The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burned in Professor Kang Jiwoon's nose as he stormed through the lower corridor of the private compound.
His polished shoes echoed like gunshots on the tile, each step thunderous in the silence of the hallway. The walls, once pristine, seemed to shrink around him, and for the first time in years, he felt it—loss of control.
The handler stood at the far end of the hallway, eyes wide, shoulders stiff. Kang could see the sweat glistening on the man's brow even before he stopped in front of him.
"Explain," Kang hissed.
The man swallowed. "We followed protocol, sir. The girl arrived on time. Calm. Alone."
"And yet she is not in the system." Kang's voice dropped to a whisper so sharp it could slice bone. "She is not in the van. She is not in the files. She is not in the rooms. She is gone."
"There was a... disruption." The handler's eyes darted sideways, afraid to hold Kang's gaze.
"Disruption," Kang repeated slowly, almost tasting the word. "Is that what you're calling incompetence now?"
The man flinched. "A girl. Asian. Black dress. She approached the target just before entry. Said something about a notebook."
Kang's expression didn't change, but the handler began to tremble anyway.
"And you allowed it?"
"I tried to intervene. Then a man—tall, broad. He came out of nowhere and—"
"Stopped you."
The handler nodded. "I couldn't get a clear look at him. But he moved fast. Hit hard."
Kang turned away, pacing. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He stared at the steel door at the end of the hallway—the room where Min Seo should have been. Should have screamed. Should have disappeared.
Instead, she had vanished.
"This is not a coincidence," Kang muttered, more to himself now. "First the club footage... then the assistant list breach... now this."
He reached into his blazer, pulling out a burner phone. His thumb danced across the screen, sending an encrypted call to Seong Jae.
It rang twice.
"Yes, Professor?" came the cool voice on the other end.
"We've lost one."
A pause. "I assume you mean the Ji girl."
"I assume you understand what this means."
"Do you suspect law enforcement?"
Kang exhaled slowly. "No. Too clean. Too deliberate. This was surgical."
"Do you want me to sweep the faculty?"
"No," Kang snapped. "Too obvious. They want us to panic. We won't."
Seong Jae's voice lowered. "Then what's the move?"
Kang stared at his reflection in the polished chrome wall. His own eyes stared back, colder than he remembered.
"We find another. Immediately. We proceed as planned. We show no weakness."
Later, Kang sat alone in his study, the city lights stretching out like a neon heartbeat beyond the window.
He sipped his tea, but it tasted like ash.
Min Seo had been perfect—bright, desperate to prove herself, isolated from family. She had ticked every box. And now she was gone, her memories likely scrubbed, her path severed.
He pulled up the list again.
More girls. More options. But none quite like her.
His cursor hovered over a name: Park Eun Ah Psychology major. First-year. Low-income scholarship. Lives off-campus.
He pressed enter.
This time, it would be different. No distractions. No sloppiness. He would handpick every element—location, escort, timing. There would be no space for improvisation, no chance for his enemies to interfere. Min Seo's escape had been a fluke, a fissure in an otherwise flawless system. It would not happen again.
He could not afford another failure. The next move had to be perfect.
The lecture hall was pristine—too pristine. Rows of seats lined with spotless desks, ambient lighting just dim enough to feel intimate but not relaxed. It was the kind of room designed to simulate safety while quietly demanding obedience. Audrey saw it all with a single sweep of her eyes.
She stood at the front of the room, the projector humming softly behind her. Her hair was pinned back in her usual tidy style, her blouse crisp and professional. Beside her, Kenzo adjusted the cuffs of his blazer, tablet in hand, the glow reflecting off his glasses.
The class was full. Students whispered to each other in hushed Korean, some glancing curiously at the foreign guests, others too bored to care. But as Professor Kang entered and took his place at the side, a hush fell over the room like a closing curtain.
Audrey's fingers tapped the edge of the lectern, a rhythm only Kenzo would recognize—steady, calm. But her eyes locked briefly with Kang's.
He smiled.
She did not.
"Good afternoon," she began, her voice measured and warm. "I'm honored to be here today as a guest lecturer from Melbourne University, along with my colleague, Dr. Kenzo Hartfield. Today's topic is one that's especially close to our field of study: psychological resilience in institutional environments."
