.
"They're calling it a Catalyst-type Support."
He blinked. "That sounds flattering."
"It's not public."
"…That's less flattering."
"It means they don't know where to put you yet."
He stared at the wall.
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.
She didn't pretend not to understand.
"No," she said. "But I am… careful."
He nodded.
"I don't want to be something people fight over."
Se-rin leaned back, arms crossed.
"Too late."
Elsewhere, Assistant Director Park finalized his report.
Internal Classification: Catalyst Support (Provisional)Threat Level: Indirect / EscalatoryRecommendation: Controlled exposure. Close monitoring.Note: Subject appears unaware of full capability.
Park paused before adding the final line.
Secondary Note: Subject's presence accelerates adaptation in both allies and hostile environments.
He leaned back.
"…Troublesome."
At home later that night, Joon-seok stood on the balcony, city lights stretching endlessly below.
He closed his eyes.
Focused.
The thread appeared faintly.
Not connecting.
Waiting.
He thought of Se-rin's stance.
Her timing.
Her strength.
For a split second, his body adjusted unconsciously.
He stumbled.
Caught himself.
"…Memory," he whispered.
The system didn't respond.
But something had changed.
Not unlocked.
Awakened.
Inside his room, his phone buzzed.
A new message.
Unknown:We heard you don't fit neatly into categories. Interesting.
He didn't reply.
He turned the phone face-down and lay back on his bed.
Support.
Observer.
Catalyst.
None of those titles felt right anymore.
But one thought lingered.
If he could understand someone deeply enough…
How much of them could he become?