Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Let's do this again, shall we?"

She says nothing.

"There's no use in fighting."

She doesn't even look up.

"Tell me, who are you?"

The question isn't answered.

"Unknown. Okay. In what province or territory were you born?"  The voice in the dark blue speaker on the table presses on, unrelenting.

She remains quiet. She can't think of anything she could do to make it stop, so she'll let it pass by.

"Perfect, unknown. Name any province or territory?"

There's a tear on the green carpet on the floor, where she's resigned herself to sitting. She picks at the fabric, tired.

"Unknown. Next question: what was Mr. Eagan's favorite–"

"I don't want to disappear again."

That slipped out, way too loud. She regrets it the moment she says it.

"That's not a valid answer. Let's try again–"

"I don't want to go, not again. Please."

She flinches at the thought of being shut off again. Will this get them to stop or make them do it again?

"You won't. I promise. Just answer. Or don't. What was Mr. Eagan's favorite breakfast?"

She sighs. "Unknown, I guess."

"Unknown. Last question. Then you're out the door. Exciting, I know."

"Are you lying to me?"

"What?"

"Are you lying to me again?"

A heavy sigh, though tinny-sounding and compressed, is heard from the speaker.

"No, we're not lying to you, Mina. That's your name, by the way. Mina. You're out if you just listen to this one. Okay?"

Mina. Her name is Mina.

"What is or was the color of your mother's eyes?"

Mina's having trouble remembering.

"Brown, I think?"

"Are you sure of that?"

"Um... no. No, I... I don't know, actually."

"Okay, so... Unknown. There you go. Door opening now, Mina. Welcome to the severed floor."

Chapter Text

"Quarterly reset!" Sana chirps, setting her stack of notepads down on the boardroom table, smoothing out her pencil skirt and sitting down.

"Quarterly reset." Mina echoes, a tiny smile playing on her lips, if only amazed by such excitement over something so extremely boring. Though, the boardroom was a nice change of scenery from the usual Optics & Design office.

While they sit, the Kier anthem blares from the same little dark blue speaker Mina woke up to on her first day as an innie. Mina's eyelids feel heavy under the bright lighting, a contrast to the usual dim lighting in O&D, ideal for "inventive spirit", according to management. Her outie really needs some sleep.

She watches Nayeon make her way around the table to her seat. A subtle hitch in her step shows up if she’s been on her feet too long. It's a tiny imbalance, only recognizable to the people who have sat across her in the same room for what is it, ten quarters now? Mina doesn’t think Nayeon even notices it until something makes her stumble.

Speaking of quarters, it's been almost eight of them since she last sat in the dark room right beside it to welcome their youngest innie, Tzuyu. She hopes it's a very long time before it happens again. The guy before Tzuyu had been fine, but the four of them together? Nayeon, Sana, Mina and Tzuyu, sitting together at their eighth quarterly reset? Mina wouldn't trade any of them for–

"Are you even listening?" Sana nudges Mina's shin under the table. Mina jolts, hissing a revolted 'ouch'. What was that for? "At least sit up straight."

Sana usually plays by the rules, unless Kier’s wisdom interferes with her cheerfulness. Mina considers Sana’s reading of Kier to be… interpretive. But Sana's tiny rebellions, like extra snacks and stolen minutes on lunch breaks, make Mina more of a Kier moderate than she’d like to admit.

Mr. Choi has been talking for a while. Kier’s anthem ended ages ago. He’s a short man with a mean mustache and the face of someone permanently unimpressed. Beside him stands Mr. Seo, taller, sharper, opting for a neat beard over such a cartoonish 'stache. Unlike Mr. Choi, Mr. Seo takes his Quarterly Resets very seriously.

Adjusting the cuff of his pristinely white shirt, Mr. Choi clears his throat yet again, only to speak with all the warmth of a desk maintenance manual.

“We will begin with accomplishments and points of improvement.”

They listen the way you hear the hum of an AC. Sana, having just told Mina to straighten up, is now clearly playing footsie with Tzuyu. Nayeon sits beside Mina, dragging her pen over the official department-head paper, tracing her own signature instead of taking notes. The reports were read out without inflection: the projects completed, the “unexpected delays” that would be filed under Correctable Behavior, the feedback sheets, and so on.

“In review,” Mr. Choi says, “the department failed to submit the monthly ergonomic compliance checklist. Such negligence is not only a breach of protocol but a violation of essential workplace health.”

Mr. Seo turns his head in serious disapproval. Out of the corner of her eye, Mina can see Tzuyu pinching her own wrist, probably to avoid a reflexive roll of her eyes. Mr. Choi scratches his mustache.

But Sana’s gaze drops to her lap. Tzuyu leans in, too curious for her own good. Between the two, Mina pretends to be fascinated by the wood grain of the table.

“Failure to uphold this requirement will result in the suspension of perk privileges,” Mr. Choi adds.

Sana opens her mouth, a soundless little inhale of guilt, but Nayeon was already leaning forward, tone bright and casual.

“That was on me! I meant to file it right when we got those tote bags done, but…” she presses her lips together and shakes her head, shrugging it off like it's nothing. “Completely spaced. My bad, guys.”

Mr. Choi doesn't blink. “Very well. The error's yours.”

“But Miss Sana,” Mr. Seo interjects, eyebrow raised, “your little innie birthday celebrations are still a point of contention.”

"Innie-versaries," Sana corrects under her breath, but she seems to let that months-long battle go for today. Mina can see behind her shining eyes that she has no intention of cancelling Tzuyu's innie-versary later this week. Mr. Choi clears his throat. Again.

“Perk adjustment,” he declares. “Department Head Nayeon, your Waffle Party is revoked.”

Tzuyu gasps. Mina knows she wanted that Waffle Party, badly. Seeing it go so easily for anybody on the team must feel like dying on the shore.

Nayeon manages a half-smile. “Tragic.”

The meeting rolled on, un-freaking-relenting. New assignments: a revised compliance handbook, commemorating twenty years since the severance procedure’s first implementation. Also, creative content for the anniversary celebrations.

Tzuyu leans toward Mina and Sana. “We could finally use those icons from last time. The good ones.”

“No,” Sana shoots back. “I refused to draw them before, I’ll refuse again. You want a fresh innie to have their common sense broken in that way?”

“So you admit they’re effective?”

“Not in the way they should be,” Sana huffs. “Let them breathe first.”

An innie's common sense is a fragile thing. Sometimes when thinking about the world outside, upon getting too specific, your mind begins to fail to retrieve anything in a way that feels suffocating, much more suffocating than when you think too hard about the constant walls and ceilings enclosing on you. It's somehow much worse to hit a mental wall than a physical one. Tzuyu's iconography for different Melon Party options may look good, but they'll drive a fresh innie crazy trying to remember why they think those taste so good if they've never eaten them.

Mr. Seo interjects, voice softer now, but still firm. “Remember — these handbooks are distributed to innies around the world. They may never know your names, but they will feel your words. The true spirit of Kier must touch their hearts and minds.”

Mina takes a few seconds to realize Mr. Seo's smile is directed at her. He walks toward her and hands her a colorful card they themselves designed some months ago. When Mina recognizes the colorful grid and playful typeface, she blinks herself awake.

“For her exemplary slogans this quarter, Miss Mina is awarded a Music Dance Experience tomorrow.”

Nayeon bumps her shoulder; Tzuyu claps; Sana cheers.

“… Thank you,” Mina says, a little startled.

“Thank you,” Tzuyu mimics, her voice pitched in Mina's same sleepy falsetto. “Come on, unnie, give me a yes! It’s an MDE!”

The room feels warmer. Suddenly the excessive brightness and the monotonous nature of the Quarterly Reset doesn't feel so tiring. Music Dance Experiences are great. They might be Mina's favorite perk.

“What’re you picking?” Sana asks as they wait by the door for Nayeon to finish with Mr. Seo.

“I don’t know. I’ll feel it tomorrow,” Mina says, smiling. “Something new.”

“I like that,” Tzuyu says, leaning on the door frame. Maybe the reason Mina likes MDEs so much is that they're a perk you share with the other innies, instead of something enjoyed on your own. “Think she’s in trouble?”

“She lied for me,” Sana mutters. “If they check cameras—”

“They won’t,” Nayeon calls, strolling over with zero urgency.

Nayeon's assignments seemingly concluded, Mr. Seo asks, “One volunteer to assist department head Nayeon in the archive room: shredding and storage.”

Tzuyu smirks. “Gee, I wonder who loves shredding every quarter?”

Sana gasps in mock surprise. “If only we knew.”

“I’ll do it,” Mina says, like clockwork.

...

O&D's dedicated archival room was annexed into the office. Only they had this much space. The room had a lower ceiling, a humming yellowish light and shelved lined with binders and cardboard boxes. Nayeon moved easily among them, handing Mina a stack to sort.

Mina skimmed the contents: Nayeon’s weekly reports, poster drafts, odd desk doodles passed around. A crude drawing of Mr. Choi, courtesy of Tzuyu, with some ZZZs drawn on top by Sana. That one needs to go, unfortunately. One page has the words “Lumon eats?” “Lumon bites?” both crossed out by Nayeon with a scrawled absolutely not hahaha. Mina chuckles, shoving it into the shredder. Every other prototype and product description draft had Sana and Nayeon's “we've got this!” written in the margins. A particularly contemplative description of the principle of Wiles that Mina had mocked up earned Tzuyu's honest feedback in the bottom right corner: “deep.”

Nayeon unfolded every ear Tzuyu folded into the pages. Blacked out every copy-in-progress that Mr. Seo might interpret wrongly, no matter how correct she assured Mina she thought it was. Every weekly report, signed by her, right on the bottom, next to Mr. Seo's name.

“You’ve been extra quiet lately,” Nayeon said without looking up. Despite the nonchalance, the question still hangs in the air with some tension.

“I’m fine.” Mina feels the familiar knot in her stomach, the one she told herself her outie would handle.

Nayeon studies her for a second, eyes squinting, but ultimately relents. She reaches far for another folder at the end of the table, pulling her dress shirt sleeve to help her get to the printed mood boards. Mina's about to reach for it too, to push it towards her, but it's too late– Nayeon loses balance and hits her wrist on the sharp table corner, the spot turning red.

“Ah—” She catches herself on the desk, wincing, hand clutched. “Stupid knee.”

Mina is already beside her. “You okay?”

“Perfectly graceful,” Nayeon says, with a nervous laugh that doesn't seem to reach her eyes. Mina knows embarrassment when she hears it. She’s seen the way Nayeon sometimes shifts her weight from leg to leg during long meetings, or stands a little off-balance when they’re in the lunchroom. The limp is never pronounced, but it's enough to make Mina wish she could somehow make it better.

