Park Sung-Jin had been the Director's secretary for eleven years.
In that time he had handled things.
Many things.
Things that required forms that didn't exist yet and had to be created specifically for the situation. Things that required calls to government departments that technically had jurisdiction over the situation but had never encountered the situation and required extensive explanation before they could do anything about the situation. Things that required structural engineers and three cleaning crews and a non-disclosure agreement that seventeen people had signed and which Park Sung-Jin himself had drafted at two AM on a Tuesday.
He was a competent man.
A thorough man.
A man who had developed, over eleven years of handling things, a comprehensive internal system for assessing new situations quickly and determining the appropriate professional response.
He stood outside the basement apartment in Mapo-gu at five fifteen PM on Thursday evening.
He looked at the door.
The door was clean. Noticeably clean. The kind of clean that suggested the person on the other side of it had opinions about doors and acted on those opinions regularly.
He had a folder. He had a collection form for the expense records. He had a receipt book from the finance department. He had been told by the Director to collect the notebooks, confirm the expense totals, and obtain signatures on three forms.
Simple. Straightforward. In and out.
He knocked.
The door opened.
Han-Ho was in his indoor clothes. Behind him the apartment was small and clean and smelled like industrial cleaner and dinner and something that Park Sung-Jin's professional experience told him was probably instant noodles.
"You're Park Sung-Jin," said Han-Ho.
"Yes sir."
"The Director said five."
"I'm fifteen minutes late. There was traffic on Mapo-daero. I apologize."
"It's fine. Come in. Shoes."
Park Sung-Jin took his shoes off.
He stepped inside.
Looked at the apartment.
It was, as described in the Registry file, a studio. Small. One couch. One low table. One kitchen area. One laptop on the table currently loading something with the patience of a machine that has accepted its limitations.
On the couch: Jang Min-Seo, S-Rank Hunter, Re-Awakened twice, forty million views, in casual clothes eating instant noodles from a bowl and watching the laptop with the domestic comfort of someone who lived here.
On the left corner of the couch: a small black creature with red eyes that Park Sung-Jin recognized from the Wednesday briefing as the former Demon King.
On the right corner of the couch: a small dark creature with different red eyes that Park Sung-Jin recognized as the former Frost Giant.
On the counter next to the kettle: something very small with large eyes that Park Sung-Jin did not recognize and had not been briefed on.
Park Sung-Jin's internal assessment system processed all of this.
Filed it.
Moved on.
"Mr. Kang," he said. "I have the expense collection forms and the receipt confirmation from finance. If I could get the records and the notebook copies—"
"Sit down," said Han-Ho. "I'll get them."
Park Sung-Jin sat at the low table.
Min-Seo looked at him.
"Sung-Jin," said Min-Seo.
"Hunter Jang," said Park Sung-Jin.
"You look like you've already assessed the situation and filed it."
"I've developed a system."
"Does the system cover this apartment."
Park Sung-Jin looked at the apartment.
Looked at Moru.
Looked at Kjor.
Looked at the thing by the kettle.
"The system is adaptive," said Park Sung-Jin.
Min-Seo nodded with the respect of one professional acknowledging another's coping mechanism.
Han-Ho came back from the corner of the apartment where a small organized stack of notebooks was kept next to a larger organized stack of route logs and a binder of filed report copies that was substantially thicker than anything Park Sung-Jin had expected.
He put eight notebooks on the table.
Then the binder.
Then a separate folder that appeared to contain expense receipts organized by date and category and annotated in the same precise handwriting as the notebooks.
Park Sung-Jin looked at this.
He had been sent to collect records.
He had expected a notebook and maybe some receipts.
He had not expected what appeared to be a comprehensively organized decade of documentation that put the Registry's own filing system to shame.
"This is," said Park Sung-Jin.
"The expense receipts are sorted by year and then by solution type," said Han-Ho. "The industrial grade costs are highlighted in yellow. The standard solution costs are in blue. There's a summary sheet at the front with annual totals."
Park Sung-Jin looked at the summary sheet.
Looked at the annual totals.
Looked at the highlighted yellow entries.
Looked at Han-Ho.
"Mr. Kang," he said.
"Yes."
"You have been paying for industrial grade solution out of your personal salary."
"Yes."
"For four years."
"Four years and three months based on the first yellow entry."
"The total here is—" Park Sung-Jin looked at the summary sheet. "This is a significant amount of money."
"I know."
"On an F-Rank Mana-Janitor salary."
"I'm aware of what my salary is."
"Mr. Kang this is—" Park Sung-Jin looked at the number again. Did the math in his head. Did it again because the first result seemed wrong. Got the same answer. "This is approximately twenty two percent of your annual salary. Per year. On solution costs alone."
