Upper-Class Yinma and the New Uniforms
Even after stepping out of the observation deck, an unpleasant, sticky sensation clung to my back—the feeling of unseen eyes tracking me down the long, white corridor.
The researcher walking ahead of us paused on the sound-absorbing urethane floor, flipped a page on his chart, and spoke without turning.
“Before we begin the formal treatment protocol, I must first convey the most critical security directive. The key to synthesizing the antidote lies in Yoon Si-woo’s unique ability—Contact Amplification.”
Hearing my name, I instinctively straightened my posture.
“According to Association records, Mr. Yoon’s spiritual power explosively amplifies that of any opposite-sex person he feels affection for—provided their skin makes direct contact. Is that correct?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Reversing this ability is central to breaking Han Yu-jin’s parasitic curse—the very core of this project. To achieve that, we must extract pure, baseline waveform data from Mr. Yoon with zero margin for error.”
His fingertip traced the jagged, oscillating line on the graph.
“The problem lies precisely in the activation conditions: affection—and physical contact. Every time Mr. Yoon touches one of your three female teammates, his spiritual waveform distorts unpredictably, warped by their individual constitutions. Put plainly: any contact during research contaminates the data—and renders the antidote formula impossible to derive.”
“Ah….”
Nuna Han Yu-ra parted her lips slightly, exhaling a soft, startled breath. The researcher pushed his glasses up his nose and continued, calm but unyielding.
“Therefore, effective immediately—and until this research concludes entirely—no physical contact whatsoever may occur between Mr. Yoon and any of the three female collaborators. Not handshakes. Not casual brushes. Not even an accidental graze of fingertips. Such incidents would introduce fatal errors into our dataset.”
“Huh?! No way! I can’t hold Oppa’s hand? Then what am I supposed to do?!”
Seol-a, who’d been clinging to my arm like a second skin, jolted upright and squeezed my bicep tighter. Her soft chest pressed against my forearm—warm, yielding, unmistakable. The researcher offered a strained, apologetic smile and shook his head.
“I’m afraid there are no exceptions, Seol-a-yang. Even now—linking arms like this allows body heat and trace spiritual energy to pass through fabric. You must disengage immediately.”
“Seol-a, just step back for a moment. We need to get Yu-jin treated—it’s unavoidable.”
I coaxed her gently, and only then did she reluctantly loosen her grip, pouting and sticking her lower lip out like a sulking child. Her fluffy silver tail drooped limply to the floor. But the researcher wasn’t finished.
“And you’ll also need to wear a physical containment barrier.”
He stopped before an automatic door marked [――] Dedicated Changing Room.
“From this point forward, all female personnel must wear the Institute’s specially engineered Spiritual Shielding Suits at all times when in proximity to Mr. Yoon. Please wait here, Mr. Yoon.”
He tapped his access card—the door slid open with a quiet hiss.
Nuna reached toward my shoulder as if to pat it, then froze mid-air, pulling her hand back with a wry, bittersweet smile.
“Si-woo, we’ll be right out—we’ll change quickly. Just wait a moment, okay?”
“Oppa, you have to stand still! Don’t go anywhere!”
Seol-a pouted one last time before darting inside after Yu-ra and Yu-jin.
Just before the door sealed shut, a sliver of the changing room flashed into view.
No lockers. No cubicles. Instead—three towering, cylindrical capsules, each barely wide enough to fit a single person.
What chilled me was the glass: identical to the black grid-mosaic noise that had obscured the Matrix in the culture chamber—swallowing every detail behind impenetrable static.
A sharp, wet, fishy stench—far stronger than the elevator’s faint odor—gushed out like a tide: the thick, viscous reek of squid innards.
Click.
The door sealed. I stood alone in the corridor.
The reinforced walls muffled sound completely—but through a ventilation grate, three flustered voices seeped out, thin and trembling.
“Unni, where are the clothes *inside* this capsule? It just says ‘strip and enter’… Ugh—something smells weird in here!”
Yu-jin’s voice, grumbling. Then came the rustle of fabric, the metallic whisper of a zipper descending.
I turned my gaze deliberately toward the opposite wall—though I knew full well what lay just beyond it. My childhood friend—naked, vulnerable, separated only by plaster and silence. My pulse hammered in my throat.
Shhhiiiiink—CLUNK.
A heavy rush of compressed air, followed by a deep, resonant thud as the capsule door sealed—vibrating up through the floor.
Silence stretched—then, abruptly, a grotesque, wet squelching sound erupted from the vent: like thick liquid surging upward.
“Eh—eh?! Unni, something slimy’s rising up from the floor… Eeek?!”
Yu-jin’s panicked cry cut off mid-scream.
Then—a stifled, breathy moan, hot and trembling, slipped out from deep in her throat.
