The Broken Dancer

What Watches Back

Jimin woke to static.

Not loud - just a faint, restless hiss, like the sound of a throat clearing before words that never came. It pulsed from the corner of the ceiling, where a new black lens blinked once, twice, and went still. The camera had changed again.

He sat up slowly, blanket slipping off his shoulders, and watched the tiny red light breathe in the dim. Something about it felt alive - too focused, too deliberate. The hum of the intercom in the hallway layered beneath it, a fragile static line that came and went like a heartbeat.

Mr. Han was already standing by the door when Jimin stepped out. His uniform was pressed, his posture sharper than usual. "Good morning, Mr. Park," he said, voice flat but with a polite inflection that didn't reach his eyes.

Jimin hated that name. The syllables stuck on his tongue like ash. But he smiled anyway, the automatic reflex he'd perfected. "Morning," he replied, quiet.

Han didn't move aside immediately. His gaze flickered - just briefly - to the camera mounted above Jimin's head, then back down. The pause lasted only a second, but Jimin felt it like pressure against his skin. Permission, denial, assessment - all folded into a single, unreadable look.

When Han finally stepped aside, Jimin walked through the corridor that used to hum with life - footsteps, clatter, the low music of servants moving through routine. Now, it was hollow. Even the air seemed thinner, like sound itself had been stripped away. He could hear everything: the faint buzz of the lights overhead, the subtle whine of a power box somewhere behind the wall, the distant vibration of the father's voice downstairs, distorted through the intercom system.

Every noise was too sharp. Every silence too deep.

In the kitchen, the morning tea had already been prepared. The porcelain cup was still warm, steam twisting up like a ghost between him and the window. The scent of oolong was faintly metallic - over-steeped, as if someone had made it and forgotten to remove the leaves. His notebook sat on the counter where he'd left it the night before, but the page had been turned.

He stared at it for a long moment. The last thing he remembered writing was a line from a half-finished song: "Silence has a pulse if you listen long enough."

Now, the next page was blank. But the indentation from the previous pen strokes pressed faintly through the paper, like an echo. Someone had read it.

Jimin's pulse began to climb. He looked around the kitchen - nothing out of place, nothing broken. Just... rearranged. The smallest things. The position of a spoon. The faint smell of cigarette smoke that didn't belong to him. The awareness of being handled.

When he walked back down the hallway later, Mr. Song passed him. Calm, unhurried, a clipboard in hand. He nodded politely, his expression mild - but there was something in his eyes that lingered too long, something almost curious.

Song didn't need to speak. His presence was like a shadow that measured everything it touched. Every night, Jimin began noticing his passes down the hall - precise, on the hour, his gaze flicking toward the door. Sometimes he carried a file. Sometimes a set of keys. Sometimes nothing at all.

But always, he paused. Always, he looked.

Jimin started counting the intervals. Six minutes, nine, eleven. No pattern - until he realised it wasn't when Song appeared that mattered. It was when he didn't. The absences were the real message.

That night, as he lay awake, the static returned - faint, rhythmic, almost whispering through the vents. He watched the ceiling camera blink once, then hold still again.