Ten million faces flooding the streets of Seoul every morning, heads bowed behind high collars and eyes covered by glasses to keep the dust out.

Eight million bodies cramming into metal subways, unapologetically stepping on feet and coughing up germs as they shuffled off to begin their daily routines.

Six hundred people working in my office building alone, not counting the thousands that filled up every floor of the skyscrapers around us.

My eyes flickered over their faces, taking them in one by one as I had done every day for the past three years.

And yet, no matter how hard I looked, I could never seem to find him anywhere.

“And how do you feel now?” I asked, as I removed the blindfold from Key’s face. Actually, the young man’s name was Kibum, but he had asked me to call him Key, so I did. Anything to help him be more comfortable around me.

He didn’t answer immediately, which wasn’t unusual. Most people were a bit disoriented coming out of a therapy session. He blinked for a moment, rubbing his eyes as he glanced around, apparently unsure of where he was or what he was doing here. Then, as he slowly sat up, his eyes fell on me and he smiled.

“Sorry, I guess I spaced out,” he grinned, sheepishly running his plastic and steel fingers through his hair. “What did you say?”

“I was asking how you were feeling,” I replied. I’d always admired the agile hands of pianists. Their long prosthetic fingers allowed them to deftly dance over the keyboard at speeds humans had never before even dreamed of. Their music had the wildest rhythms, its racing, flailing pulse reminding us of the imperfect industrial era we had long left behind, before transitioning into our flawless, modern, technological age.

“Feeling much better,” he replied. “Thanks, Doc.”

I twined my own flesh and blood hands together and smiled at him. “Do you remember the list of questions I started with?” Key nodded. “Would you mind if I went through them one more time?”

“How come?” he asked.

“Standard procedure,” I replied. “I get in trouble if I don’t do a follow-up.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he said, lying back on the couch and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Go ahead, Doc.”

I opened my notebook and began to read through the questions, making only a check next to each one as he answered it. There was no need to record his answers as I had initially- he was saying all the right things, which meant that my treatment had been successful.

“I think that’s enough for one day,” I announced, closing the notebook as he finished.

He stretched his arms above his head, arching his back as gracefully as a cat before nodding. “Should I schedule another appointment with Minho on my way out?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I replied. “I believe our work here has been done.”

Key paused mid-stretch and frowned at me. “Huh? But-”

I smiled and he instantly fell silent, hesitantly returning my smile, but still looking bemused. “You cooperated so well that I believe we were able to address all the issues we needed to discuss today.” My smile widened slightly at my own little joke as I added, “Of course, if you ever wish to come to me with any issues you might have, you may call me at any time.”

Key’s brow furrowed just the slightest. His eyebrows narrowed, his mouth opened, and he glanced to the side, as if trying to remember something. I could almost see him reaching, digging, probing through his own mind. His eyes widened a fraction, as if on the brink of a terrible realization-

And then the darkness lifted from his face like smog from the city at sunrise and he smiled. His eyes relaxed as he forgot that he had forgotten anything.

“Good-bye, Key,” I said, rising from my chair to shake his hand. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Bye, Dr. Lee,” he replied with an easy grin. It was almost pitiful. “Thanks so much. I’ll see you again.”

I waited until the door shut behind him before smiling at his naivety. I would never see him again. I didn’t have to; as I’d told him, the treatment was completed. He would never have any issues to discuss with me again. He was destined for a life of fame and fortune, living in complete and utter ignorance.

The poor fool.

I walked to the small mirror above my desk and pushed back my bangs to reveal a row of tiny, flesh-colored screws. I removed them carefully, setting each one down in the order that I had taken them out from, and dug my fingers into the tiny crack at my hairline. With a slight tug, I opened up the panel that made up my forehead and reached inside, careful to avoid the still-organic parts of my brain. Gently prodding through the circuitry, I removed a small blue chip.

It only took one appointment to download all of his dangerous memories.

I crushed the chip between my fingers and tossed the pieces into a wastebasket.

