A Polite Yes Hears Everything

The night of the blackout passed, somehow. The emergency generator came back on before long, and Senior Da-hee hurriedly packed her bag.

"Hey, there's no way I can focus today. Let's just go."

Even then, an affection of 68 and the words I'm really going to say it today were still floating over her head. But in the elevator, and again at the crosswalk in front of the building, she only worked her lips and in the end said nothing at all.

"See you tomorrow."

Watching someone walk off with nothing but that—while I'm really going to say it still hovered overhead—felt strange.

The next morning, he shut off the alarm and got up, and his body felt wrong. Light. The day after overtime, his shoulders ought to have sat on him like stone, and yet his head was clear. Not a trace remained of last night's awful ringing in his ears. Feeling good only made him uneasy. Live tired for two years, and not being tired starts to seem like the strange part.

That wasn't the problem. The real problem hit on the subway to work.

"…Huh?"

A packed car. Something was floating over people's heads. Over the women's heads, to be exact.

The man in a suit standing across from him had no number over his head. Just a single line.

He rubbed his eyes with his palms. It stayed. Not a hallucination, and not a dream. And after staring for a few stops, the rules came into view. Women showed an affection number together with their inner thoughts; men showed only the thoughts, no number. Strangers didn't get a name—just a number, faint. Two years in marketing teaches you how to read people as data. He hadn't expected the data to look like this. He rode two stops past his own, too busy looking at other people's heads.

It only got clearer once he stepped into the company lobby. The information desk, the elevators, the pantry—inner thoughts hung in clusters over everyone's heads. The youngest on the General Affairs team, met by the coffee machine, smiled brightly and said it nice and proper.

"Good morning, Woo-jin!"

Above her head, it was this.

The cleaning lady pressed a packet of instant mix coffee into his hand with a "Young man, have some coffee~," and over her head sat a 45 and Diligent. Nice to see. The most generous score anyone in this company had given him belonged to the cleaning lady. That was a little sad. The Marketing coworker from his same hire year, met in front of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠elevator, was a 31, and her inner thought was Choi Woo-jin ironed his shirt today? In two years he could count the ironed-shirt days on one hand. Apparently she had been keeping track of every single one.

Even so, it raised goosebumps. This was nothing more than the ability to steal a look at other people's affection and their innermost thoughts.

He had just sat down and turned on his computer when the smell of pomade and the cheap clink of a counterfeit watch approached at the same time.

"Hey, our Woo-jin! In early, huh?"

Manager Park Tae-shik leaned his belly against the partition. It was the face of a man who had already scooped up the ampoule proposal Woo-jin had uploaded to the shared folder last night. And the moment he looked above that head, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

A promotion, lol. With the lol included. That was the day he learned a person's inner thoughts could come with a laugh attached. The manager, oblivious, went on with a greasy smile.

"Woo-jin, I looked over the file you sent yesterday, and hyung put a lot of meat on it. You know hyung's drawing the big picture with you in mind, right? This time I'll make it pop nice and pretty in front of the division head, so you just sit in the back and snap that Excel into place."

"Ah, yes, Manager. I'll look forward to the big picture."

Heard while he was reading the man clean through, words that would normally have sent his blood rushing backward just sounded like a kindergarten talent show. Sure, Manager. Talk all you want. I can see every thought in your head—how long do you think I'm going to keep letting you get away with this?

Senior Da-hee came in. Black bob, loose slacks. She set her bag down and shot him a glance. The number over her head was still 68. She stretched as if nothing were wrong, then turned her head.

"Hey. Lunch ideas."

The same breezy tone as always. Her head was not breezy in the slightest.

After all that fidgeting last night, what she was actually worried about was her bangs. A laugh nearly escaped, so he locked his face down. The person who played it cool on the outside had been fretting over her bangs on the inside. Two years, and he hadn't known.

"They're serving spicy pork stir-fry in the cafeteria today."

"Spicy pork? Ooh, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'm craving that. The second the clock hits 11:50, we go straight down."

She said it blandly and turned on her monitor. But the tips of her ears were red. He hadn't seen that before. Once he started looking above her head, her ears came into view along with it.

