Crackle

I watched the paramedics load the bus driver into the ambulance and pull away, then headed in to work.

My mind was clear to an unnatural degree—sharp, lucid, unmistakable. The only thought that kept rising was that I had to get back to Section D, somehow, no matter what.

"Good morning, Senior."

"Good morning, Jiwoo."

I meant to walk straight past Oh Seorin once the greeting was done, but I stopped. The red line I'd seen near her neck yesterday had grown sharper than before.

"Um. This might sound a little strange, Senior."

"What is it?"

"Your voice has seemed a bit hoarse lately."

"Ah. Yes. I think it's a throat cold. It just won't clear up."

"Right, right. It's only—looking at you from the side, it seems like there's a little lump sticking out. A friend of mine had trouble with his thyroid, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and the symptoms were almost identical. I'm sure it's nothing. Still, just in case, it might be worth getting it checked."

Oh Seorin nodded, her face perfectly calm. Instinct told me otherwise. Inside, she was startled—and not in a bad way. White lines squirmed and drifted all around her head. So that was goodwill?

"Thank you."

"Of course. Well, then."

Bit by bit, it was sorting itself out in my head. Blue lines and white lines were good. Red lines were bad.

I rushed through the morning's work and made for Section D again. Unlike yesterday, I felt no urge to read. Thank god. This was a company; there was no closing hour down here. I'd come within a breath of living in that room overnight.

There was one disappointment. Today the far end of Section D was simply walled off in cement. Tch. A shame. Disappointed, I ran my hands over the wall this way and that, and that was when a voice that did not belong reached my ear.

I flinched and looked around. There was no one. No—the voice had come from...

Carefully, I lifted the Book of Truth. On the worn cover, the title had appeared again.

"Huh?"

A drawing of a door handle had appeared on the cement wall, which until a moment ago had been utterly blank. I was sure of it. There had been nothing there. I hesitated, then reached for the drawn handle, and with a long, soft slide the picture became a real one. As if I had opened it hundreds of times—thousands—I took hold of it and pulled. A long, grating creak, and a pure white space unfolded, endless, with no far wall in sight. On either side, bookshelves of ancient wood stood in rows, old books packed along them.

"Oh."

Without thinking, I drew out the nearest volume.

The moment my eyes hit the title on the cover, nausea surged up my throat.

"Hrrk—"

And then I threw up. I kept throwing up—last night's dinner, and everything under it, until nothing was left but sour bile.

"Hrrrrk—"

The vomit had vanished without a trace, and the title on the cover had changed.

On any ordinary day I would have set a book with a title like that down and never looked back. My instinct refused. I dropped onto the floor and started tearing through it, with no idea how much time passed. I turned a page and read, turned and read, forgetting even that bathrooms existed.

The moment I shut the book I'd read to the end, an overwhelming need hit me. One wrong move and I was going to piss myself. I burst out of Section D and sprinted for the bathroom, and I made it—barely. Wiping cold sweat away, I checked the time. I had finished a book nearly as thick as my thigh, and less than ten minutes had passed in the real world.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Blue lines and red lines, white lines and black lines, all tangled together, spinning like a hurricane above my head.

"Hoo..."

I nodded. I thought I finally understood what the lines meant. I hadn't grasped even a ten-thousandth of the book, but it felt as if I'd caught a single hair-thin thread.

The countless lines drifting through the world no longer looked random. They were one current. A law that had been invisible. The way the world flowed.

The blue lines wound around my body began to feel the most distinct of all—blue lines spreading from the heart out through the limbs. What was I supposed to call this?

"...Mana."

To someone raised on fantasy novels, it was the thing most like mana: the power people meant when they talked about casting magic. A finite strength, given at birth, worn away little by little as the years piled on. Growing older was the process of the blue lines fading, and of drifting farther from the path of magic.

"Ah."

I looked down at my open palm. The blue lines that had passed through my heart were writhing, straining to burst outward in every direction. I recalled the method I had read in the book.

Put simply, there was a way to push the blue lines out of the body on purpose.

"Hoo..."

I called up the stray cat I'd met earlier. The book had said that if you pictured a living thing you favored, the will manifested more easily. The image sharpened: that small, cute head butting against me, a soft mrrp. The blue lines that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had been blocked by my palm, ricocheting this way and that, began to gather at my index finger.

"Hoooo."

I drew out a long breath and poured every shred of focus into that finger. For an instant, a thread of blue light leaked from the tip.

Fwip!

It was like going without water for ages—enduring, enduring, enduring—and at last drinking cold ice water. The freshness scoured through my whole body. The blue line that had burst free struck the bathroom wall.

Crackle!

A patch of the wall blackened, as if fire had scorched it.