A quiet beep rang through the room and my secretary’s smooth, deep rumble came over the intercom.

“Onew, your ten o’clock is here,” he announced.

“Thank you, Minho,” I replied. “Please send him in.”

“Of course.”

I picked up a new chip from the pack in my desk drawer and inserted it into the proper slot before shutting my forehead panel and replacing all the screws. I turned to a fresh page in my notebook, and began a new entry.

Wednesday, July 20^th, 3026

Name: Lee Taemin

There was a timid knock on my door. I closed the notebook, using a pen to keep my place, and turned towards the door with a smile. “Come in.”

“Minho, can I have a list of patients I’m seeing today?”

My unflappable secretary simply raised an eyebrow, before pressing a button on his arm, which spat out a sheet of paper. He handed it to me with a slight nod and turned back to his computer.

The first time I'd asked him for my schedule, he'd just stared at me until I had to repeat the request again. In the years since, he'd simply accepted it as another part of his morning routine. Before, I trusted him to take care of my list of patients, never asking to see it. After all, my task was exactly the same with each one- it made no difference what their names or ages were.

I scanned the list quickly and handed it back to him, disappointed, but not at all surprised that I didn't see the name I was looking for. He placed it on the desk and blinked once. The paper burst in flames and as it shriveled into nothing, he swept the ashes into the trash bin beside his desk.

I headed towards my office, though I could feel his eyes following me. Minho was not capable of worry, or curiosity, but he could still wonder, and he was bright. It was a dangerous combination.

It meant he was aware of every change in my behavior, that he knew I was growing sloppy and my awareness of human emotions was beginning to fade. It meant he knew exactly what- and who- had caused me to change.

He was nervous already, despite my constant smiling, or perhaps because of it. I stopped and opened my notebook. “So, Taemin.” He jumped at the sound of my voice. “Is there anything you would like to talk to me about?”

“Not really,” he mumbled, wringing his hands together.

“Are you sure?” I pressed, but he just nodded.

I stayed quiet for a moment, secretly scrutinizing him over the top of my notebook. “Are you a dancer?” I finally asked, studying his prosthetic legs. Long and lean, made of a gold and titanium alloy that was designed to be strong, but also to look beautiful flashing across the stage. His arms, too. It was a relatively new procedure, to make so many prosthetics, as dance was something that had only recently begun to be seen as an important visual art. He had to be special, to be chosen for such a procedure.

He simply nodded and stared down at his golden hands.

“Do you enjoy dancing?”

Another nod. This was getting nowhere. I lowered my voice and my notebook, giving him my most earnest look. “Taemin, I can assure you that anything you tell me will not leave this room.” Just not in the way you expect.

He finally sighed and looked up. “I’m sorry. I've been in a slump at work and my mechanic told me to come in to see you, but I really don't see how you can help me with that.”

I hid an ironic smile behind my notebook. The President came up with such quaint names for those who worked directly for him. A “mechanic” was someone who examined civilians and reported any signs of malfunctions directly to the government. A “psychiatrist,” like myself, helped create perfectly content citizens by eradicating unwanted thoughts and memories.

I turned back to Taemin, who was shyly smiling at me again. “Is it alright if I ask you a series of questions?” I asked. “Perhaps we can work together to figure out the problem, if there is one.” Of course there was one- the mechanics were never wrong. A “slump” meant that his way of thinking had changed and I needed to figure out what those thoughts were and eradicate the problem.

He nodded eagerly and sat up straighter. “What should I do?” he asked.

I picked up a pillow and placed it on the couch. “Lie back and relax,” I told him. “Close your eyes, if that helps.” He sank back, arms tightly pressed against his side as he obediently closed his eyes. “Now, I just want you to answer these questions as honestly as you can. Alright?”

He smiled and nodded at me, as if seeking my approval. Eager to please, that one. No surprise there- his job required him to please thousands of audience members every night.

“What’s your favorite kind of music?” I asked.

“Classical,” he said quickly. “It reminds me of my mom.” His fingers plucked nervously at his pantleg as he mumbled. “She, um, died a few years ago.”