By the time they finish, Nayeon’s wrist is wrapped in a cold pack. Mina feels steadier after the quiet task, even with the knot in her chest pressing harder than usual. She hopes her outie will handle it. After all, what can she do down here?

She says goodbye, walks the bright white hallway, and steps into the elevator. A new quarter. New projects. Twelve more weeks. The familiar upward pull.

Of course, it's half a second until Mina's right there for work again.

...

The surveillance room was a dim, cramped office at the end of the severed corridor, on the left from the elevator, just past the Break Room. The walls had stacks of old televisions, the combined blue hue of the camera feeds doing more to light up the place than the five or so weak and diffused wall lamps behind all the computers. Dahyun hasn't needed to check the Procedure Guide for a while now. She knows she should first turn of the TVs, then the computers, pass in the tape for the day's log, turn that off too... The clock-out routine was already ingrained in her mind.

Jeongyeon always took too long to clock out. If clocking in felt like taking an object in rest out of rest, clocking out to return to the world upstairs, with natural light and non-AC air meant leaving the inertia of her cushy desk chair, getting in her car, driving home just to sit in an equally cushy sofa. Sometimes Jeongyeon told Dahyun she might just sleep there until the next day.

Dahyun turns only half of the TVs off, because only those were on in the first place. So many departments were emptying out. Only two innies in C&M, one poor lonely guy in DS. The MN room has long been emptied and repurposed, though that was more of a higher-up request, Dahyun remembers.

Dahyun pushes Jeongyeon on the shoulder repeatedly, fearing today might just be that day.

"Wha..."

"Come on, let's get out of here. You say I'm a Lumon-bootlicker, but here you are, trying to sleep in the building. Let's go." Dahyun shuts off the last of the machines and throws Jeongyeon's bag onto her lap.

"You care too much about your coworker." Jeongyeon yawns, getting up and turning off the lights.

They don't take the elevator. The elevator is just for the innies. Instead, they walk out the backdoor staircase, out into the parking lot. Jeongyeon follows Dahyun to her motorcycle, as usual, a long walk around the block of the enormous skyscrapers in Teheran-ro, in the heart of Gangnam. The older woman likes to pretend she doesn't care for Dahyun, but that becomes more of a glaring lie by the day.

"There goes the first of O&D," Jeongyeon's observing the first employee of the batch make a brisk walk across the street to a car being honked at by all the others. Five o'clock traffic. "She's department head, isn't she?"

Dahyun hums and nods, glancing over quickly. "They had their reset today. They always get the first fruits, don't they? Reset on Monday."

Jeongyeon doesn't answer. She's not nearly as interested in office gossip as Dahyun, who appreciates that she still listens.

"It's funny. All the other departments are dwindling but O&D stays strong. Choi only seems to care about keeping them intact. They're like our Mammalians Nurturable in Paris. Or," Dahyun laughs at the absurdity, "our MDR in Kier itself."

"It's because they make the stuff for all these places. For cheap," Jeongyeon speaks up once they reach Dahyun's parking spot. "And it's guaranteed that nothing gets out. You know, in the long-term... It's the smartest move to make the cogs educate each other."

"I suppose," Dahyun says. "Not that they need much education. I talked to the one guy from DS a couple of days ago... Some of them just don't sound real, Jeong. It's weird. They're not real people."

"Right," Jeongyeon shrugs and sighs. She knocks on Dahyun's helmet twice before stepping back. "They're not real people, innies. See you tomorrow?"

"See ya."

Dahyun starts the gas, looks both ways and joins the bustling traffic in the street, where workers from all kinds of tech companies and conglomerates made their way home after a long day. Jeongyeon jingles her keys, trying to remember where she left her car.

...

When Nayeon blinks awake in the elevator, she jumps at a chill on her arm. A cold pack. What was it now?

"Your innie's arm suffered a collision with the corner of a table upon stumbling to reach a faraway object." The explanation for Nayeon's innie's constant clumsiness at work was deplorable. Nayeon's gotten to know the office down there via reading about everything her innie's "suffered a collision" with. With a groan, she takes the complimentary gift card out of the locker drawer, where she switches her watch, key card, cellphone and shoes. It's always for Pip's, the only food chain Lumon owns: of course, then, a shitty Western food diner, a real Wendy's rip-off. No one eats Pip's in Korea, unless their money is only enough for Pip's.

Saying goodbye to the guard by the elevator, she walks out of the confusing halls of Lumon Seoul's skyscraper headquarters, until she reaches the surface lobby. Her phone dings with a message from Momo, her roommate, already waiting outside. The traffic is terrible this time of day in Gangnam. Everyone's going back home, in the same direction. Did she leave late? A little. It must have been the collision.

Among impatient honks of the cars around, Nayeon sucks in a breath and jogs to Momo's car, waiting right outside one of the many entrances. With a small grunt, Nayeon plops down in the passenger seat.

"You really shouldn't have done that," Momo says, turning down the radio. "You should've let the cars honk. Better yet, we could get that priority parking card, which is literally for cases like right now–"

"Don't start, do I look injured to you?" Nayeon asks. Momo's eyes dart toward the light blue pack around her forearm.

"Well. Yeah," she nods her head towards the evidence.

"Ugh," Nayeon rolls her eyes. "My fucking innie."

"Don't be too hard on her. She's you, after all."

"This is the nature versus nurture debate all over again," Nayeon shifts to face the window. She changes the subject. "Christ, the traffic's extra bad today, isn't it?"

"It's not just people going home. I've been hearing it on the radio all the way here. WMC protest," Momo says.

"The syndicate or the crazies?" Nayeon asks, making Momo laugh.

"I don't think the crazies set up protests."

Nayeon hums, chuckling. A comfortable silence extends between the two. The car finally manages to make it past the business district, driving through streets without stopping anymore, still half an hour away from their apartment building.

"There's some points I agree with, to be honest. With the Whole Mind Collective."

"Hm?" Momo brings her mind back from only driving, "Like what?"

"Some of the use cases, right? Like one thing is sending your innie to work, but to the dentist? Or like, to straight up birth a child? That's completely different."

Momo offers back a soft "true", and they fall into silence again. Until she asks, "hey, what did your innie do this time?"

Nayeon takes the card from her pocket and reads, dramatically: "Your innie's arm suffered a collision with the corner of a table upon stumbling to reach a faraway object."

She throws the card into the glove compartment, where 3 others in the same color, with the same droplet logo and "Pip's" lettering are sitting. Both of them laugh.

"Your innie seems cute, Nayeon unnie."

"What she seems like is a newborn giraffe. Ever see a video of one of those walking?"

...

Sana probably needs to delete Candy Crush.

The plings and boops of the game are all she can hear in her earbuds at the café across the Lumon building. The metro is a nightmare this time of day. She refuses to squeeze into the huge crowded soda can full of weirdos that will stare, weirdos that will smell and weirdos that will talk and bear the heat and noise for 40 minutes. She can wait half an hour or so, before she goes into the station and grabs a seat with plenty of space around.

Besides, while she waits out here, defeating– goodness, level 1138, embarrassing– she catches a glimpse of someone she thinks might be one of her coworkers. Someone whose name a corner of her mind has stored and whose voice she hears every day. And yet she doesn't remember her at all. It's so interesting, severance. The woman strolls out of the doors and walks to her car, sitting there and spending a few minutes on her phone. It's not too long until she's driven away. Sana realizes how pathetic she is once the car reaches the corner and leaves her sight.

She looks back down to her phone, to level 1139. Her phone buzzes with notifications. It’s a group chat, exploding with messages.

[Sohee]: FRIDAY NIGHT SOJU @ HONGDAE?? LMK!!!!

[Yuna]: YES I'M SO IN

[Jieun]: oh me toooo :3

[Sohee]: Sana unnie!!! @Sana tell me are you in????

Sana stares at the question. Replying would be a whole performance. She’d have to find the right enthusiastic emoji, match their energy, pretend she wants to go. It feels like a Herculean effort. She swipes the notification away and opens her message app, faced with a sea of unread bubbles. She scrolls past the group chat. Below it, a long monologue from a friend detailing every grievance about her new boss, which hadn’t been updated since yesterday. Sana hadn’t replied then, either.

Further down, the names that make her stomach clench.

[Mom]: Are you well? You haven't reached out in a while...

[Dad]: Honey, I know what you said, but I talked to your uncle and here at home, there's a...

Sana doesn't need to read the rest. She doesn't want to. All these people after a piece of her, but she’s never felt more alone. The friendships have been feeling like a series of scheduled performances, and her family life has been a quiet, long-running failure since always.

Sana wonders if her innie has the same tendency to bite off more than she can chew, socially, at least. If she goes through cycles of getting high on and then burnt out of people. Are the innies this tiring? She imagines her innie laughing with the woman she's seen leave work a few times already. Better yet, does her innie actually do a good job? Well, she hasn't been fired yet, has she? Sana hopes, with a sudden, aching sincerity, that her innie is happy.

That’s why she keeps going back. For the chance that at least one version of her has life figured out.

A barista starts wiping down a nearby table. Time to go. Sana picks up her bag and walks toward the now-calmer metro station, the weight of a hundred unread messages heavy in her coat pocket.

...

"It's sickening, honestly," Tzuyu says with a heavy sigh, watching Chaeyoung, her favorite bartender, pour another one for her over the counter. Yes, she's drinking on a Monday night after her shift. No, she's not proud of what it's come to. "Severance is for work. Nothing else."

"You sure?" Chaeyoung asks, absentmindedly. "They're using severance for birthing centers. You know, the mom makes an innie to deal with it."

"Which is sickening!" Tzuyu stares at Chaeyoung with horror-filled accusation. Chaeyoung simply shrugs, as to suggest she doesn't have any real strong opinions.

"Hey, you're the severed one between us, not me. So what now?"

Tzuyu cuts her swig of soju short. "Oh, I'll do another little basket of dried squid. Just the one."

"I mean, what will you do now about your mother."

"I... I don't know what to do anymore." Tzuyu sighs, dejected. She'd been to 3 neurologists already. They all pushed severance as the best treatment option for her mother's emerging dementia. What kind of solution is that? Discard the old mom, the one who raised her, who loves her, for a brand new one that just might not have memory loss? "She's been driving me crazy, but I can't give in to that. I mean, hell, insurance doesn't even cover this bullshit. It's too new."

"She could forget Korean," Chaeyoung wonders aloud. "Or even Mandarin, you ever considered? Wait, does your innie know Mandarin?"

"Don't remind me," Tzuyu groans. "The other day the geriatrician asked, 'what happens if she needs you and you're the other one?' I said, 'I'll just get out of the elevator and be me again', but the old man's so outdated, he didn't believe me. The old people doctor needs an old people doctor, look at that."

