The order arrived at 06:12.
Not with sirens.
Not with boots on the stairs.
With a chime.
Tae-Yang lay awake when it happened, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling above his bed—the one that looked like a branching fault line if you followed it long enough. Morning light hadn't reached his room yet. The house was quiet in that way that existed only before routines began, before expectation woke up and put its weight back on everything.
The chime came from his phone. One short tone. Neutral. Official. He didn't move right away. Some part of him already knew.
When he reached for the phone, his arm still ached faintly from the docks. The pain was dull now, settled deep into muscle and bone like a memory that refused to fade. A reminder.
He unlocked the screen.
**SEONGHWA PRESSURE CLINIC — TRANSFER NOTICE**
Below it, crisp and unforgiving:
**ATTENDANCE MANDATORY**
His chest tightened.
He scrolled.
In accordance with PTI regulations and post-incident assessment, Subject Kwon Tae-Yang (🟧 AMBER) is hereby ordered to report to Seonghwa Pressure Clinic for supervised intake and stabilization.
Subject.
Ordered.
Mandatory.
No alternatives listed. No appeals offered. Just a date, a time, and a transport window. Seventy-two hours had expired sometime during the night. He let the phone drop back onto the mattress.
The ceiling crack stared back at him.
So that's it, he thought. That's how choice disappears.
Not with force.
With paperwork.
—
Breakfast smelled like miso and rice.
His mother moved quietly around the kitchen, every action precise, controlled. Bowls are placed gently. Chopsticks aligned. The kettle shut off the instant it began to whistle. Normal.
Too normal.
Tae-Yang sat at the table, phone face down beside his bowl. He hadn't said anything yet. Neither had she. His father entered a moment later, already dressed for work. Tie neat. Shirt crisp. Posture unchanged.
They ate in silence.
Each bite tasted like nothing. The house creaked softly as the day warmed it. Outside, a bird called—sharp and insistent.
Finally, his mother spoke. "You received it." She said. Not a question. "Yes." She nodded once, eyes still on her bowl. "Transport will arrive this afternoon."
There it was. No debate. No softening language. Tae-Yang's grip tightened around his chopsticks until his fingers ached. "I'm not going." He said. The words landed harder than he expected. His mother paused mid-motion. His father did not.
"That is not an option." Dae-Hyun said calmly.
Something snapped.
"No. I didn't agree to this. I didn't sign anything. They said it was temporary—" Tae-Yang said, louder now. "They said it was conditional. You refused follow-up." His father interrupted. "I refused therapy. That's not the same thing." Tae-Yang shot back.
His mother looked up then, eyes sharp despite the softness of her face.
"To them, it is." She said quietly. The pressure surged in his chest, familiar and unwelcome. "So what? I just go? I let them lock me in a clinic and decide what I am?" He demanded. No one answered immediately.
That silence—the kind that weighed instead of soothed—pushed him further.
"They call me an asset. They don't even pretend it's about helping. They just want control." He said, voice shaking now. His father set his chopsticks down with deliberate care.
"Lower your voice." He said.
Tae-Yang stood so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"No. I'm done being quiet." He snapped. The air felt thick. Charged. His mother rose halfway from her seat, instinctively, hands hovering like she might steady something that was already tipping.
"Tae-Yang—"
"They don't get to decide my life! I didn't ask for this power. I didn't ask to be tagged like some hazard sign—" He shouted.
"Enough."
The word cut cleanly through the room. His father stood. For the first time since the incident, Dae-Hyun's composure cracked—not into anger, but into something harder. Sharper. "You believe this is about fairness. It is not." He said.
Tae-Yang's fists clenched at his sides. He could feel it again—that low hum beneath his skin, responding to his rising pulse.
"Then what is it about?" He demanded.
"Control. Yours—or theirs." His father said.
The words hung between them. "You have power now. Whether you want it or not. And power that cannot be controlled will be controlled for you." Dae-Hyun continued, stepping closer. "That's exactly what they're doing!" Tae-Yang shot back. His father shook his head once. "No. That is what they will do if you refuse."
"So I'm supposed to thank them? For taking my choice away?" Tae-Yang laughed, harsh and brittle. His father's gaze didn't waver. "You still have a choice. Learn control. Or they'll take it from you." He said.
The room went silent.
Even the bird outside seemed to stop calling. Tae-Yang stared at his father, chest heaving, the words echoing in his head.
Learn control.
Or they'll take it from you.
The pressure inside him ebbed slightly—not gone, but subdued, like something listening. "That's not a choice." He said quietly. "It is the only one you're being given." Dae-Hyun replied. His mother reached out then, placing a hand gently on Tae-Yang's arm. Her touch was warm. Steady.
"We're afraid. All of us." She said softly. Tae-Yang pulled away. "I'm not." He lied. He grabbed his bag from the floor and turned for the door. "Tae-Yang." His father called after him. He stopped, back still turned.
"You think refusing makes you independent. But isolation is exactly what breaks people like you." Dae-Hyun said.
People like you.
Tae-Yang's jaw tightened. He left without another word.
—
The island air was cool, carrying the scent of salt and pine. The path behind the house wound toward the trees, familiar and worn from years of restless pacing. Tae-Yang walked fast, then faster, until the burn in his lungs matched the ache in his chest.
Mandatory, he thought bitterly.
That word again.
Every step felt like he was being funneled toward something narrow and unavoidable. The forest closed in around him, branches arching overhead, shadows dappling the ground as sunlight filtered through leaves.
He stopped near a clearing where he used to train alone as a kid—nothing special, just a flat patch of dirt and stone where he could think without being watched. He dropped his bag and ran a hand through his hair.
They're not wrong, a traitorous voice whispered.
He remembered the docks. The pain. The way his power had turned on him the moment he tried to use it without reason.
You don't understand it.
You can't control it.
His hands trembled slightly. "Shut up." He muttered. He punched the air—not hard enough to trigger anything, just a frustrated gesture. Nothing happened. No hum. No heat. Just an ordinary fist cutting through space.
The realization stung more than the pain had.
I can't even choose when it listens to me.
By the time he returned home, the transport vehicle was already there. Clinic gray. Unmarked. Parked neatly at the curb like it belonged. Two staff stood beside it—not guards, not exactly. Hands relaxed. Eyes observant. His parents waited by the door.
No one said goodbye.
They didn't need to.
As Tae-Yang stepped toward the vehicle, his phone buzzed again. A reminder.
**SEONGHWA PRESSURE CLINIC — INTAKE CONFIRMED**
🟧 AMBER STATUS ACTIVE
He clenched his jaw and stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him with a soft, final sound. Choice didn't vanish all at once, he realized as the vehicle pulled away. It narrowed. Until there was only one path left—and walking it stopped feeling like walking at all.