Han Joon-seok confirmed three things that night.
First: what he experienced in the recovery ward was not a hallucination.Second: it was not limited to moments of extreme stress.Third: if anyone found out too early, his life would become profoundly irritating.
Possibly short.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, lights off, curtains drawn, phone face-down on the desk like a sleeping landmine.
"Okay," he murmured. "Let's do this properly."
He closed his eyes.
The thread appeared instantly.
Fainter than before. More responsive.
Like it had been waiting.
Joon-seok focused—not on activating his skill, but on remembering.
Se-rin's training stance.
Not her power.
Not her aura.
Just the way she stood when relaxed but alert.
His shoulders shifted unconsciously.
Balance adjusted.
His center of gravity lowered a fraction.
Joon-seok's eyes snapped open.
"…That's not normal."
He stood and walked across the room.
His steps were quieter.
More controlled.
He hadn't trained for that.
He hadn't chosen it.
Panic tried to creep in.
He shoved it aside.
"No conclusions yet," he muttered. "Test parameters."
He grabbed a water bottle from the desk and tossed it lightly into the air.
Normally, he would catch it clumsily.
This time—
His hand moved before conscious thought.
The bottle landed perfectly in his grip.
No strain.
No feedback.
Just execution.
Joon-seok stared at it.
"…Okay," he said slowly. "That's worse."
"So," he said to the empty room, "either I'm becoming competent overnight, or I'm stealing muscle memory."
The room offered no comment.
He exhaled and sat back down.
"If it's memory-based," he whispered, "then distance shouldn't matter."
He focused again.
Not on Se-rin.
On someone else.
Kang Min-jae.
A-rank. Calm. Disciplined.
Joon-seok had observed him dozens of times during training.
He remembered the way Min-jae rolled his shoulders before fights.
The pause before action.
The economy of movement.
The thread trembled.
His breathing slowed.
Too much.
Joon-seok immediately broke focus, gasping slightly.
"…That one pushes back."
He rubbed his arms.
Not pain.
Resistance.
As if Min-jae's experience didn't want to fit.
He leaned back against the bed.
"Okay," he said softly. "So it's not copying. It's… syncing."
Understanding without ownership.
Borrowing without permission.
That last thought made him wince.
The next day, he went out of his way to act normal.
Which, unfortunately, had become suspicious.
"You're early," Se-rin said at breakfast.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You never sleep."
"I sleep aggressively."
She stared at him.
"…You tested it, didn't you?"
He froze.
"…Tested what?"
She smiled without humor.
"Your silence."
He sighed. "A little."
"How much is 'a little'?"
"I didn't explode."
"That's not comforting."
White Fang's auxiliary training hall was quiet that morning.
Too quiet.
Which meant people were waiting.
Joon-seok stepped inside and immediately felt it.
Attention.
Not open curiosity.
Calculation.
Someone new stood near the racks.
Slim build. Clean gear. Neutral expression.
Support-type.
And watching him far too closely.
"…Great," Joon-seok muttered. "A mirror."
The man approached.
"Han Joon-seok," he said politely. "I'm Lee Hyun-woo."
Joon-seok shook his hand.
The contact lasted a fraction too long.
The thread twitched.
Joon-seok pulled back immediately.
Lee Hyun-woo smiled.
"…Interesting," he said.
That word was becoming a problem.
They trained separately.
Which did nothing to stop observation.
Hyun-woo's support skill was visible—mana pulses, timed reinforcement.
Clean.
Efficient.
Comforting.
The kind of support people trusted.
Joon-seok did nothing.
Which somehow drew more attention.
"Are you not going to activate?" someone whispered.
"I think he already did."
"Is that even fair?"
Joon-seok pretended to stretch.
During a break, Hyun-woo sat beside him.
"You don't like using your skill openly," he said conversationally.
"I like breathing," Joon-seok replied.
Hyun-woo chuckled. "That bad?"
"Worse."
Silence followed.
Then Hyun-woo said softly, "People like us make others nervous."
Joon-seok glanced at him. "People like us?"
"Support who change outcomes," Hyun-woo said. "Not numbers."
Joon-seok didn't respond.
Hyun-woo smiled again.
"You're learning fast."
Joon-seok stood.
"I should go."
Later, alone in a storage corridor, Joon-seok leaned against the wall, heart racing.
The thread had reacted during that handshake.
That meant—
"…Direct contact accelerates sync," he whispered.
That was bad.
Very bad.
That evening, he received another message.
Unknown:We hear you observe very well.
He deleted it.
Immediately.
Still, his hand lingered over the phone.
Too many people were watching now.
Too many variables.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, one thought refused to leave.
If observation led to synchronization…
Then how long before he stopped knowing which reactions were his?
Han Joon-seok decided that pretending nothing was wrong required far more effort than admitting something was.
Unfortunately, admitting something was wrong was not an option.