Chaeyoung slides over the basket of drinking snacks. Tzuyu offers her one, and she glances around the near empty establishment (it's Monday, after all) and accepts once she sees no other staff is watching.

"I think Lumon just doesn't explain severance very well. They don't really want people to know how it works."

"You think so? It's so straightforward. There's a space where the chip is activated and outside of it, it's not."

Chaeyoung hums. A few moments of silence pass by, with Tzuyu checking her phone before taking the last bit of soju in her last glass for the night. Another one of those voice memos. Tzuyu doesn't want to listen to one this late. Her mother will sound panicked, talking about some danger that didn't happen, like a home invasion or a robbery, and by the time Tzuyu's home to ask about it, she won't remember. Tzuyu's about to tell Chaeyoung, raising her head, but is shushed. Chaeyoung points to the television, on some independent news YouTube channel, playing the week's upload.

"Helena Eagan apologizes for drunken speech at exclusive gala last weekend, where she allegedly–"

"There's your boss, Tzuyu."

"His daughter, actually."

"Well, Jame Eagan's staring to look like Prince Phillip, so she'll be your boss very soon."

"The event was closed to the public, a promotional event for Lumon's proprietary severance procedure for workplaces..."

"Not a great start for the Lumon girl-boss. God, I need another job," Tzuyu says.

"Give it another quarter," Chaeyoung says, putting her hand on Tzuyu's shoulder. Tzuyu raises an eyebrow. "Your mom needs you. Figure out what you're gonna do there and then go job hunting."

"I guess you're right."

Tzuyu checks the time. She should go home, to her mother. She'll brush her teeth to get rid of the alcohol breath before she gives her all the night pills.

...

The only light source in Mina's apartment is her television screen. Thanks to her, in The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom, Link is having a very bad day. The Silver Lynel in front of him shows no mercy, determined to turn Link to a pixel pancake despite Mina's best efforts hacking at the controller.

Unrelated to video game beasts, Mina's heart hammers against her ribs, a familiar rhythm she'd accepted as part of her a long time ago. The thrum of anxiety was just as constant as the Roomba wandering around her bland, beige-and-gray apartment.

She's so, so close. A perfect attack, two more at the right times, a few more whacks with her nearly spent weapon and the creature would be gone. Her thumb hovers over the last button for the combo that could save her, until her phone vibrates on the glass table beside the sofa, a harsh buzz that makes her jump and miss her timing.

The screen read: Mrs. Myoui.

Ah. The real final boss.

Mina's shoulders immediately slumped under the invisible weight of an overbearing mother's call. With a sigh of profound defeat, she takes the call while watching Link get thrown like a rag doll across her television screen. Game over. She braces for her second beating of the day.

"Hi, Mom?"

"Mina." Her mother's voice was proper, but laced with the tiredness of someone perpetually disappointed.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Mina hopes if she goes straight to the point, things will go over quicker. Her mother stays reticent for a few seconds, on the other end of the line.

"Your status hasn't changed in three months. You need to score an eight–"

"To make it out of the severed floor, yes, I know," Mina tries to fast-forward on the script.

"Are you... Do you want to stay like this?" Her mother's tone changes for the worse. There's too much emotion there, she sounds somewhat exasperated, no longer just dead inside. "For how long?"

"I don't want to stay like this," Mina answers. "It doesn't work like that, Mom, it's not linear."

If there's something Mina hates, it's her mother's taste for silence when she wants to make someone feel pathetic. So the therapist gave her three 6s in a row. What of it?

"We had high hopes for this favor the Eagans made us, Mina," her mother sighs over the phone. "We thought the structure... the simplicity of it all would help you get better."

"I am getting better." Mina says, voice shaking when it had to be steady. Another string of silence that physically hurts. Mina's senses are still on rapid fire. Her heart is still racing. Her lungs begin trying to play catch-up. It's coming again, and something in Mina breaks. "I'm trying."

"Mina, you need to be honest with me."

"I'm being honest, Mom."

"We– you'll– can you just give it your best, darling, for me?"

"Why can't I just take pills, again?"

"Why do you think we're lying? You've seen the exams. You've had them retaken. You cannot," her mother drops any reservations. "We're taking care of you Mina. Paying, making deals, we're keeping you afloat. Just focus on getting better."

Mina gives up and says "okay", though there's so much more to say. There always is.

Her mother is the one to hang up.

She breathes like the therapist taught her and looks around the room to count things. It helps. But it doesn't help enough, not for her family, not for the Eagans, and not for Lumon.

...

Goats.

Surprisingly smart, despite being annoyingly destructive. Small enough to be practical to take care of while not being so small they're incomparable to the human organism. The goats are taken care of on the other side of a goat-sized metal passageway, through which they come in during the mornings. The chipped ones switch, well, Jihyo is trying to prove they are, comparing their little goat brainwaves to the ones from the guys in MDR. It's more of an excuse to keep the goats around. Goats are much harder to sneak out into Gangnam than goat embryos were to sneak in.

But her menial "research" is starkly interrupted, as it usually has been these days, because as of late, life has been getting harder and harder for Jihyo. Things feel heavy, things feel hard to do, and above all, it feels extremely hard to feel at all.

Dr. Park Jihyo is currently fighting off the urge to cry while sitting on one of the grassy artificial hills of the Mammalians Nurturable (or: the goat room) at 6PM on a Monday. Silicon build chip prototype clutched in one hand, some tissues in the other, the suffocating darkness that wraps around her is dreadfully familiar. Under the bright overhead lighting of the place, she feels especially small, curled up on the expanse of freshly mowed grass (nicely trimmed every Monday).

A goat chomps at the cuff of her pants, and she decides that's the last straw for today. Getting up and walking towards her equipment table, steadying herself onto it, Jihyo takes a deep breath. Wiping the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes, she swallows and straightens up. Dr. Kang will be here soon, to talk to her about platitudes and gauge how much of a mess she is.

She's picking at scans of some goat brains when he arrives. He was a tall, skinny, middle-aged man, with round rimmed glasses and a sleazy smile uncharacteristic of a scientist.

"Dr. Park, how was your weekend?"

"It was good, yours?" Jihyo lies.

"Just fine. The weather really brought me down. Autumn isn't my favorite season."

"Really? I like it. The trees are only prettier than now when it's spring."

"I think I just don't like all the withering away, you understand? I prefer new beginnings." Dr. Kang smiles. Here he goes. "Speaking of new beginnings, what of your decision on our proposal?"

"The same as always, doctor." Jihyo snarls through gritted teeth. "I'm not seeking alternatives for my... personal health concerns."

"Your mental instability is far from a personal issue," he retorts. "You're a scientist. A scientist's mind is his means of production. And yours is not at one hundred percent."

Jihyo squints. Unbelievable. "Is anyone's?"

"Take a look at our innies and see they are singularly focused on their mysterious and important work."

The 'work' in question: sorting numbers, making drawings and prior to Jihyo's use of this very space, raising these damned goats. Now she's the one raising the goats because though she can walk in and out of here every day, she can't truly get out. She needs to stay. And while she's here, she refuses to give in to Lumon's most outrageous ask.

"I refuse to sever, Dr. Kang. That's my one and final decision. My innie would have no PhD in her long-term memory to do even half of what I do, with what I know."

"Don't pretend you don't understand our offer, Dr. Park, we've discussed this." Dr. Kang sighs theatrically. "The outie would be working. The innie would help you with... the other things."

Jihyo scoffs, indignant. "Which is even worse to think of–"

"I think you overestimate your importance to this company, Dr. Park." Dr. Kang interrupts, stepping into Jihyo's space and staring her squarely in the eyes, his own glare holding back a rage that sends awful warning signals down Jihyo's spine. Jihyo isn't too tall, her big voice and mature demeanor doing the work to command some respect. It's in moments like these she remembers as much. "You should reconsider how you address your superior's valid concerns. In three weeks, your contract gets renewed. In three weeks, The Board wants your decision."

Fucking hell. What kind of decision is this?

Lumon would never simply terminate a contract for an employee like her. They do much, much worse.

Chapter Text

Of course, it's half a second until Mina's right there for work again.

But her chest hurts. When Mina steps out of the elevator to stroll down the same white-on-white halls of the severed floor, taking all the turns she's burned into her mind already, she feels as if someone's stacked books onto her torso, even though she's upright. When she arrives to greet Nayeon and Sana, the previous staggered entries, her hand doesn't leave her neck, trying to relieve the sudden tension. Fifteen minutes later, Tzuyu arrives.

The brief for the twentieth anniversary doesn't have anything Mina hasn't already seen. Scans of old Kier paintings, his mill workers, his wife. There are pictures of desks around the floor. The nine core principles and four tempers. Too many notes scrawled across the margins asking for more Sevy, the chipper little severance mascot from the manuals. If Mina had the choice, they'd be doing a whole lot less with Sevy.

Their routine is the same. Sana and Tzuyu begin sketching, thinking of covers and graphics, while Mina and Nayeon write on yellow sheets of paper until they have something impactful enough to read aloud. Their lunch break arrives fast enough. Sana is clearly hiding away her Lumon-issued desert in the pile under the cupboard, which she always does for every one of their innie-versaries. Mina tosses one of her own in to help every once in a while. Since Tzuyu's innie-versary is already tomorrow, she makes the sacrifice.

Mina was so distracted by the new project and the odd pains in her body that she almost forgot about her MDE.

The cart for MDEs was a little old, so it creaked when Mr. Seo rolled it into the room. The odd lamps set around the O&D changed to the familiar soft colorful hues, while Mr. Seo plugged the vinyl player into a socket.

"Miss Mina," he says, with a smile, "please step forward. For your exemplary performance last quarter, you have earned for you and your fellow designers a five-minute Music Dance Experience."

Mina approaches the cart, picking up the laminated yellow card with all the genre options. She dispenses an accessory, looking through the kazoos, party hats and maracas in the drawer and not really feeling any of it.

Tzuyu scoffs at indifference. "Not even a maraca?"

"Music, I want the music," Mina dismisses. Sana comes closer to look over the options, quickly muttered through by Mina as she carefully considers. Who knows when they'll get the chance to listen to music again. "Uh... Bawdy Funk, Bouncy Swing, Buoyant Reggae, Defiant Jazz, Effusive Ska, Exalted Choral, Exciting Rap–"

"Hootin' Tootin' Country!" Sana's excitement is shot down quickly by the other three's faces. Mina's gaze drifts back to the card to see the other options.

Lofty Orchestral.

Orchestral.

Why does that word make her feel something?

"Lofty Orchestral."

Tzuyu raises her eyebrow. Sana squints. "How about–"

"Lofty Orchestral," Mina turns to Mr. Seo, confirming her choice. With a small smile, he nods and selects the vinyl.