Kenzo gave a small nod, stepping slightly back, already scanning the students. He wasn't here to speak. He was here to observe.
"Let's start," Audrey continued, walking slowly across the front. "By thinking about power. Not as a weapon, but as an environment. As a temperature you live in, breathe in, until it becomes invisible."
Murmurs rippled.
Kang didn't move.
"In hierarchical systems—schools, universities, governments—we talk about leadership," she said. "But we rarely talk about obedience. We rarely ask: what kind of person is most vulnerable to control? And what kind of person abuses that control the easiest?"
She clicked the remote. A slide lit the screen: The Architecture of Abuse.
Kenzo's head tilted slightly. He watched Kang's posture shift.
"Many believe abusers are loud, aggressive, domineering," Audrey said. "But research—and real life—shows us otherwise. The most dangerous manipulators often appear charming. Supportive. Generous. They build trust. They groom."
A stillness fell over the students. Audrey didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"They isolate their targets. Offer exclusive opportunities. Elevate them in public, while violating them in private. And when it's over, the target questions whether it even happened. That," she said softly, "is the hallmark of control."
She paused, then continued, her tone sharpening just slightly.
"And this happens everywhere. Even here. Especially here. You may not see it because it hides behind recommendation letters, scholarships, and locked office doors. But it's happening. There are women on this campus who thought they were lucky to be chosen—only to find out they weren't chosen for their minds."
A wave of discomfort shifted through the room. Several students straightened. Others looked at each other with wide eyes.
From the middle row, someone whispered audibly, "Eh, this seems to be something that's been happening lately"
Another murmured back, "Yeah, I heard someone say something about an assistant suddenly dropping out."
Kang's expression didn't change, but the lines at his jaw tightened.
Audrey let the silence simmer before clicking to the next slide: a quote from Milgram. "Ordinary people, simply doing their jobs… can become agents in a terrible destructive process."
"But resilience," she said after a beat, "isn't silence. It's the refusal to accept harm as normal. It's the courage to ask questions. To look your superior in the eye and ask: why me? Why now? What do you want from me that no one else can see?"
A girl near the back abruptly picked up her pen and started scribbling.
Kenzo activated his power—just lightly, enough to see the threads around Kang. They shimmered with stress, flickering faintly like fraying wires. Behind the professor's cool smile, Kenzo saw flashes of doubt. Guilt. Anger. Panic.
But the fear? That was new.
The lecture ended with quiet applause. The room remained tense. Some students didn't clap at all.
Audrey gave a small bow. "Thank you for your time. We'll take questions now."
None came.
After the students shuffled out, whispering to each other, Kang approached the lectern.
"Very provocative," he said, too smoothly. "Your examples were... vivid."
Audrey met his eyes. "We find real-world parallels help students connect theory to consequence."
Kenzo added, "Especially when the consequences are... institutional."
Kang's smile tightened. "You may find Korean academia more complicated than you expect."
"We thrive on complication," Audrey replied. "It's where truth hides."
Kenzo's tablet buzzed—a signal from Damian.
He looked up at Audrey and gave the faintest nod.
Phase one had begun.
Outside the lecture hall, Kenzo tapped a hidden button on the side of his tablet, encrypting and transmitting the live data stream from Kang's laptop he had cloned during the session.
Inside the files, the truth was spreading. And for the first time in years, Kang couldn't control the story.
Later, Kang privately invited Audrey and Kenzo for tea in his office. The walls were lined with awards and books, curated like a museum of accolades. But the tension inside was palpable.
His words were clipped now. His smile tighter. He poured the tea with mechanical grace.
"I must admit," he said, voice even, "I didn't expect such a... spirited lecture."
Audrey remained poised, folding her hands politely. "We find that students engage better when challenged."
Kang nodded, too slowly. "Of course. Still, one wonders what prompted such specificity in your examples."
"Field research," Audrey replied with ease. "We've seen similar cases across institutions in Melbourne. There's a disturbing pattern in places with too much hierarchy and not enough oversight."
Kenzo remained quiet, flipping through a folder of lecture feedback forms. "Did you know several students requested one-on-one interviews about their own experiences? It's fascinating."
Kang blinked.
Audrey smiled faintly. "They just need someone to listen."
Kang's phone buzzed silently on the corner of the desk. He glanced down, subtly. His hand tightened slightly around the cup.