After the morning I was summoned into the professor’s office,
the air in the lab began to change.
I couldn’t explain why.
It wasn’t fear tied to any single event,
but something heavier—
an unease that layered itself day by day, seeping into my bones.
And it always began with the same words.
“Min-ah, come here for a moment.”
What followed was rarely work,
yet always disguised as work.
“Family helps with things like this.”
That day, the professor handed me a stack of unfamiliar documents.
Revised materials sent in by traditional medicine doctors.
“Finish all of this today. The doctors are coming tomorrow.”
“Me…? I have experiments scheduled—”
“Family helps family.
You write well. You’re the only one who can do this.”
Again—family.
In this lab, the word functioned like a master key.
To ask for help.
To shift responsibility.
To justify unreasonable demands.
His tone was gentle,
but it carried no space for refusal.
In the end, I postponed my experiments.
A senior took my place at the bench.
She forced a smile.
“It’s fine. You’re better at writing anyway.”
It wasn’t praise.
It was a declaration of role fixation.
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A few days later, the lab door opened.
A woman stepped in—
white jacket, heavy makeup, early forties.
“Hajung, you’re here?”
The professor rose eagerly.
She was his live-in partner.
Yoon Hajung scanned us slowly, then said,
“They all look so obedient.”
Her gaze lingered on my face as she added,
“You must be working very hard, Professor.”
It sounded like praise,
but her eyes treated us less like people
and more like burdens he carried.
She walked through the lab, offering unsolicited commentary.
“Dust is piling up here. The kids should clean this.”
“She’s a girl, right? She’d look neater if she tied her hair.”
“Who manages this workbench? This place should feel like a real family.”
The word family surfaced again—
the same word the professor used.
By then, it felt like a rope tightening around my throat.
The day after Hajung left,
a message appeared in the lab group chat.
[Lab Notice]
Mandatory MT next Friday–Saturday.
Location: Mountain lodge near Chuncheon
Important: This is a family event. Absence not permitted.
As I read it, Hajung’s gaze from the day before flashed in my mind.
A family event.
I still didn’t understand how heavy that phrase could be.
A message came from Bohyun.
Bohyun:
Min-ah.
Get ready.
The MT… won’t be easy.
I felt a vague sense of dread.
“Why?” I asked.
Her reply came much later.
Bohyun:
You’ll understand once you’re there.
Don’t ever wander off alone.
My fingertips went cold.
The night before the MT,
I stayed late finishing experiments and packing up.
That’s when I heard voices in the hallway.
“…I’m getting older… there’s responsibility… Hajung keeps—”
It was the professor.
He seemed to be on the phone, though I couldn’t hear the other side.
“Am I… doing this right?
Do the students… respect me?”
His voice was thick with alcohol.
Through the crack in the door,
his shadow stretched long across the dark hallway floor.
Then he laughed.
Not a pleasant laugh—
the laugh of someone cracked somewhere inside.
And then he said something
I still can’t forget.
“Yeah… because we’re family.”
“They can’t leave me.”
At that moment,
the strap of my bag slipped from my hand.
Thud.
The small sound echoed far too loudly in the dark corridor.
The professor turned his head.
At the end of the hallway,
our eyes met.
“Min-ah?”
He began to walk toward me.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Footsteps filled the silence.
And when he was close enough for his voice to reach my ear,
he whispered—
Participation is no longer optional.
And “family” becomes the language of control shared by everyone around the professor—not just him.
They are mechanisms that tighten isolation and test obedience.
how even silence in a hallway can feel dangerous.
Your early support helps this series reach readers who recognize these dynamics.
where “family” rules are enforced far from witnesses.