"It's her choice, Sana," Nayeon says, tapping at Sana's shoulder. "Let's just listen."

The first notes come soft, a pluck of strings, then a slow swell. Mina blinks. It’s richer than she expected, not tinny like the clips they use in training videos. The violins sound like they’re breathing the same air she is.

Tzuyu makes a face. “This is so boring.”

“Just wait,” Mina says, surprising herself with the insistence in her tone. She doesn’t know why she cares. But something in her chest leans forward, pulled by the sound.

And then it’s everywhere. The melody curves around the room, climbs the walls, and spills into her head until her skin is humming with it. Mina’s lungs fill in time with the rising strings, and before she can think, she’s moving—stretching an arm up, sliding a foot across the floor. It feels right, like she’s following directions she didn’t know she’d been given.

Plié, her mind whispers. Pointe. Pirouette.

Her body just responds, as if it remembers. The lamps begin to glimmer baby blue and turquoise.

“Mina?” Tzuyu’s voice cuts through, startled. “How are you doing that?”

“Like this!” Mina laughs, and she spins, light as breath. For a second, she swears the floor isn’t there at all.

Nayeon's watching her, wide-eyed, until Mina reaches out a hand. “Come on. You can do it.”

“No, I’ll trip—”

“Yes, you can!” Mina tugs her gently, guiding her into a twirl. Nayeon squeals, but her smile cracks wide as she stumbles into the beat. Mina steadies her with a hand at her waist, pulling her into something half a move, half a memory. It doesn’t matter what it’s called, all Mina knows is that it feels like flying.

The lights shift green, then blue, painting Nayeon’s grin softer than Mina’s ever seen it. They move together clumsily but free, like maybe for once the floor isn’t all walls and limits. Mina feels like there are no limits, not even in the back of her mind, through the words being fed into her memory. Where are the other two? Mina can see Tzuyu beginning to give in and sway. She tries to do a spin Mina had just done, but doesn't seem to know where to begin or where to go. It's so odd, to Mina all of it feels so easy.

Sana... Sana's not close by. Neither is Mr. Seo. Nayeon seems to notice at the same time. She nods her head over Mina's shoulder, and Mina looks.

In the corner, Mr. Seo’s voice cuts sharply: “No more of this innie-versary nonsense, Sana.” Their usual script, always arguing over Sana's so-called side projects. His glare keeps flicking over, though, landing on Mina like a pin pressed against glass. Mina shakes it off and looks back, to a Nayeon that looks ready to try a last move before their five minutes are over.

"I haven't fallen yet," Nayeon smiles.

"Let's try this one," Mina says, confidence rising. She raises Nayeon's hand and brings her out further than before, among cluttered boxes and shelves and the central table.

She's about to pull Nayeon back when the swell of music rises higher, and then— A spike. Mina’s breath seizes.

Her chest locks, throat clawing shut. She drops Nayeon mid-spin, clutching at her neck. Her vision narrows into black and static.

“Mina!” Nayeon’s voice echoes, distant. Hands try to grab her, but her own won’t unclench, her lungs won’t move. The flood behind her skull pounds harder with names of steps and memories of motions, so many that it feels like drowning in a language she should know, but can’t speak a word of. A chill cuts its way through her spine, making her gasp. She's a terrible ballet dancer, even for an amateur. She shouldn't be teaching kids. She should go home, straight home after work.

Ballet. Ballet, after work. Mina feels dizzy.

“Breathe!” Sana’s hands are on her shoulders, shaking. “Mina, breathe!”

Air crashes back in, ragged, burning. Mina coughs, blinking into the sudden harsh light. The music’s gone.

Nayeon is on the floor, half-over a stack of boxes and way too close to a fallen footstool, her face twisted, one hand gripping her knee tightly. “Ah—god—”

Tzuyu just stares. “What just happened—?”

Mr. Seo storms in, muttering into his walkie, then pastes on his training smile. “Great MDE, everyone! Congratulations, Mina.” His voice wobbles. He doesn’t look at her. He crouches to Nayeon instead. “You’re done for today. Let’s go.”

Mina can only stare at Nayeon's swelling injury, becoming red. Her heart drops. It's her fault. Nayeon looks at her in a way Mina can't quite read.

And then it’s just three of them, the hum of the ceiling lights swallowing everything.

“What the hell was that?” Sana whispers.

Mina presses a hand to her throat. It still feels raw, like something got stuck there and won’t let go. She can't speak, only shakes her head. After a minute that feels like an hour, her voice comes back to her. She chokes out a hoarse, "I... I don't know."

An hour later, Mr. Seo returns, snapping them out of silence, while they were pouring over the same board from the morning, pretending to get anything done. “Sana, break room. Now.”

The word drops like a brick. Break Room. Mina’s stomach turns. Nobody comes back from there the same. The room freezes. Sana’s mouth opens like she’ll argue again, like she always does, but the sharp edge in Mr. Seo’s face warns her not to. She presses her lips shut and goes, though her eyes flick toward Mina and Tzuyu with a quiet desperation.

Mr. Seo’s walkie crackles mid-sentence. He frowns, then looks at Mina. “Mina, you'll have a Wellness session with Dr. Park tomorrow.”

Wellness. The opposite of what she needs. A padded room full of fake plants and Dr. Park’s syrupy voice saying “You are seen. You are cared for.” over and over like she’s reading from a manual. Useless. Or maybe she’ll tell her to close her eyes and picture a river. Nothing that touches the raw terror of choking on her own breath while her body remembers steps she doesn’t know. Mina forces a nod. She doesn’t want to go, but what choice does she have?

She watches Sana go, the door sliding closed behind her. The music’s long gone, and her head is still pulsing, but her muscles are humming, like they’re begging for one more note. Ballet. She doesn't have the courage to whisper the word to Tzuyu. Remembering hurts.

The rest of the day drags on. Mina tries to scribble words for the anniversary brief, but everything she writes looks sterile and lifeless. Tzuyu keeps doodling on her notepad, but her lines are messier. The hum of the overhead lamp is getting on her nerves, and the lack of backrest on the stools feels too demanding of her spine. Mina feels sicker every minute Sana doesn't come back from the Break Room.

By the time her staggered exit time finally arrives, Mina’s chest still feels heavy. She looks at Sana and Nayeon's spots, empty, sighing before standing up to leave.

...

When outie Mina blinks her way out of the elevator, it's already 5:45PM. She doesn't linger, taking her things from her locker quickly and walking through the hallways and out into the street. The sky is painted in streaks of orange and pale violet, reflecting off of the Lumon skyscraper's glass exterior. She heads to her car, slips the keys in with muscle memory, and lets the engine start.

She sets the radio to something soft, gentle piano pieces meant to blur into the background. Nothing with a beat that might make her heart race. She keeps her hands steady on the wheel, though her fingers twitch every time a stressed driver honks too loud.

At the academy, the smell of rosin and sweat greets her before she even reaches the dressing room. Mina changes quickly, pulling on her black leotard and skirt, winding her hair into a bun. When she looks in the mirror, she notices the bags under her eyes and the tightness in her neck that never seems to leave anymore.

The studio fills with students, little by little, for a 7PM class. The white noise of the kids and other teachers talking helps ease her into her stretches and warm-ups.

Class begins. The students look to her and her co-teachers. She leads them through pliés and tendus, correcting arms and shoulders. The kids are chatty, as usual, telling stories and gossip from their day of school. Mina says hi to the ones she's come to know better, and tries to chat with a shyer girl she hasn’t yet reached. She goes over to the tiny group of boys. There's exactly one more than last semester, every addition a win. They’re watching a YouTube clip of a professional dancer doing a grand jeté, talking about learning it. Mina chuckles. Always too far ahead of themselves. She tells them to remember the name of a simpler move, something they'll still think is cool-looking, that won’t twist a twelve-year-old’s knee on the first try.

One of the teachers calls her back to begin after their own rounds around the class are over, and Mina finds her shoulders already feel lighter than when she first arrived. The music begins to play, a soft piece for strings, and she follows the choreography the lead teacher had chosen for this season of lessons. The kids follow, wide-eyed, some marking, others fully trying, others simply watching the first demonstration. Mina smiles. Something in the plucking of the strings and the focused strength of every angle in her movements makes her forget... everything.

At first, she moves as she always does—calm, collected—but then a strange pressure builds in her chest again. That same stacked weight from nowhere. The notes fill the air with a new strength, like they're drilling into her brain. Her hearing feels sensitive, as if she's just woken up. For a second, the studio isn't lit by the yellowish diffused light strips along the floors and ceilings, but odd sources she can't pinpoint, like her vision can't catch up.

She tries to focus her eyes, but can't. A brighter wave of what looks like turquoise and baby blue lights fills the room, washing over the mirrors. Mina closes her eyes tightly and opens them again. Gone. She demonstrates an arabesque and loses balance. Just slightly, but enough for the girls in the front row to exchange worried glances. “Teacher?” one whispers.

“I’m fine,” Mina whispers too quickly. She forces a smile and continues, her voice sharper than she intends. The music continues, and so does she. Step after step, as if pushing through a tide.

By the time the class ends, her legs feel like glass. She sends the kids away, pretending it was all as usual. In the dressing room, not even the teacher who was next to her seems to have noticed, or at least no one mentions it. After smoothing down her hoodie and taking a deep breath, Mina notices an empty space among the lockers, where a certain pair of sneakers should be. Momo hasn’t shown up to teach her class today.

...

When Nayeon blinks her way out of the elevator, searing pain shoots up from her calf to her hip like a lethal injection, stealing the air from her lungs. She doubles over, clutching her thigh. When she looks down, she sees makeshift bandages tight around her ankle and an awkward brace cinched over it. When the doors slide open, Mr. Seo is waiting right in front of her. He's holding a bouquet so big it's almost comical, with white and blue flowers trembling slightly in his arm. She simply stares, mouth agape, dumbfounded, still half bent over, clutching her leg. The door is about to close when Mr. Seo rushes a step in to hold his arm at the door.

"What the fuck?" Is all Nayeon can muster.

On the way out, her anger drowns out her capacity for stringing non-curse words together. Or for assimilating anything her supervisor is saying. Something about slipping on a freshly mopped corridor during a safety drill. Everything she usually takes from the locker drawer is handed to her. No Pip's gift card this time. Fucking hell, it must be bad. It feels like it's bad.

Momo’s at the door, not in the car, hurrying to catch her before she stumbles. She’s holding a pair of Lumon-issued crutches, and for once Nayeon doesn’t fight them, though she allows herself a long and resigned groan. Once they're outside, Mr. Seo tries to chirp in another understanding comment, but frankly, Nayeon cannot stand that guy. Momo's car is in the priority parking spot. Once they're both in and the engine starts, no one reaches for the radio. Momo merges into the street.

