Doyun fell for the third time on his way to work. It hadn't rained, the pavement wasn't uneven, and there was no visible reason for him to lose his balance.
He stayed seated for a moment, letting confusion arrive before the pain. The feeling was familiar, unpleasantly so, like recognizing a mistake without knowing where it began.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly to the passerby, even though he was the one who had fallen. The other person glanced at him briefly and continued walking without a word.
Doyun lowered his gaze to his wristwatch. The second hand was frozen at twelve, unmoving and indifferent.
The watch was broken, and it had been for a long time. No matter how many times he fixed it or replaced the battery, it always stopped at the same point.
Eventually, he stopped trying to repair it altogether. A stopped moment felt more accurate to him than a moving one, especially when movement led nowhere.
Doyun worked as an insurance investigator. It was a job that sounded more active than it actually was.
He was not someone who prevented accidents, but someone who organized numbers and records after they happened. His department was called Special Loss Analysis, a name that implied importance without granting authority.
The work itself was simple, repetitive, and deliberately narrow in scope.
When an accident occurred, it was categorized and processed. Minor, moderate, or severe, each label came with a predefined response.
Frequency, cost, and recurrence were measured with careful precision. No one asked why an accident felt inevitable once it began to repeat.
That morning, Doyun arrived at the office with dust still clinging faintly to his sleeve. No one noticed, and no one asked about it.
People rarely did.
His presence was like the numbers he handled every day, necessary to the system but never urgent.
His supervisor placed a file on his desk without ceremony. "Another cluster," he said, already turning away.
Doyun opened the file and scanned it slowly. An underground parking garage. Sixteen minor accidents, two serious injuries, and one fatality.
The dates were different. The people involved were different. The reported causes varied.
Only the location repeated.
"It's just bad luck," the supervisor added casually. "High traffic. People rush."
Doyun nodded and wrote the words down exactly as spoken. High traffic and rushed movement explained nothing, yet satisfied every report requirement.
The parking garage was quiet when Doyun arrived later that day. Cars moved slowly through the lanes, and footsteps echoed softly against concrete walls.
Nothing about the space appeared dangerous at first glance. The lighting was adequate, the floor was dry, and the signs were clear and properly placed.
Still, he stopped at the entrance without consciously deciding to do so. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up.
There was a spot between two pillars where people naturally passed. Not because it was marked or guided, but simply because it was the shortest route.
Doyun felt his gaze drawn there again and again. Nothing was visible at first.
Then the space seemed thinner, as if something intangible had been repeatedly pressed into it. It was not air or shadow, but the residue of repeated choice.
A car suddenly braked nearby, tires screeching against the concrete floor. Someone cursed loudly, and a minor collision followed without injuries.
People gathered briefly, exchanged words, and then dispersed as if nothing had happened.
Afterward, the space between the pillars felt heavier than before, though nothing visible had changed.
Doyun did not write that sensation down. There was no place for it in the report, and he knew better than to try.
At the management office, he chose his words with deliberate care. "Accidents seem to recur along this path," he said. "It may be worth monitoring."
The manager nodded absently. "People walk there because it's fast."
Outside the garage, a homeless man sat near the entrance. He looked up briefly and spoke without emphasis.
"Accidents happen there. They always have."
There was no warning and no explanation, only a statement without responsibility. Doyun walked past him without responding.
On his way back, he reviewed the file again. The numbers were small, too small to trigger action.
That was always how it began.
The next site was a stairway in an apartment complex, and the pattern repeated. Normal conditions, repeated incidents, and no single cause worth addressing.
Standing on the sixth step, Doyun felt it again. A faint distortion, not visible enough to confirm and not absent enough to ignore.
Someone descended the stairs while checking their phone and slipped briefly, recovering balance without injury.
Still, the space darkened slightly in Doyun's perception.
He began to understand something he could not yet name.
The space itself was not dangerous. It became dangerous only when people moved through it in the same way, repeating the same shortcuts and habits for the same harmless reasons.
That evening, Doyun stood at a pedestrian crossing. When the signal changed, people moved forward without hesitation.
One man paused while another rushed, a car honked, and the moment passed.
Then another person stepped out, headphones in and eyes forward. This time there was impact, brief but unmistakable.
Doyun finally accepted it.
These were not isolated accidents, but accumulations.
Each choice was light on its own and easy to dismiss. Together, they became weight.
Late at night, Doyun sat alone in his apartment and removed his watch, placing it on the table. The second hand did not move.
For him, time always stopped just before something happened.
He did not believe in goblins or curses, but he understood why people named places.
Names made weight easier to carry.
Doyun lay down and closed his eyes. Tomorrow there would be another file, another location, and another explanation.
Somewhere among familiar choices and harmless reasons, a space would be waiting.
Not moving. Not acting. Simply existing.
Accidents did not chase people.
People walked toward them.
And some places were already there.