I offered my most sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, though I wasn’t sorry at all. It was unfortunate, but it happened to us all. Even if our prosthetics never failed, our human sides would eventually give out. Or if that didn’t happen, accidents still occurred.

He opened his eyes again and glanced up at me. “Thank you,” he whispered, and his smile was as warm as the rays of sunlight that trickled through the dust on my grimy window.

Nothing was wrong with him. Well, there were shadows of demoralization and loneliness from the death of his parents, but no bad behavior, signs of rebellion, no unacceptable thoughts. Nothing that I had been trained to get rid of. For the first time in my life, I had to tell my patient to schedule a second appointment with Minho.

Minho stared at Taemin in shock- the first sign of emotion I had ever seen in him. The only thing he said, however, was to ask how I'd fit Taemin in. My schedule had been packed lately, forcing me to extend my hours late into the night. The number of patients being referred to me was rising every day, but I knew the reason for it. Even I heard the restless whispers that echoed throughout the city in the dark. Nonetheless, I insisted that he schedule Taemin in for the very next day.

Minho said nothing more to me as he put Taemin's name into the system again and the dancer bowed and thanked us both, before leaving. He gave me a glance as I headed back into my office, but I could tell by his eyes that he was having a hard time believing I'd failed with a patient.

I couldn’t believe it either. But it was true. I had gone through the list of questions, even making up more when I didn’t find anything and eventually flat out asking Taemin if he’d ever been dissatisfied with the government’s policies and actions. He’d been nervous, but his answer remained the same: no.

I had watched his face the entire time, searching him for signs that he was lying, but I could see none.

There were only two possibilities: his mechanic had been wrong, or I had messed up. Since mechanics only referred someone to a psychiatrist when something serious was wrong, I must have missed something.

That day, I could hardly focus on the rest of my patients, eager to return home, recharge, and reread my notes in excruciating detail, searching for something, anything, that would point me in the right direction.

There was nothing.

I leaned back in my chair and slowly stared around at my bare office. Even though the windows had recently been cleaned, the light shining through it was as cold as the white walls that gleamed in their light. It was stifling, which was funny, because three years ago, I never would have thought about it that way. I had thought that the patients who came in, shifting their feet and refusing to meet my eyes were hiding something. But now, I could feel those pristine walls closing in on me from all sides. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to decorate the walls with something besides my college and medical school diplomas.

After all, this was the way my office had looked when he swept into my life that Wednesday morning and changed me forever.

Taemin stared warily at the glasses I was holding out to him. “Go on,” I said softly. He took them as if he were handling a piece of china and turned them over in his hands.

“What’s this?” he finally asked.

“I thought we might try something new,” I explained. “These glasses allow me to see what you’re thinking. They might help us decipher what the problem is.”

He slid the glasses on and leaned back on the couch, smiling at me trustingly. My stomach twisted, knowing that what I was doing was almost illegal. Since the year 2900, scientists had developed a device that would cause you to dive directly into a patient’s thoughts and see what they were thinking, thus making it easy to determine who the rebels were. It had been banned, as people claimed it was immoral to invade a person’s privacy that way.

I’d kept a pair, just in case.

He closed his eyes, as I instructed and began counting backwards from twenty, while I placed my hands on either side of his head. Wires slowly slid from my wrists and connected into sockets on the sides of the glasses. His breathing soon grew deep and even, face relaxing as he slipped deeper into sleep. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to prepare myself, before diving into his mind.

Entering another human being’s mind feels like plunging into icy water. The impact was almost physical, tearing my breath away as I blinked the blurriness from my eyes. I could feel the spotlight shining warm on my face, my arms stretched out to the ceiling as the auditorium rang with applause. My golden limbs glistened in the light and, for a moment, I felt like I was something more than human, like I was almost-

I stopped myself abruptly, shaking my head. Or rather, I shook my head in my mind, but the body whose eyes I was watching through did not. Taemin smiled, bowing deeply to the audience, before sauntering off the stage in a blaze of glory.