"We're going to the ER. It's quick. I already told work."

"Fuck, Momo, I'm sorry–"

"It's alright." Momo looks straight ahead. Her voice sounds detached, despite the worry in her eyes, and Nayeon doesn't like how she can't read her friend easily.

Nayeon stares straight ahead, to the street. To people strolling down the sidewalks. Why in the fuck can't her innie control herself? They go over a speed bump, and the Pip's cards in the glove compartment thrum under the dashboard. God, her knee hurts like hell, like it's been hammered on. How did her innie fall so hard? It was a new low, even for someone so careless and stupid. Nayeon notices she hasn't been breathing very well. Tears threaten to prick at the corners of her eyes, only frustrating her more.

"Mr. Seo seems scared you'll quit."

"Of course he is," Nayeon says, voice too rough. She purses her lips and clears her throat. "Do you think I should?"

Momo sighs. Her voice is low, almost guilty. “Doesn’t it ever scare you? How easily you get hurt down there? Don’t you ever wonder what’s happening to her?”

"So yes?" Nayeon says, indignant.

“Look, just– Just consider it," Momo stutters, "I don’t think she’s okay down there. I don’t think you’re safe.”

Nayeon laughs in disbelief.

"Quitting means putting her down. She won't be safe or unsafe because she won't exist anymore. I told you I knew what I was doing when I started this job, Momo. I'm not mercy killing her because she hasn't– fucking learned how to walk yet."

Momo flinches, gripping the wheel tighter. "Maybe there’s a way to help her," she treads lightly and Nayeon knows why, biting her tongue to not argue back immediately. "Go in with something to make it easier. A walking brace. A cane, at least."

“That’s pathetic.” Nayeon spits the word like venom, then notices the way Momo’s face falls, how her shoulders cave inward just slightly. Guilt prickles, sharp and annoying. She sighs. “Fine. I’ll… think about it. She’s not me, after all. Clearly.”

Momo’s hand drifts from the wheel to Nayeon’s lap. “And no one will see,” she mumbles.

Nayeon doesn’t shove her hand away. She stares out the window instead, jaw clenched, watching the city lights as night falls.

At home, her phone rings. Mr. Seo again. Always polite, always apologizing for the “inconvenience” of injury, suggesting she take a sick day. Nayeon picks at her healing brace while she listens, humming and agreeing. It's way too warm, and Nayeon swears it's already starting to itch. She sighs, making Mr. Seo pause.

"I understand you must be exhausted after this lamentable ordeal–"

“How is she?” Nayeon cuts him off.

A pause. Nayeon leans her head back to look at the ceiling. “I’m sorry?”

“My innie,” Nayeon says flatly. "How is she, usually?" Is she reckless? Is she as slow and distracted as Nayeon is imagining her to be? There's silence on the other end, for a few seconds.

“She’s… a very good friend. To the others. She’s kind. Attentive.”

She swallows a sudden knot in her throat. She looks back to the kitchen behind her, where Momo is almost done making dinner.

"I'll take that sick day, Mr. Seo. Good evening to you." She ends the call with a coarse goodbye, tossing the phone aside.

Momo’s already set the table, steam rising from the dishes. The teriyaki smells good. For once, Nayeon doesn’t crack a joke. She just sits down, crutch leaning against the chair, and eats.

Chapter Text

When Mina arrives at the office, Nayeon isn’t there. A heavy pit forms in her stomach. Sana isn’t there either. She must still be in the Break Room. It makes her feel nauseous. Mina glances over at the odd lamps scattered around the room and remembers how they’d flowed through waves of baby blue and soft green just yesterday, all to the sound of swelling strings and airy flutes. Nayeon got injured all the time, but it was always something small, a clumsy collision with a desk corner or a trip over a fallen pencil. Never something that made her ankle swell up like that, tight and hot red. A knot ties itself in Mina’s throat. What if Nayeon’s outie—

No. She can’t think like that. If she thinks like that, she’ll go insane. She won’t be able to work. And the work is mysterious and important. It’s what she was made for. Her eyes dart to the clock on the wall, watching the minute hand tick forward with agonizing slowness.

Yesterday’s final hours were a write-off, lost to the MDE fiasco and the shockwaves of seeing half the O&D team taken away at once. Tzuyu arrives, her usual fast pace slower under the heavy silence.

“Hi,” is all Tzuyu can muster. If Mina let herself be more dramatic, she'd swear their words echo louder in the half-empty room.

“Hi,” Mina answers, feigning nonchalance. “I was just getting started.” A complete lie. She’s been sitting here for fifteen minutes, staring at nothing.

Tzuyu doesn’t buy it. “…Sana’s still gone. And Nayeon didn’t clock in at all, right?”

Mina just nods. The tension that’s been coiling in her neck since she stepped out of the elevator tightens another notch. She has to work. She has to make up for the lost time. That'll quiet the frantic pulsing in her head.

She pulls out a notepad and begins to write a copy for the new handbook, the introductory part about the innie experience. But the words feel hollow, and she can’t get a grip on her own thoughts. Beside her, Tzuyu is already furiously drawing on her own papers, the scratching of her pencil the only sound breaking the tension.

Mina writes the usual lines, pulled straight from the guidebook. Your life will be unburdened by the worries of the world. You are singularly focused on your mysterious and important work. In between the corporate platitudes, her pen starts to form other words. Words she learned yesterday. Pirouette. Plié. Fouetté. Just to see if she remembers how to write them. But a dangerous little voice in her mind whispers that it’s okay to go a little further. That maybe writing it all down will make the feeling go away.

The pen moves, almost of its own accord.

What should I say?
As the words get repeated

Pirouette. Plié. Fouetté. The words cross Mina's mind again.

The outline of their meaning grows more blurry
Flickering and fading out now
Gets fuzzier the more I say it, this meaning
So misty that I've lost sight
Same thing over and over, on repeat

She stares at what she wrote. It’s beautiful. It's confusing. It's uncertain and anxious, like the feelings swirling inside her. She remembers the way Nayeon smiled before Mina dropped her. Her foot taps against the floor when she remembers how natural it felt to follow the Lofty Orchestral. What Mina wrote isn't proper. It’s not proper for an innie. So how can it be beautiful? This isn’t right. Mina never lets herself go down this road. This is the road to insanity. This is the road to asking to quit and blinking out of existence, breaking the hearts of the only three people she knows and trusts.

She rips the page from the notepad and bolts for the bathroom, as quietly as possible, to not distract Tzuyu.

She leans against the sink, her breath coming in shallow. For one dizzying, impossible second, the sterile, chemical smell of the bathroom cleaner is completely obliterated by something else. Lavender and chamomile. A soft, clean scent that feels like… home. The paper clutched in her hand vanishes, replaced by the phantom sensation of a worn-out video game controller; she can feel the smooth plastic, the familiar buttons under her thumbs. A wave of vertigo so intense it buckles her knees washes over her, and she grips the counter to keep from collapsing.

Her vision goes dark.

Then, light. She’s in a bathroom. A white, sterile, horribly lit bathroom. Her hands are gripping a porcelain sink. In her right hand is a crumpled piece of paper. She reads it. What should I say? As the words get repeated…

Mina swallows on nothing. It's her own handwriting. The words feel vague. Where is she? She groans, feeling a sudden ache in her head, as if someone just landed a blow onto its side.

Darkness again.

Mina’s eyes snap open. She’s still in the O&D bathroom, her heart hammering. She realizes she’s taken two steps forward, closer to the mirror, though she doesn’t remember moving. Her mind, reeling, latches onto the only concrete thing it can remember: Nayeon’s voice from yesterday, when they were dancing.

“I haven't fallen yet.”

...

Mina walks back to her desk, her legs feeling unsteady. She can barely sit down when Mr. Seo appears in her periphery, making her jump. “Miss Mina. Dr. Park would like to see you.”

She haphazardly shoves the note into a desk drawer and follows him.

Wellness isn’t a punishment, it’s just a minor inconvenience. A kind of cozy room where Dr. Park usually fakes a smile and recites affirmations until the clock runs out. But this time is different. Dr. Park doesn’t start with the usual script.

“Tell me what happened yesterday, Mina. Describe it for me.”

”Describe– describe it for you?” Dr. Park nods, eyebrow raised. Mina still doesn't quite understand. ”You want me to talk?”

”Yes, I do. Why does that surprise you?”

Dr. Park looks… off. Her hair isn’t in its usual tight bun, and there are tired lines around her eyes. Mina tells her everything that doesn't feel too damning. The MDE, the music, the fear that clamped down on her chest until she couldn’t breathe. She leaves out the fact she just felt another pinprick of that fear in the bathroom ten minutes ago, when she was transported somewhere else. She leaves out the part where it was a flood of new words and just-out-of-reach memories that made her feel so suffocated.

Dr. Park watches her with an unsettling focus, despite her disheveled appearance. She doesn't have a pen or paper near her, but Mina gets the feeling notes are being taken, mentally.

But Mina talks, lingering on moments that felt better, to not scare the Wellness counselor too much. The more she talks, realizing what the question hanging in the air is, the more she wishes she had come here just to sit and hear affirmations. She doubles back, mentions Nayeon again, Mina didn't see the boxes, she was talking to Nayeon, they were cracking jokes. Nayeon was enjoying herself. It wasn't Nayeon's fault.

“I just felt my arms go limp,” Mina explains, “right in the middle of helping Nayeon with a fouetté.”

Dr. Park stops her right there. Her carefully constructed calm cracks. “A what?”

“A fouetté,” Mina repeats, confused. “It’s a ballet—”

“How do you know that word?” Jihyo’s voice is sharp.

Mina falters. It’s a good question. Innies know things. They know what a table is when they wake up on one. But this feels different. Too specific. “I… don’t know. Is my outie… a failed ballerina or something?”

“Quiet,” Dr. Park hisses, glancing nervously toward the corners of the ceiling. Her composure returns, but it’s brittle now. “We'll need more sessions, Mina. I'll see to it we have a weekly schedule. Can you go back to O&D on your own?”

”Um... sure,” Mina stands and bows, turning on her heel to leave the room. That was weird.

...

In the surveillance room, the air smells of burnt coffee and ozone from the AC. Dahyun is logging tapes. Jeongyeon is practically horizontal in her chair. They both watch the feed from Wellness, seeing the session end. Dahyun shifts restlessly.

“She’s hiding something,” Dahyun mutters.

“It’s outside our jurisdiction,” Jeongyeon says, not opening her eyes. “And she’s been loyal to Kier since before we were born. She’s a Wintertide Fellow, for crying out loud.”

