Burnout Syndrome (1)

"I don't want to work anymore. I feel like I'm going crazy from the monotony. It'd be great to work less and earn more. Maybe I'm just better suited for a life of leisure. Is there any way I can live without working?"

The man, Ye Minjun, poured out his words in one breath and leaned back in his seat, staring at his counterpart with a crooked posture.

A moment of silence followed.

As is often the case in psychiatric consultations, the doctor's response was as bland as water.

"It seems you're quite exhausted, Mr. Ye."

The doctor glanced at his files briefly, then shifted his gaze to the clock. Seven minutes had passed since Minjun sat down, and all he had done was vent about how much he hated his job, was sick of his workplace, and was on the verge of losing his mind from sheer boredom.

He only had three minutes left to indulge in such complaints—the allotted consultation time was exactly ten minutes.

"...Exhausted? Ah, yes, I'm exhausted."

Minjun rolled the word around in his mouth as if savoring its texture before spitting it out.

"I'm tired. It makes sense, doesn't it? I've been doing the same thing for too long. I'm starting to wonder if this is the right way to live."

The doctor glanced over the profile he had memorized from repeated readings. "Right, his tenure is unusually long," he thought. Minjun was suffering from extreme fatigue and burnout, the result of doing the same work for far too long.

"It seems you're mentally drained. Just like a rubber band loses its elasticity if stretched for too long, your mind needs time to recover. But since you don't have the conditions for proper rest..."

The doctor dispensed his diagnosis, prescription, and remedy in one go.

From the drawer, he retrieved a pill bottle and slid it across the table to Minjun.

"Before that rubber band snaps completely, we need to restore its elasticity. The dosage remains the same as before."

The pill bottle was slightly smaller than a pack of cigarettes. Minjun examined it closely, then poured a single blue pill into his palm.

"How long is this supposed to last?"

"Your next appointment is scheduled for 23 years from now, and it's unlikely to change unless something extraordinary happens. So, naturally, this is a 23-year supply."

Even if it were one pill per day, a 23-year supply would fill an entire box and then some. However, the doctor handed him just a small bottle, and Minjun didn't bother to question it.

With even the medication instructions complete, the ten-minute session ended exactly on time.

The doctor blinked silently, his eyelids moving laterally like curtains being drawn. The mucous membrane on either side of his eye sockets briefly concealed and then revealed his white pupils.

"..."

"..."

When Minjun didn't react, the doctor rubbed the left side of his mouth with a fin.

The Tudel race, known for their self-proclaimed politeness but infamous for their sly aloofness, relied heavily on non-verbal communication. Their intricate and varied gestures were hard for other species to interpret fully, but Minjun was an exception.

To his knowledge, that gesture had two possible meanings. First: "Do you want to stay over tonight?" Second, a sarcastic and dismissive twist of the first: "I'm a bit busy right now."

Minjun decided to interpret the Tudel doctor's gesture as the latter. It seemed better for his mental health that way.

"Well, I'll be off then."

"See you in 23 years."

After Minjun left the consultation room, the doctor turned his attention back to the files. Part of the desk's surface rippled like liquefied light, projecting text, symbols, and videos visible only to him.

He habitually started reading from the beginning.

Interviewee InformationAlias (Name/Race): Ye Minjun / HumanTrue Identity (Name/Race): Access requires 'Evangel' level administrator approval and a valid access code.Charges: Same as above.Punishment Type: Labor Rehabilitation.Work Location: Earth (Dimension #22-189, Extreme Periphery Level 4).

After summarizing the day's session, the doctor paused at the last section, where he had to make a selection.

Five checkboxes appeared.

Comprehensive Medical Worker Opinion on Interviewee:

□ Retain

□ Caution

□ Standby

□ Transfer

□ Eliminate

Without much hesitation, the doctor tapped the topmost checkbox.

□ Retain – This option has been selected.

After submitting the report to headquarters, the doctor rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of fatigue. While this dimension's work was now finished, his rotational assignment wasn't yet over. Packing his belongings and preparing to head to the terminal, he recalled Minjun's incessant complaints.

"Is there any way to live without working?"

The man hadn't been talking about a way to "live comfortably without work." He meant surviving without doing the work assigned by the company.

Of course, the doctor thought, the man already knew the answer. But since it couldn't be said aloud in a consultation, the doctor muttered it bitterly to himself.

"No, there isn't."

To someone like Ye Minjun, saying, "If you don't like it, quit," wasn't an option.

If he stopped working, he would die.

After the session, Minjun pushed open a creaking metal door. The place he had just exited was a storage shed tucked into a corner of Boramae Park. Outwardly, the prefab structure looked no larger than three square meters, far too small to contain the vast space where he'd just been with the doctor.

No one paid any attention to him. The storage shed was visible only to him. Even the park's 20-year veteran manager didn't know it existed, and CCTV footage would show him emerging from a blind spot.

'The weather's nice.'

His gaze lingered on the people relaxing in the park.

'A good time of year.'

Cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom. Spring seemed close, as the sunlight lazily warmed the bridge of his nose. Visitors giggled and whispered under the shade of the flowers.

He turned his eyes to the sky.

Clear and blue.

'A good era.'

Back in the early 1980s, Seoul hadn't looked like this. The city, cloaked in smog and tangled fine dust, had appeared as if covered by a yellowish filter. Back then, people thought it was all just yellow dust. They didn't know—or chose to ignore—how harmful it was and simply lived on.

Things changed in 1982, when the 7th wave of mass immigration brought humanity a gift from the committee: long-term purchase rights for magicite, a perfect alternative to traditional fuels.

