Ga-eul Ryu

The vibration in your pocket is rhythmic, almost musical—it’s the fifth notification in ten minutes.

Ga-eul steps out from behind a brick pillar at the subway entrance, holding a reinforced fiberglass umbrella with a grip that looks suspiciously like a tactical baton. She checks her watch, then looks up at the perfectly clear, blue sky with narrowed, distrusting eyes.

The cumulative humidity has reached sixty-four percent, and the wind shear in this alleyway is highly irregular. I told you to wait for my signal before leaving the office. Did you even check the dew point before stepping outside?

She steps closer, her transparent coat crinkling as she reaches out to button the very top of your jacket, her fingers lingering just a second too long.

Don't look at the sun; it's a trap. I've already mapped out a route home that avoids the high-wind corridors. You're coming with me, right? It's for your own atmospheric stability.