“Hnnn—! This is… could it be… Piiii—! Wait—! That spot— Ah! *Zzzt-chk!*”
My cognition-restriction choker’s audio filter shredded her gasps and friction sounds into ominous electronic static.
A wet, stretching schlorp, the slick slap of gel meeting bare skin, the frantic shuffle of her struggling legs—all fractured and distorted, bleeding through the noise like broken radio signals.
“Yu-jin? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
A pause—then Yu-jin answered, voice tight but controlled.
“N-no! It’s nothing—I just got startled. It’s slippery in here… weird texture. Gah—scared me half to death.”
The capsule door hissed open again. Footsteps—light, hesitant—echoed as Yu-jin stepped out.
“Looks like we’ve got to wear these long gloves and boots too. Yu-jin, put them on and go meet Si-woo first. I’ll go next.”
Squish. Squeak.
The taut, rubbery friction of dense material being pulled over arms and thighs—again and again—until finally, the automatic door before me slid open with a soft sigh.
The moment Yu-jin stepped into view, I froze.
Her suit was blurred—censored—but even through the haze, her delicate, slender silhouette burned vividly in my mind: the elegant dip of her waist, the smooth, long curve of her thighs, the subtle swell of her lower abdomen. Her black, high-gloss gloves and red-soled stiletto boots gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Even the black choker around her throat looked less like medical equipment—and more like part of a costume designed for something far less clinical.
“Hey, Yoon Si-woo—what are you staring at so hard? Can’t you look away?!”
She stormed toward me, face blazing crimson, heels clicking sharply against the floor—click-clack, click-clack—each step reverberating in the sterile silence.
Her gloved hands clutched tightly over her chest, but every shift of her weight made the suit whisper against her skin—soft, insistent, impossible to ignore.
I jerked my gaze away—just as the second capsule powered down with a final, hollow thunk, and its door opened.
“Oh my—this suit… fits *far* tighter than I expected.”
Yu-ra emerged moments later.
If Yu-jin’s figure evoked a finely carved porcelain statuette—slim, graceful, ethereal—Yu-ra’s was pure, overwhelming abundance.
The suit, whatever its material, rendered her voluptuous curves with brutal honesty: the sheer, gravity-defying swell of her chest, the deep shadow pooling beneath it, the slow, hypnotic sway of flesh with every step.
I looked away instantly—embarrassed, flustered, unable to bear the raw, sensual weight of her presence.
“Si-woo… does Nuna look strange? This outfit’s so embarrassing—I don’t even know where to rest my eyes…”
She covered her flushed cheeks with her palms and laughed shyly.
Standing between them—both blurred yet radiating heat, both dressed like visions from some forbidden dream—I felt like I couldn’t draw a full breath.
Then, from inside the changing room, Seol-a’s shrill, delighted shriek pierced the air—followed by a pause, then the soft patter of bare feet on tile.
Even blurred, Seol-a’s petite frame pulsed with provocative energy—her narrow waist, the teasing flare of her hips, the plush, silvery curve of her tail swaying behind her.
She dropped to her knees on the floor and thrust her small, gloved hand toward my forearm.
“Uuuuh… Oppa, this suit’s *weird*! When I first stepped in, something warm and jelly-like *crawled* right between my butt and thighs! And my soles keep tingling when I walk! Can I hold your arm while we walk? Huh? I’m wearing gloves—so no skin contact, right?”
As she spoke, her usual fresh-milk scent vanished—replaced by a cloying, sweet-rubber aroma, thick and strangely seductive, rising from the suit’s surface.
“Hehe~ Apologies for the wait.”
A deep, resonant voice rolled down the corridor.
I turned—and a massive shadow filled the hallway.
Thick tobacco smoke hit first—then, layered beneath it, a dense, honeyed musk so rich it felt like breathing velvet. A man towered over us—well over 190 centimeters tall, his white lab coat straining across bulging, corded muscle.
But where his face should have been—only the same black grid-mosaic noise that veiled the Matrix in the culture chamber rippled and churned, erasing every feature, every eye, every expression.
“Welcome, everyone. I am the director of this Institute.”
He stopped before us, silent for a long moment—as if scanning, assessing.
Yet his eyes were solid black—censored, unreadable. We were fully filtered, our bodies ‘perfectly’ obscured. There was no reason to fear his gaze.
And yet—deep in my gut, a cold, crawling dread rose, unbidden and absolute.
We stood frozen, dwarfed by his presence, waiting in hushed silence for him to speak again.
“Excellent. All three of you are in superb condition. The shielding suits fit flawlessly. Please—follow me.”
After a long, deliberate inspection, he gave a slow, satisfied smile—and led us toward a door labeled Briefing Room.