"Yes," said Han-Ho.
"For four years."
"Four years and three months."
Park Sung-Jin put the summary sheet down.
Picked up his folder.
Put it down.
Picked up his receipt book.
Put it down.
Looked at the ceiling of the apartment which was low and clean and offered no comfort.
"I'm going to call the Director," said Park Sung-Jin.
"It's after five," said Han-Ho.
"I know."
"He said—"
"Mr. Kang I need to call the Director."
Han-Ho looked at him.
Park Sung-Jin was already on his phone.
It rang twice.
"Sung-Jin," said the Director.
"Sir. The expense totals. I have them."
"And?"
Park Sung-Jin looked at the summary sheet.
"Sir the total is—" He said the number.
A silence.
"Per year," said Park Sung-Jin.
Another silence. Longer.
"For four years and three months," said Park Sung-Jin.
The longest silence yet.
"Sir," said Park Sung-Jin.
"I'm here," said the Director. "I'm doing the math."
"I already did the math sir."
"I'm doing it again."
"I got the same answer twice sir."
"Give me a moment Sung-Jin."
Park Sung-Jin gave him a moment.
From the couch Moru watched this phone call with the bright interested expression of something that finds financial accountability proceedings genuinely compelling.
Kjor had stopped eating chips and was also watching.
River by the kettle was watching too.
Even the kettle seemed attentive.
"Sung-Jin," said the Director.
"Sir."
"The full reimbursement goes through by end of next week. Full amount. Four years and three months. Finance can classify it as an institutional error correction."
"Yes sir."
"And Sung-Jin."
"Sir."
"When you get back to the office. Tonight."
"Sir it's after five—"
"Tonight Sung-Jin. I need the full Mana-Janitor expense support review. Every registered Mana-Janitor. Every expense record. I want to know if this is isolated or systemic."
Park Sung-Jin looked at the summary sheet.
Looked at Han-Ho's eight notebooks.
Looked at the binder.
Looked at the decade of documentation organized with a precision that made the Registry's own systems look like a suggestion.
"Sir," said Park Sung-Jin. "Based on what I'm looking at I think systemic is the more likely answer."
A pause.
"Yes," said the Director. "I think so too." Another pause. "How is he."
"Mr. Kang?"
"Yes."
Park Sung-Jin looked at Han-Ho who was sitting cross legged on the floor across the table eating instant noodles that he had made at some point during the phone call with the calm unhurried patience of a man who has filed his records and answered his questions and is now eating dinner because it is dinner time and dinner time is dinner time regardless of institutional revelation.
"He's eating noodles sir," said Park Sung-Jin.
"Of course he is," said the Director.
Park Sung-Jin hung up.
The paperwork took forty minutes.
Han-Ho signed three forms. Provided his registration number on two of them. Confirmed the expense totals on the summary sheet. Initialed the receipt pages in the locations Park Sung-Jin indicated with small sticky tabs.
He did all of this with the focused efficiency of someone who has been doing paperwork consistently for ten years and has a system for it.
Park Sung-Jin watched this and felt the specific professional admiration of one organized person recognizing another organized person across the table.
"Mr. Kang," said Park Sung-Jin, during a brief pause between forms.
"Yes."
"The notebooks. The receipts. The binder." He gestured at the table. "You maintained all of this yourself. Over ten years."
"Yes."
"Without institutional support."
"The Registry has a filing system. I use the Registry's filing system for the reports. These are my personal copies."
"Why did you keep personal copies."
Han-Ho looked at him.
"Because the Registry's filing system has a response problem," said Han-Ho. "If I had only the Registry copies and the Registry copies weren't being reviewed then there would be no record of the pattern." He looked at the notebooks. "The personal copies are proof. Of the work. Of the reports. Of the response times." He paused. "Of the red entries."
Park Sung-Jin looked at the notebooks.
Looked at Han-Ho.
"You expected this to be necessary someday," said Park Sung-Jin.
"I expected to need to show it to someone eventually," said Han-Ho. "I filed forty three reports last year. I got seventeen responses. That's a forty percent response rate. The other sixty percent of those sites still needed cleaning. I cleaned them. Without support. Without reimbursement." He picked up his pen. "Someone would need to see the record eventually. I made sure the record existed."
Park Sung-Jin sat with this for a moment.
Eleven years as the Director's secretary. He had seen many things. He had handled many things. He had developed a comprehensive internal system for assessing situations and responding appropriately.
He had never met anyone who had quietly, patiently, persistently documented a decade of institutional failure with the calm certainty that eventually someone would look at it.
And had been right.
"The last form," said Han-Ho.