After a protracted struggle, only a third of the oil industry survived, and coal companies were nearly wiped out. In exchange, humanity now enjoyed clean air and blue skies.

—Beeeeep!

The shrill warning tone broke Minjun's reverie. Tension spread among the previously carefree crowd. Murmurs, a crying baby, and startled gasps filled the air.

"Is it an emergency alert?"

"Wait, where's my phone?!"

"A hostage situation at Hana Bank's Guro Digital Town branch. The suspect is presumed to be an ability user. Citizens nearby are urged to evacuate immediately...?"

Minjun caught every word of the distant, small voice without missing a beat. Realizing the situation, he clicked his tongue.

A bank robbery?

Despite the world improving, some things regressed. Forty years ago, it was extremely rare for a Korean to possess the audacity to rob a bank. At least compared to now.

-Dun-dun-dun dun!

A crude MIDI rendition of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 played. Minjun pulled out his 2G phone, incapable of receiving disaster alerts. The ringtone alone revealed who was calling: "Cash."

He flipped open the folder phone and spoke briefly.

"Yeah."

A young woman's voice came through from the other end.

"Minjun, there's a job."

"A bank robbery?"

"You're quick to guess."

She detailed the situation and the location where he needed to head. Then she hung up.

Muttering complaints, Minjun quickened his steps. It was time to get to work.

"This is such a drag."

He knew the precise term to describe his current mental state.

Minjun was suffering from burnout syndrome.

"Huh? Hey, hyung!"

Even the stringent security blocking off the scene couldn't stop Minjun once he flashed his ID. Amid the police and vigilante groups surrounding the bank, a familiar face appeared.

Sergeant Park Jeongpal. They often ran into each other due to their respective lines of work, shared a drink now and then, and ended up close enough to address each other as brothers.

"The suspect is alone, right?"

"Yes, acting solo. According to the last person who escaped, there are four hostages left... but only one is conscious. The rest are unresponsive, their status unknown."

"Got it. I'll take it from here."

Jeongpal tilted his head, puzzled.

"But aren't you with Immigration? Why would they send someone from Immigration instead of the police? ...Wait a minute! Does that mean—"

Jeongpal's eyes widened as he glanced at the bank building. The blinds were all drawn, making the interior invisible.

"Is it what I think it is?"

Minjun nodded and pulled out a few talismans from his pocket, scattering them into the air. Whoosh! Blue flames ignited and spread, encircling the bank.

Gasps arose from the onlookers who had been fearlessly gawking beyond the barricades.

"Look! A mage!"

"A special agent's here!"

Shhhhh!

The bank building was quickly shrouded in a radiant mist.

A barrier.

Now, no one could enter or leave without the mage's permission.

"Here I go."

Minjun stepped into the mist without hesitation. As his figure disappeared, Sergeant Park Jeongpal gave orders.

"Alright, stop gawking and start clearing out the citizens. Command has officially transferred to Immigration."

From here on, it was entirely up to Minjun whether the suspect was caught or escaped. The police's role was to ensure that no civilians got involved in the apprehension process.

Everyone, familiar with such situations, promptly lowered their weapons and focused on evacuating the civilians. Afterward, they re-formed their lines further away from the bank.

A vigilante standing next to Jeongpal asked curiously, "Sergeant, that guy earlier—the mage."

"Yeah?"

"Isn't Immigration the agency that rounds up illegal immigrants doing odd jobs? Why are they here? The suspect's a Korean."

Even the lowest-ranking vigilantes had already been briefed on the suspect: a young Korean man in his early twenties with abilities.

Jeongpal clicked his tongue and scolded him.

"Kids these days... Don't they teach the difference between the Immigration Office and Immigration Agency at school?"

The vigilante, barely out of his teens, muttered under his breath.

"School? I was too busy sleeping there after working until 5 AM every day. Like anyone has the stamina for that."

"..."

Most vigilantes, who worked alongside the police in dangerous situations despite poor pay, came from extreme poverty. It was rumored that the job was a desperate government strategy to simultaneously lower record-high youth unemployment and deal with the unprecedented population explosion that had rendered traditional sociological models obsolete.

"I shouldn't have said that," Jeongpal thought, but the vigilante continued speaking.

"My dad's unlucky enough to be human, not an orc, so he has to live past 75 to get his pension. Living off poverty subsidies is a joke, so my whole family's stuck starving until that day comes. What else am I supposed to do? Someone has to work. Five more years of this, and I can retire at fifty and get my pension, but that's not my situation now."

"Now he's the one putting his foot in his mouth," Jeongpal thought. He tapped his prominent, protruding molar with his lip, a subtle display of discomfort. Realizing his mistake, the vigilante hunched his shoulders.

"Sorry."

"Listen, I don't mind you saying that to me, but don't let that slip in an orc neighborhood. You might end up with a broken back and a catheter bag in a wheelchair."

"Come on, I'd never say stuff like this anywhere else."

Noticing Jeongpal wasn't truly angry, the vigilante hesitantly asked, "So, what's the difference between the two, anyway?"

"The office you're talking about handles complaints and enforces laws regarding foreign residents. But that guy earlier is a contractor for Immigration Agency..."

Jeongpal, a middle-aged man, referred to a much younger-looking Minjun as "hyung," which piqued the vigilante's curiosity further.

"What does the Immigration Agency do?"

"They handle people—or beings—from much farther away than foreign countries."

The vigilante finally seemed to understand.

"Ah!" His eyes lit up with comprehension before shifting to an expression of unease.

"Wait, so in that bank right now...?"

Jeongpal nodded.

"Yeah. Contrary to what we thought, the intruder is an unwelcome guest from very, very far away."