So he compromised by doing what he did best.
He observed.
The auxiliary training hall grew busier as the day went on. Teams rotated in and out, weapons clashing, skills flashing in controlled bursts. The noise was constant, but predictable.
That predictability was what bothered him.
Because today, it felt… thinner.
As if the world was only pretending to follow its usual rhythm.
Joon-seok stood near the wall, arms loosely folded, eyes tracking movement without lingering too long on any one person.
Lee Hyun-woo moved like a textbook.
Efficient footwork.Clean casting intervals.Perfect support timing.
Too perfect.
Every time Hyun-woo reinforced someone, Joon-seok felt a faint tug behind his eyes.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to notice.
"Want to test something?"
The question came casually, as if Hyun-woo were asking to borrow a charger.
Joon-seok didn't look at him. "No."
Hyun-woo smiled. "I haven't said what it is."
"That's why the answer is no."
They stood side by side, watching a B-rank team spar.
Hyun-woo spoke again, voice lower this time. "You felt it too, didn't you?"
Joon-seok finally turned his head. "Felt what?"
"That moment during the dungeon," Hyun-woo said. "When everything aligned. When it stopped feeling like support and started feeling like… correction."
Joon-seok's gaze sharpened.
Hyun-woo continued, unbothered. "I've been chasing that feeling for years."
"You should chase something safer," Joon-seok said.
"I did," Hyun-woo replied. "It didn't work."
They moved to a smaller training room.
No audience.
No pressure.
Just space.
Hyun-woo activated his skill lightly. A familiar reinforcement shimmered around his arms.
"Observe," he said. "Don't interfere."
Joon-seok hesitated.
Then nodded.
The thread responded immediately.
Too easily.
His breathing slowed.
Hyun-woo threw a simple punch at a reinforced dummy.
Joon-seok's body reacted.
Not outwardly.
Internally.
His muscles tightened in anticipation, adjusting timing that didn't belong to him.
He broke focus instantly.
The sensation vanished.
Hyun-woo exhaled sharply. "…You cut it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it wasn't mine."
Silence filled the room.
Then Hyun-woo laughed quietly. "You felt it transfer."
"I felt it try."
"That's more than enough."
Joon-seok's jaw tightened. "Stop."
Hyun-woo's smile faded.
The mistake happened when Joon-seok tried to prove a point.
"Again," he said. "Once more. Slowly."
Hyun-woo complied.
This time, Joon-seok didn't observe the movement.
He observed the intent behind it.
The thread surged.
Too fast.
Too deep.
For a split second, the world shifted.
His stance changed.
His weight distribution adjusted.
Not consciously.
Not deliberately.
When Hyun-woo struck, Joon-seok's arm moved.
Not to block.
To counter.
The impact snapped through the room.
Pain flared up Joon-seok's arm as he stumbled back, heart slamming against his ribs.
Hyun-woo froze.
"…You didn't mean to do that," he said.
Joon-seok stared at his hand.
It was shaking.
"No," he replied hoarsely. "I didn't."
They stood there in silence.
Then Hyun-woo spoke again, more carefully this time.
"You crossed the line."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And I don't intend to do it again."
Hyun-woo studied him. "You're afraid."
Joon-seok met his gaze. "You're curious."
Neither denied it.
That evening, Se-rin found him on the rooftop.
He hadn't told her where he was going.
She'd found him anyway.
"You did something today," she said.
He leaned against the railing. "I do things every day."
"Not like this."
She waited.
He spoke.
"I almost used someone else's movement without thinking."
Her expression didn't change.
But the air did.
"…Almost," she repeated.
"Yes."
"How close?"
"Close enough that I won't let it happen again."
She stepped closer. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"I do," he said quietly. "For myself."
She searched his face.
Then nodded once.
"Then we put rules in place."
Rules.
They wrote them down.
Literally.
No deliberate synchronization in combat
No physical contact testing
No high-output observation without supervision
Se-rin looked at the list.
"These are temporary."
"I know."
"But they're necessary."
"Yes."
She hesitated. "If you hadn't stopped yourself today…"
He finished the sentence for her. "I wouldn't trust myself tomorrow."
She placed a hand on his head, squeezing lightly.
"That's why I trust you now."
Elsewhere, Lee Hyun-woo sat alone, staring at his own hands.
"Correction," he murmured.
Not enhancement.
Not support.
Correction.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown:Did he react?
Hyun-woo typed back.
Yes.
A pause.
Then another message.
Then he's closer than we thought.
Hyun-woo locked his phone and leaned back.
Smiling.
At home, Joon-seok lay awake in the dark.
His body felt normal again.
That worried him.
Because it meant the changes weren't permanent.
They were available.
Observation led to understanding.
Understanding led to overlap.
Overlap led to loss.
"…I won't cross it," he whispered.
Not yet.
Not without choosing.