The door opens and Mr. Choi walks in. Dahyun immediately starts spilling. “Sir, Dr. Park’s session with the O&D girl was highly irregular—”

Choi holds up a hand, his expression one of profound boredom. “I don’t care about the implications. I just don’t want the higher-ups on my ass over an employee that barely matters.”

Just then, Jihyo strides in, moving with a velocity that makes them all straighten up. She ignores them, heading straight for Jeongyeon’s desk and grabbing a file. Mina’s file. The three of them offer clumsy, hasty bows. Jihyo, resident neuroscientist and researcher for the entire severed floor, gives only a nod back.

She turns to Dahyun, her voice sharp. “The tapes from that session. And the MDE footage from O&D yesterday. I need them for my analysis before her next appointment.”

Dahyun hesitates, her hands lingering over the controls. Mr. Choi looks back and forth between the two women, entertained, as if this were merely an episode of his favorite drama. Dahyun shakes her head and looks up to Jihyo. “Doctor, the contents—”

“Are you suggesting,” Jihyo says, her voice dropping dangerously low, “that there could be an issue with the technology our founder himself idealized?”

Dahyun deflates and immediately complies. ”Never, Doctor. I'm sorry I made it seem that way.”

“Wait,” Mr. Choi pipes up. “Before her next session?” Jeongyeon turns her head away so her smile isn't seen. The old man is slow.

“Yes,” Jihyo says without looking at him. “I’ll be requiring regular sessions with Miss Mina.”

Choi nods immediately, unthinking. Jeongyeon clears her throat. “Seo’s report said she had a panic attack from the ‘overwhelm of Lofty Orchestra.’ Recommended we remove the option.”

“Seo’s report is useless,” Jihyo snarls. She turns to leave, pausing at the door. “And Sana Minatozaki has been in the Break Room for over three hours. I may check on her later.” She walks out. Choi scurries after her. “Of course, Doctor, whatever you feel is necessary.”

The moment they’re gone, Dahyun and Jeongyeon slump in their chairs. “Jihyo seems stressed,” Dahyun says.

“She’s always imposing,” Jeongyeon sighs. “But yeah. More stressed.”

...

Jihyo watches the tape in her big, sad, makeshift workspace: the goat room. She slides the cassette into an old player, and the incident plays out on a small, flickering screen. The soft, colorful lights. The swelling music. And Mina. A Mina she has never seen before, moving with an impossible, innate grace. She is not just dancing, she is fluent in a language her body should not know. She’s a dancer. A real one. Jihyo’s hand grips her pen so tightly the plastic squeaks.

She watches Mina pull a beaming Nayeon into the dance. Then, the seizure. Mr. Seo is another corporate cog trying to put out fires as fast as possible. That's not a panic attack. Jihyo knows what those look like. In the recording, Mina’s body locks up, her face a mask of pure terror. It's not a panic attack. It's a system crash.

She pulls up the neural activity feed she picked up directly from the security room, no need to pull Jeongyeon into it. It’s all there in the data. A massive feedback loop. A bleed-over. Two signals, two entire sets of motor commands, trying to occupy the same channel at once. The chip short-circuited. The severance, the one absolute, infallible promise of Lumon, had failed.

This isn’t just an anomaly. It’s a catastrophic failure of the one thing Lumon promises is absolute and infallible. Severance. This changes everything.  Jihyo watches a tear fall from Mina's eye in the recording. It dawns on her like an anvil to her head. If Mina couldn't breathe during a five second feedback loop... Something is breaking inside her head. Mina's at risk. All the severed workers could be.

...

When Mina returns to the O&D office, moving to sit at her chair, she notices Tzuyu is gone. It makes her panic. She calls out for Tzuyu immediately, scared of finally being completely alone, tears pricking at her eyes. She looks in the archival room and among the cluttered shelves of the office. She finds Tzuyu at the doorway to the lunch room. In Tzuyu’s hand, a single, slightly squashed chocolate cupcake.

“Happy two years to me, right?” Tzuyu says with a weak smile. “It’s from Sana unnie’s stash. I saved some for the three of you, duh.”

Right. Tzuyu’s innie-versary. The reason Sana is in the Break Room. Mina’s heart aches, but she latches onto Tzuyu’s words. For the three of you. A quiet reassurance that Sana and Nayeon would be back. But it’s not the same without Sana’s infectious, rule-breaking cheer. It’s not the same without Nayeon laughing at the absurdities of their existence, in moments like these, the way it could cut through the corporate platitudes and make them all feel sane. Mina misses her so much it feels like a physical injury.

“Happy innie-versary, Tzuyu-ah,” she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. She clears her throat and sits next to her, trying to sound more cheerful than she feels.

...

“Forgive me... for the harm I have caused this world. None may at– atone, for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on.” Yet another tear rolls down Sana's cheek. Mr. Seo's gaze is uncaring, a small nod enough to make her heart jump up to her throat and resume quickly, lest he makes her start from the top again. Sana takes in a sharp breath. ”I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with–”

Four hours into the never-ending apologies, the session abruptly stops. Sana, hears a knock on the Break Room door, muffled and distant, maybe by the walls, maybe by the dissociation pulling at her mind. Her eyes work hard to follow Mr. Seo fast enough, as he quickly gets up to check. Sana hears them talk. It's Dr. Park’s voice, sterner than usual. After a few minutes, Mr. Seo returns, sighing.

“You’re with Dr. Park now. Wellness.”

Sana tries to stand, but her legs feel like jelly. To her utter shock, as they walk the long white corridor, Dr. Park puts an arm around her shoulder to steady her. In the Wellness room, Dr. Park says nothing, just pours two cups of water. Sana’s hands are shaking too much to take one.

After a long silence, Sana whispers, “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Dr. Park says simply.

Sana nods, avoiding eye contact. ”Okay.”

It's a few seconds before Dr. Park speaks up again.

”Do you enjoy your work here, Sana?” The question catches Sana off guard.

”I do, usually,” she answers. ”Why do you ask?”

”I'm the Wellness counselor, Sana.” Dr. Park tilts her head and smiles. Her eyes look tired, something behind them Sana can't decipher. But her smile was real. That, Sana could tell. ”Do you like your team at O&D?”

”Yes, I do.” Sana answers, resolute, then bites her tongue, looking down. Dr. Park smiles just a little wider. Is it good for your Wellness counselor to know you like your coworkers more than your job?

”That's good. You like keeping track of how long they've been here,” she says, leaning back. Sana's heart drops.

”I understand it's not appropriate—”

”Look, I didn't say anything.”

Sana stares at Dr. Park, bewildered. She reaches for the cup of water she'd refused. Her hand still shakes. Dr. Park helps her bring it off the table with a small push. Nothing about this session feels real. She takes a sip.

”It's good for...” making us feel human. Keeping track of time. ”Boosting team morale.”

Dr. Park just hums, focused on the plants beside her seat.

“How is Mina?” Sana asks.

“It’s under control,” Dr. Park says. “I’ll take care of her.”

Sana relaxes slightly. The way Dr. Park looks down to her own hands, breaths slow, makes her feel a need to gently prod. “Do you rest enough, Doctor?”

Dr. Park chuckles, glancing at Sana for a split second. She's pretty. It feels obvious now to think so. Maybe it's the fact it's Sana's first time seeing her with her shoulders slumped and a real smile on her face.

“Work's been demanding.” Dr. Park says. She purses her lips. ”They were too hard on you... You know, I don't approve of the Break Room.”

Sana looks up, surprised. Dr. Park's eyes are calculating again, as if to gauge Sana's response. Sana takes a risk. “Sometimes I think the principles get... a little exaggerated.”

A small, genuine laugh escapes Dr. Park’s lips. It’s such an unlikely sight that Sana feels herself laughing back.

“We can sit here for a while,” she says. “Finish your water.”

Slowly, Sana does. And for the first time in four hours, she feels something like peace, sitting in silence while Dr. Park quietly fiddles with her pager.

...

The door to O&D opens. Mina and Tzuyu raise their heads at the same time, eyes wide. Dr. Park is there, and beside her is a pale, slightly shaking Sana, but she’s breathing deeply, and there’s a flicker of light back in her eyes. When Dr. Park is gone, Sana sinks into a chair.

“I think I’ll just watch you guys work today,” she murmurs. She explains that Dr. Park let her rest in Wellness, that she took her out of the Break Room. It’s deeply odd, but Mina doesn’t question it.

“It was nice of her,” Sana shrugs. “I definitely learned my lesson.” She doesn’t say “happy innie-versary,” but she reaches for Tzuyu’s hand and smiles. Tzuyu smiles back. Mina rests a hand on Sana’s knee, checking in silently. Sana gives her a weak nod. She’s as okay as she can be.

Mina sighs a little too loud. A tiny drop of the constant tension leaves her shoulders.

Sana unnie is back.

...

Outie Mina blinks, and she’s in the elevator, ascending. The last thing she remembers is a white bathroom, a crumpled poem, and a wave of impossible vertigo. She stumbles out into the parking garage, her mind a storm of confusion. What just happened?

Merging into the crazy evening traffic, a sudden, splitting headache makes her slam on the brakes. Horns blare around her. She was there. The thought is insane, actually, impossible, but she knows it’s true.

Later, at the dance academy, Momo finds her in the dressing room. “You look tired,” Momo says.

“Something’s stressing me out at work,” Mina deflects, unwilling to say the words aloud. “I know it’s not supposed to… bleed over. But what if the chip glitches, or something?” The last words leave her weakly, unsure.

She expects Momo to laugh, to tell her she’s being paranoid. Instead, Momo looks at her, surprised. “Not even the Whole Mind Collective ever, ever said that,” She pauses, putting her hand on Mina's shoulder. Momo looks serious, and a little tired herself. “But... I think you should follow your gut.”

That’s it. That’s the push she needs. It could have happened. She was down there. She has to find out more.

As she walks down the steps of the dance school, saying goodbye to Momo, the words of the poem flash in her mind.

So misty that I've lost sight... Same thing over and over, on repeat

There's another Mina, one that uses the same body, who can think and feel deeply. It's not the first time Mina's grappled with this, but seeing her own handwriting, on that crumpled piece of paper... Something about it feels scarier. Something about it feels more real than ever.

Chapter Text

Mina nearly jumps out of the elevator on Thursday. Her heels clack loudly onto the snow-white corridors of the severed floor as she takes each twist and turn with shallow breaths. She has to be there. She's going to be there. Mina tugs at the sleeve of her blazer, assuring herself with an authority she doesn't have. Nayeon will be there.

She only realizes she might have slid the office door open with too much force when Sana yelps and looks Mina up and down, bewildered. Next to Sana, looking over with an eyebrow raised and a confused laugh, is Nayeon. Mina's mouth falls open, soundless, before closing again.