Click, click—

Heels sounded at the end of the hall. Team Leader Kang Ye-won. A silk blouse, not a thread out of place, same as ever. The moment he looked above her head, he swallowed without meaning to.

Twelve. A number like the strangers on the subway. She stopped in front of his desk and dropped the printout of yesterday's settlement report with a flat little tap.

"Choi Woo-jin. Three typos. Do it again."

A rejection with not a shred of feeling in it. Any other day his shoulders would have slumped—shot down again. But today he looked above her head. For two years he had only ever watched the team leader's face. The face never changed, so he had assumed the inside never did either.

"…?!"

Alive in every sense. Every nerve of it, sharp. From inside the Ice Team Leader's head. She had tossed the papers at him over three typos, and on the inside she had been saying the idea was good. How could the outside and the inside be this far apart? She turned away without a flicker in her expression, and he swallowed a laugh at her back.

Chagall… I really can't read that team leader.

At 11:50 he went down to the cafeteria with her. The line for spicy pork stir-fry was long. They carried their trays to a window seat and sat facing each other, and she held her spoon and did nothing but stir her rice for a long while. Normally she would have pinched up three pieces of pork the moment she sat down.

"…Senior, aren't you eating?"

"I am. I'm eating right now."

She was eating five grains of rice. He looked above her head.

A laugh threatened to burst out of him, so he gulped the soup. It was too hot. He scalded his tongue. She said, "Hey, slow down," and pushed the water cup toward him, and her hand brushed the back of his before she snatched it away in a start. She was someone who had pushed him a water cup hundreds of times over two years, and today they both knew their hands had touched.

"Hey, this seat free?"

Manager Park. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠He came over with his tray, dropped into the seat beside her, and launched into the big picture while chewing spicy pork. Her face hardened in an instant. Looking at that face, he felt grateful to Manager Park for the first time. Thanks to him, the catastrophe of her confessing in the cafeteria had been averted.

All afternoon she would look at him, then turn to her monitor the moment their eyes met. Four times. He counted.

He was spending the afternoon fixing typos when a sound like glass marbles rolled past his ear. Ding-dong—

This time a window with a gold border appeared.

A quest. It really was a game. Once a number drew close to a certain level, what that person wanted seemed to surface as a quest. The reward even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came with stamina attached. So the lightness in his body this morning hadn't been a coincidence.

What she wanted was to be called by her name. Now that he thought about it, he had never once used her name in two years. Always Senior, or Assistant Manager. So that was what she had wanted to hear. The thought left a strange itch along one side of his chest.

Quitting time. The moment the clock struck six, she picked up her bag and headed for the elevator. He followed, casual about it. The car was full of people from other floors; they got off one and two at a time, and by the time they passed the third floor it was, unbelievably, just the two of them.

A faint peach scent filled the narrow space. Only the motor hummed. Now. All he had to do was say her name, and his palms were sweating. He hadn't shaken like this giving a presentation in front of the department head.

"…Hey."

"Hm? What?"

She turned her head, indifferent. He called her half a tone lower than usual.

"…Da-hee."

She froze solid. Her eyes went wide. One second, two, three. Red climbed from her cheeks to the nape of her neck, all the way to the tips of her ears, faster than a traffic light changing.

"H-hey…! Why are you suddenly saying my name? You've lost it. Seriously!"

Flustered, she clapped her hands over her own ears. The words came out sharp, but she couldn't meet his eyes—she just stared at the elevator ceiling. Like a broken robot.

Something warm shot up his spine and spread. The fatigue of the ride home vanished as if it had been washed off. It was real. The reward had actually come in. In the mirror on the elevator wall, his face was clearly less gaunt than it had been that morning. If one point of stamina did this, what would ten do? Would he be fine even after three all-nighters in a row? If the company ever found out, this was an ability that would cause serious trouble.

Ding. The first floor. The doors opened, and she strode out with her face still red, then stopped dead in the middle of the lobby. She spun around and snatched the sleeve of his shirt.

"Hey. Choi Woo-jin."

Senior, sitting at an affection of 73, glared at him with a red face.