I shivered slightly. Now I knew why this technology had been banned. It was so easy to lose yourself in someone else’s mind.

I had to focus.

I closed my eyes and Taemin’s memories ran past like a blur, playing like a movie on the back of my eyelids. Focusing on a few key ideas, I sifted through them, searching for any times he’d ever said or thought anything negative about the governments.

Nothing.

Resisting the urge to swear, I tried to broaden my search to include emotions, checking for any hints of discontent he may have felt, whether or not he realized it.

Still nothing. Was he really the perfect little innocent he appeared to be?

No, it was impossible. I was missing something, I had to be missing something. Mechanics didn’t make mistakes.

Then again, before this patient, I had never made a mistake either.

Desperately, I opened up my entire knowledge of the history of opposition to our government.

There was a whisper at my left and I lunged for it eagerly.

“Daddy!”

False alarm. I let go in frustration.

There! Another one!

“Look what I can do!” A young Taemin, his brand-new prosthetics shimmering, sank into a graceful split and beamed upwards for approval.

“Wow! That’s great, kiddo!” A hand tousled his hair, causing him to flush with pride.

I frowned. What the hell?

More flashes appeared like fireflies in the darkness, swarming around me as I caught snatches of each one-

Guess what, Daddy?”

“What, Taemin?”

“I got the lead role in the recital!”

“That’s great, kiddo! I-”

Fade out. Fade in.

“Can we play soccer now, Daddy?”

“Hang on, sport. Daddy needs to work. In an hour, okay?”

“But Daddy-”

The memories began swirling around me faster and the picture began to become more complete. The jet black hair, carefully cropped and peppered with grey.

“-don’t care if everyone loved it! Why didn’t he come? He said he’d come!”

The thin lips pressed into a stern, narrow line. The corners of his mouth sagging slightly from weariness.

“Not now, Taemin. I’m busy.”

“But-”

“I said, ‘Not now!’”

“But you’re always busy…”

The narrow eyes, with their shrewd, intelligent gaze.

“What do you mean, he’s not coming back? Where is he?”

“Taemin, please, don’t shout-”

“Where is he, Mommy? Why isn’t Daddy coming back?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re old enough-”

“I AM OLD ENOUGH!”

That face- I knew that face. It hadn’t been a big story, but I made a point of familiarizing myself with all the news every night before I went to bed. He was a minor politician, a local official, who had protested against using his son as a prototype for the new operation to create dancers, despite the boy’s obvious talent. It was an untested procedure and really, no one could blame him for refusing to subject his son to any unforeseen dangers and side effects. He soon backed down, but soon, dozens of accusations sprung up around him- he’d stolen government documents, he’d embezzled funds, he’d covered up rebel crimes.

It was obvious that he’d been innocent; no one wanted to be the one to say it, but everyone knew that he was being framed for speaking out. And so the trial proceeded, with the prosecution making a strong case against him and his own lawyer making a half-hearted attempt at defense, but before the trial was over, he’d disappeared. The official report was that he’d killed himself over his guilt, but I believed he’d disappeared to protect his son. Being the child of a convicted political official would lead to a lifetime of disgrace. But if he’d disappeared, then rumors would fly, leading to questions that the government just never wanted brought up.

At least, that’s what I’d expected to happen, but two days after the trial, his name was never mentioned again. It was a rewrite of history, to make us believe that he’d never existed. But I had eavesdropped on enough of my boss's hushed conversations to know that he was rumored to be one of those responsible for the rising undercurrent of dissent. I didn't really believe it to be true, but for as long as there was a chance that this man was alive, they couldn't risk anyone remembering his existence.

That was why Taemin had been sent to me. Because his childhood memories of his father were dangerous.

And for the first time in my career, I was at a loss for how to proceed. I could feel the ripples around my vision and knew that I’d been in there too long, that he was starting to come out of the trance I’d put him under. I pulled out, lungs clamped tight as I struggled through layers of layers of memories threatening to drown me. My head burst through the surface and I opened my eyes with a gasp of relief as sweet oxygen flooded my lungs again.