"Hhk—!"

I jumped. I wet a paper towel and scrubbed at the wall in a panic. The black came away, more or less, but if you looked closely the scorch still showed. When I ran a finger over the burned spot it felt gritty and uneven. The tension must have left me all at once. Both legs started to shake, and in the end I sank onto the bathroom floor.

It didn't matter. I was the only one who used this bathroom—the sole perk Basement Level Five had to offer. I'd never run a marathon. Even so, I didn't have the strength to twitch a finger, as if I had. And yet the relief was so complete that a strange laugh slipped out of me.

"Hahahaha."

It kept coming. On and on.

Just before I was due to leave, a note arrived on the company messenger.

I nodded and stood. In the old days I might have spent the whole ride up gnawing on it. Why on earth is HR calling me?

Now I couldn't have cared less. What held my attention was Section D, which had sealed itself shut again. I'd wanted to carry a book out of there and couldn't, and the disappointment sat heavy. The Book of Truth let me read only the first page, and even that held nothing at all. I'd searched the internet too. Nothing useful came up.

I want to keep reading. I want to keep reading.

As a substitute, I tore through the books in the Information Documentation Department, reading and reading again. Whether I'd actually gained the ability to speed-read, an ordinary volume took me about a minute.

If the Book of Truth was BBQ fried chicken straight out of the fryer, the department's books felt like scraps of expired sweet-and-spicy fried chicken, the kind an old stationery shop used to sell for pocket change. I had no idea what would come of it later. For now, it was enough to fill my stomach.

I whipped through the pages, and before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I knew it I'd finished nearly everything recent and was reading information from five years back.

"Senior, I'm stepping out to HR for a bit."

Oh Seorin looked up.

"All right."

"Yep."

I buried my nose in the book I'd carried out and was about to start again when—

"Jiwoo."

I turned. Oh Seorin was looking straight into my eyes. A faint flush colored her cheeks, and above her the white lines spun like a hurricane.

"I'm going to the hospital today. Thank you."

"Ah."

I smiled, just a little, and nodded. Thank god. The red line around Oh Seorin's neck had turned into an enormous kitchen knife and was stabbing at her without mercy.

"Take care."

"I will."

Oh Seorin turned back to her computer. I kept my eyes glued to the book and stepped into the elevator. Of all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠places, HR was on the thirtieth floor. Going up from Basement Five meant passing floor after floor. Fortunately, the only elevator that came all the way down here was the executives' car, so it wouldn't be crowded. Fine. I had the book I'd brought, and I read like a man possessed, and read again.

I'd been at it for a while when I heard voices. Someone had gotten on.

"...No, that's what I'm saying. Back then—did we even have internal regulations on ESG? Something that shows the company at least made an effort!"

"Ah, that's... I'll—I'll look into it. That's already material from three years ago, and the department's gone, so... it may take some time to find. It hasn't even been entered into the database yet..."

"Then hurry. We don't have time. The hearing's practically here! Do you want to watch the chairman get picked clean by those political bastards?"

"Yes, yes, right away..."

I looked up.

"Which part of the ESG are you asking about?"

"And who are you...?"

A man in his mid-fifties was looking at me, puzzled. Hmm. A strange face, and yet a familiar one. I'd definitely seen him somewhere, and often. Then the man beside him recognized me. Oh. The deputy director of Public Relations.

"Oh, J-Jiwoo! Right, yes! Jiwoo, you're with the Information Documentation Department! That ESG attempt we made in the Southeast Asian market..."

Words poured out of my mouth the way water pours from an open tap.

"You mean the change to the wastewater standards at the Southeast Asian plant three years ago? We exceeded the local limit twice, so we spent 3.5 billion won and replaced the entire treatment system. Under European standards, or Korean ones, two exceedances are grounds for terminating the contract. Locally, though, it only amounted to a verbal warning, so Legal just let it pass."

The deputy director of Public Relations stared, eyes round with shock.

"Ah—ah, ah, now that you say it, that sounds right! Can you get me that document?"

"Here. The budget's on page seventeen."

I was sorry to have nothing left to read. The book I'd held out was titled ESG Case Studies of Pungjeon Distribution's Southeast Asian Plants. The deputy director took it in a daze and scanned the table of contents.

"Ah—! It's right here! Thank you! E-Executive Director! I'll write it up and send it as fast as I can!"

"Hmm. Do that."

The deputy director of Public Relations got off partway. That left the elevator to me and the man in his mid-fifties, the one they'd called Executive Director. He was watching me with keen, undisguised interest.

Something gurgled, soft and wet. At his groin, red lines had clumped together into a mass the size of a bowling ball—the same scale as what I'd seen above the head of the bus driver who'd collapsed from a stroke.