"Right," said Park Sung-Jin. "Yes."
He found the last form.
Han-Ho signed it.
Park Sung-Jin collected everything. Organized it in his folder with the practiced efficiency of a man who has been organizing things into folders for eleven years.
He stood up.
"Thank you Mr. Kang," he said.
"Thank you for coming," said Han-Ho.
Park Sung-Jin put his shoes on.
Paused at the door.
Looked at the apartment. The couch. The organized stack of notebooks and route logs and the binder that was going back to the Registry with him. The five occupants of a studio apartment in Mapo-gu that smelled like instant noodles and industrial cleaner and something that was beginning to feel, even to a man who had only been here for forty minutes, like a place where things made sense in a way that the outside world often didn't.
"Mr. Kang," said Park Sung-Jin.
"Yes."
"Can I ask you something personally."
"Okay."
"Were you ever going to say anything. If nobody had come to you. If the Director hadn't read the file. Were you going to keep filing reports and keeping notebooks and paying for solution out of pocket indefinitely."
Han-Ho thought about this.
"Probably," he said.
"Because the work needed doing."
"Yes."
"Even without recognition or support or reimbursement."
"The sites don't stop needing cleaning because the institution isn't functioning correctly," said Han-Ho. "That's not how residue works."
Park Sung-Jin looked at him.
"No," said Park Sung-Jin. "I suppose it isn't."
He opened the door.
"Goodnight Mr. Kang."
"Goodnight."
Park Sung-Jin left.
The door closed.
The apartment was quiet for a moment.
Min-Seo was looking at Han-Ho.
Moru was looking at Han-Ho.
Kjor was looking at Han-Ho.
River was looking at Han-Ho from the counter next to the kettle.
Han-Ho picked up his chopsticks.
Continued eating his noodles.
"What," he said.
"Nothing," said four voices simultaneously.
"You're all looking at me."
"We're not looking at you," said Min-Seo, looking directly at him.
"You are literally all looking at me right now."
"We are simply occupying the same space," said Moru, also looking directly at him.
"And happening to face the same direction," said Kjor, also looking directly at him.
"Toward you," said River, helpfully, also looking directly at him.
Han-Ho looked at all of them.
They looked back.
He ate his noodles.
"The noodles need more green onion," he said.
"I TOLD YOU," said Moru.
"The green onion situation is being managed."
"It has been unmanaged for a week Master—"
"I have a list."
"A LIST IS NOT A GREEN ONION—"
"The GS25 has green onions."
"Then BUY ONE—"
"I'll buy one tomorrow."
"You said that yesterday."
"And I mean it more today than I meant it yesterday."
Moru stared at him.
Han-Ho ate his noodles.
Min-Seo looked at the ceiling.
"I Re-Awakened twice," said Min-Seo, to the ceiling.
"We know," said the ceiling, or would have if ceilings spoke, which this one didn't but the sentiment was received by everyone in the room regardless.
At nine PM Park Sung-Jin was back in the Registry office.
He had the folder. He had the notebooks. He had the binder. He had started the Mana-Janitor expense support review that the Director had requested and had gotten three names in before pausing.
He opened the first notebook.
Read the first entry.
Read the second.
Read the third.
He read all eight notebooks.
It took until one AM.
At one AM he sat in the Registry office in the specific quiet of a building that had been empty since seven PM with the eight notebooks in front of him and the Mana-Janitor expense review open on his screen with three names and a fourth partially typed and the full weight of what he had just read sitting in the room with him.
He was a competent man. A thorough man. A man who had developed a comprehensive system for handling things.
He opened a new document.
Titled it: Preliminary Review: Mana-Janitor Support Infrastructure — Systemic Assessment.
Started typing.
He was there until three AM.
When he left he took the notebooks with him.
Not to the Registry archive.
To his car.
Because the Registry archive was where things went and sometimes weren't found for four years.
The notebooks were going back to Han-Ho on Friday morning.
With a copy made.
A copy that was going directly to the Director's desk.
A copy that was also going to the Deputy Director and the Head of Field Operations and the Chief of the Special Classifications Department and whoever else Park Sung-Jin could find an address for before eight AM on Friday.
Because if one F-Rank Mana-Janitor had eight notebooks full of red entries then the question was how many other F-Rank Mana-Janitors had notebooks they weren't keeping because nobody had ever told them keeping notebooks would matter.
And the answer to that question was something the Registry needed to know.
Park Sung-Jin drove home.
His internal assessment system had processed the evening.
Filed it.
Updated several long-standing assumptions about how the institution he had worked for for eleven years was actually functioning.
Added several items to tomorrow's agenda.
He was, he reflected, going to need more folders.