The moment I step away from the broken rig, the air changes.
Not because the hall gets louder. It actually gets quieter for a second. Quiet in the way a room goes still when people sense something they do not understand and are afraid to admit it.
The instructor walks fast without looking back, like speed can keep control in his hands. His shoulders are squared, his expression tight, and he keeps glancing toward the scout section as if he already knows what is about to happen.
We do not make it five meters.
A man in a dark suit steps away from the wall with a polite smile that does not reach his eyes. He moves with the calm confidence of someone who is used to being obeyed. A small guild pin catches the overhead light on his lapel.
"Excuse me," he says. His voice is smooth, almost friendly. "Instructor Park, correct?"
The instructor stops immediately.
"We're in the middle of a controlled assessment," he replies, flat.
"Of course." The man nods like he respects rules, then ignores them anyway. "I'll be brief. I just want to confirm the student's name."
His gaze settles on me.
It is not a normal look. It is not curiosity. It is evaluation.
I keep my expression neutral and my posture relaxed, as if the entire situation is boring. The easiest way to make a predator confident is to look scared. The easiest way to make them cautious is to look unbothered.
Above his head, the hidden layer flickers.
Potential Ceiling: A RankTrait: Negotiation Sense, activeRisk Factor: Moderate
Even scouts get curated.
The instructor clears his throat, louder than necessary.
"Kang Jaehyun," he says, the words edged like a warning.
The man's smile warms slightly, as if he just received good news.
"Jaehyun," he repeats. "My name is Han Seojin. White Moon Guild."
White Moon.
In my first life, they survived longer than most because they were pragmatic and ruthless when it mattered. They also burned through rookies fast, turning promise into disposable output.
Han Seojin extends his hand.
I take it, because refusing a handshake is a statement, and I do not make statements for free.
His grip is firm, practiced. His eyes do not blink too often.
"Congratulations," he says. "You created quite a scene."
"I broke a machine," I reply.
His smile sharpens at the corners.
"A machine doesn't whine like that unless it's reading something it shouldn't." He lowers his voice slightly. "Scouts don't step off walls unless something is valuable."
The instructor steps closer, tightening the space between us.
"Recruitment happens after processing," he says. "If you want to speak to him, submit a request through the Association."
Han Seojin nods, still polite.
"Absolutely. Then let me frame it as support. White Moon is willing to sponsor a reassessment. Proper equipment. A controlled facility. Medical oversight. We'll cover costs."
His eyes hold mine.
"And if the reassessment confirms what I suspect, we can offer you a provisional contract. Training access, stipend, placement."
There it is.
He says it like he is helping me, like he is offering rescue to a kid who just got labeled D Rank. That framing is part of the hook. If I accept it, I become grateful. If I become grateful, I become manageable.
I keep my face calm.
"I don't know enough yet," I say.
The scout studies me for a beat, recalibrating.
Most rookies jump at the word contract like it is oxygen. Refusal forces him to treat me like something else, and he does not like uncertainty.
"Fair," he says after a moment. "Then don't sign today. Just meet. Let us explain options. You'll be reassessed anyway after what happened."
The instructor's jaw tightens.
"He will be reassessed under Association authority," he says. "Not under guild influence."
Han Seojin does not argue. He simply turns his head slightly toward the instructor, calm as always.
"Then you and I both know multiple guilds will request access. Better to have a structured process than a feeding frenzy."
He looks back at me.
"Jaehyun, you can refuse White Moon. That's your right. You won't refuse attention. Choose where it comes from."
His words are soft, but they land.
Then he steps back and returns toward the wall as if he never moved. He does not rush. He does not show frustration. He acts like he already owns a future conversation with me.
The instructor exhales hard through his nose.
"Come," he says.
He leads me through the side door.
The hallway beyond is quieter, narrower, lined with office doors and storage rooms. The lighting feels harsher without the crowd to absorb it. The instructor walks faster, and I match pace without hurrying.
"You understand why this is serious," he says without looking at me.
"Yes."
"The rig displayed an unauthorized measurement alert." His voice lowers. "That interface is not supposed to appear on public equipment."
So he saw it.
He opens a small office door and gestures me inside. A desk, two chairs, a wall monitor, and the old smell of coffee soaked into paint.
"Sit."
I sit.
He stays standing, taps at a tablet for several seconds, and then looks at me like I am a problem he did not plan for.
"Any prior exposure to mana stimulants," he asks, "illegal catalysts, relic fragments, black market procedures?"
"No."
"Family background," he continues.
"None."
His gaze stays on my face, searching for nervousness, for the twitch that proves guilt. He does not find it. That annoys him more than if he did.
He turns the tablet so I can see part of the screen. Logs. Timestamps. A note about the stall during evaluation, then the secondary rig alert, then the rig failure.
He pulls it back before I can read too much.
"There will be a formal reassessment," he says. "Not here. At a controlled facility. Medical team present."
"When," I ask.
"Tomorrow morning," he replies. "Association Substation Three. You will be escorted."
I nod once.
Inside, the timing clicks into place with a memory I do not like.
Tonight, an E Rank gate opens in the western district. In my first life it was labeled harmless, a training gate. The Association treated it like routine. People went in with rookie confidence and came out in bags.
It was the first anomaly.
The first crack.
And cracks are where authority points come from.
I keep my face still.
The instructor watches me for a moment, then speaks again.
"Until tomorrow, you are under observation. You do not leave this facility without approval. You do not speak to scouts without an Association representative present."
"Understood," I say.
He taps something on his tablet, then pauses.
The silence stretches just long enough to feel like a decision.
Then his eyes narrow.
"You," he says slowly, "are not reacting like a D Rank."
I meet his gaze evenly.
"I don't know what a D Rank is supposed to look like," I answer.
He does not like that.
He sets the tablet down with a controlled motion.
"I'm assigning security to you until morning," he says.
I nod again, calm and cooperative.
My overlay flickers at the edge of my vision, like a heartbeat I cannot stop hearing.
Detection Risk: 15%
The number rises slowly, not spiking, not dropping. It feels less like an alarm and more like a countdown.
The instructor does not see it.
But I do.
And behind my eyes, that cold pressure tightens slightly, as if something unseen is adjusting its focus.
A warning line flickers into existence, faint and clean.
System Attention Increasing
The instructor is still talking, but I barely hear him.
Because the System is not just watching anymore.
It is paying attention.