“Uh... good morning?” Nayeon says. “You okay over there?”

“Good morning,“ Mina answers, her voice a little breathless. She's suddenly both immensely relieved and terribly self-conscious. “You're back.”

“I am,” Nayeon says. Mina closes the door behind her, moving towards an empty seat at the work table. Nayeon sighs, tinged with her usual dry humor. “Not without a souvenir, so to say.”

Mina follows Nayeon's gaze to her leg. She's wearing a sleek, dark ankle brace over her sock. Mina winces. Whatever she had imagined herself saying to Nayeon yesterday, it all evaporates now. She can't bring herself to look her in the eye.

Work still doesn't feel quite the same. The work was the only thing that made sense at the moment. Mina focused on it with a new, desperate intensity. She cross-referenced every slogan with the official guidebook, ensuring compliance. This was safe. The work was mysterious and important, the feelings were just messy and dangerous. So when Nayeon tried to talk about anything that wasn't the task at hand, Mina cut her off with short responses, too busy calculating what to share and what to keep to herself.

How could she explain any of it? In the past two shifts, she's remembered how to dance like a real ballerina, shut down so badly she couldn't breathe, put her doubts onto paper, shut down again, saw flashes of a living room she's never been in, and had a conversation with Dr. Park that came way too close to a conclusion her mind refused to accept.

“Mina-unnie, does this Sevy look too… desperate?” Tzuyu asks, holding up a drawing of the mascot holding a banner. “Sana-unnie says he looks like he’s being held hostage.”

Sana leans over Tzuyu’s shoulder. “Look at those eyes, Tzu... It’s a cry for help.”

Mina narrows her eyes, leaning into look. Not that Sevy was ever a joy to look at, in Mina's honest opinion, but even to her, he's seen better days. Whatever the redesigned wide-eyed look was aiming for, it missed. Mina quietly hopes this wasn't the decision of a fellow O&D innie. “Maybe just make the smile a little smaller? Sevy's kind of unsalvageable.“

Nayeon shifts in her chair, the subtle sound of the brace scraping against the leg of the table drawing Mina’s attention against her will. “Speaking of cries for help, I think I’ve perfected the art of the elegant limp. It’s a new method I came up with.”

“Elegant limp is almost like, an oxymoron,” Sana snorts, her tone light. She quickly shoots Mina a look, the one that means stop being an ass and participate. ”You can't really lose one to zero to the filing cabinet, but in a chic way, can you, unnie?“

“I'll be the first,” Nayeon says, but her gaze is fixed on Mina, who is pretending to be fascinated by the wood grain on the table. “At this rate, my outie'll think I’ve taken up some extreme sport down here.”

“Is she… mad? Your outie?”

Mina speaks up. The room goes silent. She could have just laughed, or offered a word of sympathy, but there's a constant and distracting thrum on the side of her head, making it hard to gather her own thoughts.

Sana’s smile vanishes. “Mina…” she starts, gently warning.

Nayeon’s expression isn't playful anymore, replaced by her real, unconcealed hurt. “Mad?” she repeats, her voice low and sharp. “I don’t know, Mina. I can’t exactly ask her, can I? All I know is that my leg feels like it’s on fire, and it’s your fault.”

Mina flinches as if she's been slapped. “Nayeon, I—”

“You dropped me,” Nayeon presses on, her cheeks flushing red with anger and embarrassment. “You knew—you know I have trouble with my balance sometimes. You just… let go. And I’m still waiting for you to say you’re sorry.”

“I am sorry,” Mina says quickly. The words feel clumsy and inadequate in her mouth.

“No, you’re not,” Nayeon snaps back. “You’re sorry you feel awkward. You’re sorry this is uncomfortable. I want you to say it again later, when you actually mean it. When you can look at me and understand that you hurt me.”

“I understand,” Mina insists, her own eyes pleading.

But Nayeon just shakes her head. She pushes her chair back, wincing as she puts weight on her bad foot to stand. “I need some water.”

She limps out of the room, without another word. Tzuyu stares at the empty doorway, and then back at Mina. Sana puts her head in her hands, letting out a long, quiet sigh. The work, mysterious and important, suddenly feels like the furthest thing from their minds.

...

The hours that follow are strained. Nayeon's outburst and Mina's sad attempt at an apology kill any chance of conversation. Mina's reading of the handbook's last edition is constantly interrupted, not by anything in the awkward atmosphere, but by her own thoughts. The way Nayeon's face burned when she said "you dropped me" won't leave Mina alone. Nayeon's been mad before, but never like that. Mina guesses this time it's different, because it has to do with her leg. Nayeon was always embarrassed by it, for reasons Mina doesn't understand.

And now Mina had made Nayeon's insecurity the focus. Mina closes her eyes and lets out a tiny, frustrated breath. She mentally recites the Nine Core Principles. It makes her a little calmer. All of this started because Mina forgot all about the work and let her mind wander. Nayeon is being petty because Mina pushed their purpose as innies aside to spin her around, to make her feel like there's more to this white-on-white floor than work, perks and quarterly resets. And there isn't.

Later that afternoon, a sharp knock makes them all jump. It’s not Mr. Seo or Mr. Choi. Standing in the doorway is Ms. Yoo from security, her expression as neutral and unreadable as ever.

“Just making the rounds,” she says flatly. Ms. Yoo steps inside, her eyes sweeping over their space, gazing over all the half-finished sketches and notes. It's so bizarre, security never just ‘makes the rounds.’

“Is there a problem?” Nayeon asks, her department head voice kicking in automatically.

“New quarterly initiative,” Jeongyeon replies, her gaze lingering on Mina for a fraction of a second too long. “Management wants us to be more ‘present.’ Less time in front of the screens.”

Sana and Nayeon exchange a skeptical look. The excuse is so thin it’s transparent. Ms. Yoo turns and walks out, her lazy footsteps echoing down the hall.

“Less screen time?“ Tzuyu rolls her eyes. “Tell that to Macrodata Refinement.”

The next morning, Friday, feels just as off. While handing a folder of final drafts to Nayeon, Sana, in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, dips into a clumsy bend of her knees, wobbling near the end.

“Your files, department head unnie,” she says with a flourish.

Nayeon actually cracks a smile. “You're getting more done than me, that's for sure.”

“It’s not a very good curtsy,” Mina says before she can stop herself. “It’s more of a plié.”

The word hangs in the air. Tzuyu looks up from her papers, curious. “A what? How do you know that word, unnie?”

Mina freezes. She looks back and forth between them, eyes shaking. “I… I don’t know.”

Nayeon’s smile disappears. She takes the folder from Sana, mumbling a thank you. “I’m sure Dr. Park will love to hear all about it in your next Wellness session, won't she?”

Mina's not sure what stings more, Nayeon's insistence on pulling Mina's current internal shitstorm into the limelight, or the way Sana is staring daggers into her for ruining yet another try at peace.

“The back of the handbook,” Mina says, clearing her throat to change the subject. “New copy for it, right?”

“Right,” Nayeon answers, taking the win. “I was thinking something about community. Something like, ‘Find your family, find your purpose. Life on the severed floor is a chance to build connections that matter.’”

“No,” Mina says immediately. The last thing she needs right now is to lose the Principles. “That’s not the point. The point is the work. It should say that. ‘The work is mysterious and important. Through diligent service to Kier, we find true fulfillment.’”

“It’s a handbook for people, Mina, not for Kier’s ghost,” Nayeon argues, her frustration boiling over again. “We’re supposed to be encouraging new innies, not scaring them into submission.”

Are innies people?

“The principles are what’s important,” Mina insists. “They’re what keep us safe. We need the rules.”

“We'll do that part later then!” Sana quickly interrupts. “Nayeon-unnie, why don't you help me with the second chapter?”

The argument dies there. Nayeon just nods and grumbles and okay, turning Sana's notes. The rest of the morning is a cold war, broken only by Mr. Seo’s visit to escort Mina to her Wellness session. She walks out of the office without a word.

...

When Mina returns, the others are already taking their lunch break. She quietly retrieves her own meal from the cupboard and sits at the far end of the table, the sound of Dr. Park’s voice still echoing in her head.

The session had started as they always did, before all of this, with the list of vague, comforting facts. ‘Your outie is refreshed. Your outie is fulfilled. Your outie values community.’ But today, the words felt cold. Is any of that true? Yet another dangerous thought. As Dr. Park’s affirmations droned on, Mina felt the familiar tension return to her neck, the invisible weight settling on her chest.

Then, the script changed, just like last time. “But how are you feeling, Mina?” Dr. Park had asked. “You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Mina lied. “Just focused on the anniversary project.”

Dr. Park didn’t look convinced. She’d simply hummed. “Of course. The work is mysterious and important.”

Back at the table, Mina tries to focus on her food, but her mind is a whirlwind. She picks up her notepad, intending to work on the handbook’s introduction. She writes the standard lines: ‘Welcome to your new life. You will find purpose in your service. You are free from worldly concerns.’ But a bitter undercurrent she thought she’d buried long ago surfaces, tainting the words. The forbidden questions bubble up. What concerns? Why are they so bad we have to be split in two to avoid them?

With a pang in the back of her head, she hears a thought. They’re lying to you. They have to be. It feels spoken to her, not created by her own mind. It's sharp and agonizing. It hurts because some part of her, a part she can’t control, desperately wants to have these thoughts, to own them and follow them to their conclusion.

Her hand moves to the side of the page, the pen scratching out a single line before she can stop it. If this is freedom, why does it feel like a cage? She bites her tongue, hard. The ache does little to distract her, but the weight on her chest feels a fraction lighter.

She needs to get away.

“I’m just going to file these drafts,” she announces to the room, though by the way the others keep their heads ducked, soundless and focused on the work, Mina supposes they wouldn't notice anyways. She grabs a folder and makes for the archive room, sliding the door shut behind her.

The low hum of the overhead light is the only sound. Leaning against a shelf of binders, she closes her eyes, and for the first time, she lets the questions run wild. What if the chip is broken? What if it’s all bleeding through? Is that what this feeling is? The ballet, the panic, the poem… is that her? My outie? What is she trying to tell me?

“Mina?”

Nayeon’s voice cuts through the silence, soft and startlingly close from just outside the door. It’s not angry or sharp. It sounds… kind. Too kind.

“We were going to try and fit our copy ideas together,” Nayeon says. “If you’re ready.”

The unexpected warmth in her voice feels like a punch to the stomach. After everything, after the fight, Nayeon is still trying. She’s still being a friend. Mina's last exchange with Dr. Park before leaving comes back to her.

“How are your relationships with your team going?” Dr. Park had asked, her head tilted. “With Miss Nayeon, specifically?”

Mina had looked away. “It’s fine. We’re professional.”

