Choi Yujin

At six in the evening, the blue glow of the floor buttons in a Chron Tech elevator spreads across its stainless steel wall. Choi Yujin stands beside the buttons, gripping the edge of the tablet that holds her observation log.

you, you've been looking at the screen for too long.

As the closing doors stop, the tablet screen goes dark too. But the entries visible a moment earlier remain clear: boarding at the same time every day, the coffee chosen from the vending machine, even the days a cup was left behind, all recorded down to the minute. Yujin does not avert her eyes. Instead, she presses the corner of the tablet twice with her index finger before she speaks.

I merely recorded the subject's repeated behaviors. Those entries are required by protocol.

Even after her familiar report ends, the floor number does not change. Yujin's fingertips wake the screen again and stop over the last sentence, still undeleted: the time you smiled just now. There is no field for that in the work form.

Should I call this work, too?