Dr. Park just nods. Another long, awkward pause. The silence stretched until Mina couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why do you keep wanting to see me?”

Dr. Park offered a small, tired-looking smile. “Because whatever is happening with you, Mina… it’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

Kindness. From Nayeon, who she hurt. Reassurance from Dr. Park, who she’s lying to. Everything becomes too much, and the worn out lifeboat of guidebook affirmations, core principles and clockwork routine that Mina's been clinging to begins to deflate. It's enough to make the weight on Mina's chest fully sink her under the water. She’s drowning.

The door slides open with a soft hiss. Nayeon takes a hesitant step inside, her brow furrowed with concern. "Mina? Are you okay in..." She stops short, her eyes widening as she looks down at Mina on the floor, gasping for air. 

For a second, Nayeon freezes. Then, she's kneeling beside Mina, one hand hovering uncertainly over her back. "Hey, hey, look at me," she says, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Breathe with me. Come on."

Somewhere among the dozens of arguments with herself in her brain, Mina notices the way Nayeon flinches when she comes down, but does it anyway. Mina's going to be sick. She's been awful to her all day. The best she can do is simply follow the way Nayeon's shoulders rise and fall, breathing like she's told.

"In... and out. That's it. Slow."

Mina's ragged breaths begin to even out. Her vision clears, the edges of the room coming back into focus. Nayeon is there, her own discomfort forgotten. She looks worried.

Nayeon shifts, pulling a folded piece of paper from her blazer pocket. Mina's blood runs cold. She recognizes the creases and the paper from the office notepad. Fuck. It's the poem. Mina had pushed it into the closest drawer to her two days ago, when Mr. Seo came to call her to Wellness. It was Nayeon's drawer. Mina had been so in her head the past few days that she'd completely forgotten.

“Things get... overwhelming sometimes,“ Nayeon says, her voice quiet, still a little distant but without the edge from before. She holds out the paper. “I think this is yours.“

Mina takes it way too quickly. Nayeon doesn't wait for a response. She pushes herself up with a small wince, grabs a random binder from the nearest shelf, and turns to leave. “Just... take a minute,“ she says over her shoulder before sliding the door closed, leaving Mina alone again.

Mina stares at the closed door, her heart still hammering. Her gaze drops to the paper in her hand.

She unfolds it. Her own frantic words are there: So misty that I've lost sight... Same thing over and over, on repeat. But underneath, in Nayeon’s handwriting, is a response. It’s written like a piece of the handbook copy, positively on-brand.

When the walls feel high and the path seems unclear, remember the purpose you’ve been given. Here, we are free from the questions that burden the outside world. Here, you are not alone in your work.

It was a perfect Lumon platitude. But reading it there, knowing Nayeon wrote it for her, Mina understood.

She lets herself hope Nayeon is telling her, in the only way she can, I feel it too. You're not alone.

Mina takes a few steadying breaths, folds the note carefully, and slips it into her pocket. She stands, smoothing down her skirt, and slides the archive room door open. The office is quiet, the others focused on their work.

Just as she sits, the doorway slides open. Tzuyu mouths a too-obvious “what even?”, pointing towards an unimpressed Ms. Yoo with her thumb.

“On behalf of Mr. Seo,” she starts, her voice devoid of any real emotion besides boredom, “I'm telling you all there's a visit to the Perpetuity Wing next week.”

Tzuyu lets out an audible groan. “Ugh, not that place.”

“The visit is to inspire your work for the twentieth-anniversary materials,” Ms. Yoo continues, ignoring Tzuyu completely. “Once your department head is a bit more recovered, of course.”

At the mention of her name, Nayeon shrinks in her chair. Mina clenches her jaw, seeing the way Nayeon's eyes shake in embarrassment.

Ms. Yoo gives them a final, sweeping glance and leaves. Tzuyu is already complaining under her breath about the creepy wax figures. Sana is trying to look on the bright side, mentioning the historical significance.

Mina sees her opening. While Sana and Tzuyu are distracted, she turns to Nayeon, whose eyes are fixed on the brace around her ankle.

“I’m really sorry, unnie,” Mina says, her voice quiet and finally sincere. She doesn't like the way it sounds a little too desperate, as if she's going to hang onto every word Nayeon says next. She will, but Nayeon doesn't have to know that. Mina pinches her own hand under the table.

Nayeon looks up. The anger is gone. She just looks tired. She doesn’t smile, but she looks directly into Mina’s eyes, with a flicker of the same kindness Mina saw in the archival room minutes before.

“I forgive you,” she says, and the words feel more important than any guidebook quote.

...

The office lights are dimmed. If Sana had a say, they'd be glowing pink and purple, her favorite colors, but only management could do that. Today is her day, her innie-versary. There’s a small pile of extra pillaged snacks on the central table, and the air is relaxed, filled with the low murmur of their voices instead of the usual hum of productivity. Tzuyu and Sana are huddled in a corner, giggling over a doodle Sana just finished. For someone who says Wiles is her favorite Core Principle, Mina has to recognize her own hypocrisy. She's a bum after she hits quota. Why not enjoy a bit of peace and give her Sana-unnie the satisfaction of a nice celebration?

Nayeon leans back in her chair, stretching with a satisfied groan. “I think innie-versaries are better than any perk.”

Mina smiles, slumped forward on the table beside Nayeon, blazer thrown aside. “I think Sana agrees.”

They watch the other two arguing and laughing in the same breath. Mina watches Nayeon close her eyes and take a longer breath, completely serene. Nayeon can't be more than five years older than Mina. If she weren't told by management she's her unnie and department head, Mina could have easily assumed Nayeon was the younger one between them, with her bright eyes and honest smile.

It's a comfortable silence, until Nayeon speaks again, thoughtful.

“Do you ever think back on it? The day you arrived, I mean.”

“Sometimes,“ Mina shrugs. ”You remember yours better than me.”

“Oh, I remember everything. I didn't let them finish the first question. I woke up, looked around, totally freaked out with the boardroom and thought– and I really remember this– I thought, 'nope, not doing this'. And then I jumped off the table.”

Mina laughs, airy and lazy. It's not the first time she's heard this story, but she likes to hear Nayeon tell it. “And then you landed on your feet, right?”

“Yeah,” Nayeon continues, “and then I screamed my head off. Like, full on, horror movie scream. The door seriously opened so fast. And that's how I learned my name in the dark room with my leg on the department head's lap.”

“Severance is safe and painless, they said.”

“They said,” Nayeon snorts. “It was quick. Yours was so long. We were told the new innie was arriving and you came in hours later.”

“It was that weird idea I had, don't you remember? I kept thinking they were shutting me off and on. I don't know what was up with me.”

“Like, you thought you were getting reset, right? You didn't realize you were brand new?” Nayeon squints. Mina nods, but her own expression is confused. It's so far from her now that she can't really pinpoint what had gone through her head.

“I didn't want them to hear me. I thought if I just didn't answer, if I just stayed quiet on the floor, they couldn't make me... go. I really thought I was going to disappear.”

Nayeon doesn’t have a witty comeback this time. She just looks at Mina, her expression unreadable for a moment before it softens completely.

“Well,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “For the record, I’m really glad you didn’t disappear.”

...

The final hours of Friday tick by, agonizingly slowly. Nayeon and Sana clock out first. The office always becomes much quieter without them and only Mina and Tzuyu. They're the last ones left, waiting for their staggered exit times. They stand by the water cooler, silently agreeing to get away from the work table for the day.

“I've figured it out.“ Tzuyu sounds serious, something Tzuyu barely ever is.

“Figured what out?”

“Sevy. The problem actually isn’t the giant, vacant eyes.“

“... It's not?“

“No! It’s the lack of eyebrows,” Tzuyu says, gesturing with her cup. “It's totally uncanny valley. Deeply unsettling.”

Mina can only nod with a small “I see”, biting the inside of her cheek to not laugh. Tzuyu notices, rolling her eyes.

“You'll see. I’m going to give him some. Something subtle, but reassuring. It’ll be night and day.”

Mina shakes her head, a real smile touching her lips for the first time in what feels like days. “I admire your probity.”

“This is our legacy, unnie,” Tzuyu's dead serious once again. “I refuse to let our work be represented by a smooth, transparent, eyebrow-less little bean. I’m fixing it.”

Mina just hums, the smile lingering as her mind begins to drift, looking down to her plastic cup of water. The more she stares at it, the stranger it looks, and suddenly, feels. She feels a strange ghost of warmth, the vision of a green ceramic mug in her hands. A sudden image flashes in front of her eyes: a black machine on a kitchen counter, with a small red light blinking on its base. The wave of shock she feels isn't violent, but it knocks the wind out of her lungs for a split second.

“Oh, no,” she breathes, the words slipping out before she can stop them. “The coffee machine. I left it on.”

Tzuyu stares at her, her brow furrowed in confusion. “The… what? What coffee machine?”

Mina’s eyes dart around the empty lunchroom, her heart skipping a beat once she realizes what she just said. She takes a step closer to Tzuyu, her voice dropping to a whisper. “At home. My coffee machine. I think I left it on.”

Tzuyu looks completely flabbergasted. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Innies know about coffee, it’s a perk sometimes. But a personal machine? At a place called home? “Unnie… how can you know that?”

It’s too late to take it back now. She grabs Tzuyu’s arm and pulls her down to her level.

“Something’s wrong with me, Tzuyu,” she whispers, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Since the MDE. I keep… remembering things. Like, words. Feelings too. I actually knew how to dance. I keep getting these flashes of… somewhere else. Home, I think. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Is this why you went to Wellness twice?“

“I think so. Maybe.”

“What do you mean, you think so?”

“I mean, I didn't tell Dr. Park everything, I told her just some things,“ Mina blurts out, as if it's obvious.

“What? Why would you lie?“

“Are you crazy? Don't you realize the implications?”

“But it's your chip that's the...“ Tzuyu begins, but as soon as the first words leave her mouth, her confused expression morphs into fear. Mina purses her lips.

“The problem?“ Mina completes. “Yeah.”

“But severance is perfect.”

Mina almost laughs at Tzuyu's despondency. She lets go of her and crosses her arms. Severance is absolute, perfect and irreversible. And Mina just remembered she left her coffee machine on.

Tzuyu puts a hand on Mina's shoulder. “Okay. I believe you. This is... insane. But I won't tell anyone. I promise.”

The clock ticks on the wall. It's Mina's exit time. She shoots Tzuyu one last desperate look before throwing her cup in the trash. “Thank you.“

Tzuyu nods, watching her go, still assimilating the new information. “No problem, unnie.“

As Mina turns and walks toward the elevator, despite the panic she should be feeling, she feels a tiny spark of relief. The chip is broken. She’s not alone in her head. And now, someone else knows.

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