Taemin was staring up at me through the glasses and I quickly disconnected myself. He removed the glasses and rubbed his face. I noticed something glimmer in the corner of his left eye before he caught it with one finger. “That was an intense session,” he said, attempting to sound light-hearted, but I could hear the sorrow choking him up.

“Shall we…” I hesitated, unable to process what I was saying myself. “Shall we make an appointment for next week?”

He nodded and this time, passed the heel of his palm over his eyes. “It’s really helping me, Dr. Lee.” He smiled, his lips trembling only slightly. “Thank you.”

The door closed behind my first patient of the afternoon and I moved to the mirror. The tiny screws that held my forehead panel in place were scratched from the numerous times my shaking hands had slipped. Eventually, they had stopped trembling so badly although I couldn’t be sure if it was because I was more comfortable with what I was doing or if I no longer cared about getting caught.

I tugged the chip out of my forehead and held it in my palm, turning it over and over again. It held only a question, a simple question about whether or not health care in our country was as effective as it could be. The woman had travelled abroad as part of her work and had noted that other societies, though potentially lacking in technological and economic development, appeared to be more efficient in caring for the health of their people. Even something as simple as this-

I turned the chip over and pulled a sharp pencil out of my pocket. July 20^th, 3029, I wrote, and under it, Seo Joohyun. I carefully began wrapping it in tissue paper when I heard footsteps approaching my office door.

Minho poked his head in as I closed my desk drawer shut and straightened my hair back in place. “Is something wrong, Minho?”

His eyes swept over my office quickly before landing back on me. “I announced your next appointment, but there was no response.”

“I guess I didn’t hear you,” I replied, picking up my notebook and rearranging my bangs again. “I’m sorry. Please send him in.”

Minho cast one last glance at the drawer before nodding and closing the door again.

“I don’t understand why you dragged me to this,” Jonghyun complained as he adjusted his bowtie. “Why do you even need to get dressed up to go to some silly show, anyway?”

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure why I’d dragged my slightly obnoxious neighbor to the music hall that night, either, other than the fact that I didn’t want to go alone.

I didn’t answer him as we found our seats. Jonghyun proceeded to lean back, cross his arms, and kick his feet up onto the back of the chair in front of him. A few people around us turned to him to complain, but froze when they saw his broad shoulders and steel teeth, which marked him as a member of the city police. Instantly, they turned away and Jonghyun smirked, sinking even lower into his seat. I smiled apologetically as he closed his eyes and began pretending to snore.

While he pushed his obnoxious meter as far as it could go, I scanned the program for the dance performance. It was a reinterpretation of The Rite of Spring, an ancient masterpiece by a man named Igor Stravinsky, considered very avant-garde for his time. It was known as one of the most important ballets of the 20^th century, and now, it had been reworked by our master composers, the choreography enhanced.

The lights dimmed and I nudged Jonghyun until he finally stopped snoring. The music started up without warning, the dissonant chords sending shivers down my spine. He appeared on stage, his limbs flashing so brightly I could have sworn he had come down on a bolt of lightning. His feet moved in perfect time with the music, spinning and leaping in a hypnotic display.

Even from the balcony, I could see the intense glint in his eyes, his lips parted as he in air. His arms gracefully traced patterns in the air, leaving sparkling trails of light, only to suddenly switch into jerky movements as the music changed to a harsh, overbearing beat. His body bent in ways humans had never been meant to bend. Every crisp snap of the hips, flick of the wrist, and breath he took was deliberate and left an impact on the dazed viewers below.

I could see both the marvels of the machines that had made him and the human passion that brought us back in time. With a twist of his head, he showed us a time when humans had lived as one with the earth. It was a time plagued with diseases and brutality, but he brought out the beauty of it as he swept one elegant finger through the air. There were other dancers on the stage, but my eyes remained fixed on Taemin like he was the only one that existed in the whole music hall.

Suddenly, his body jerked upwards as if pulled by invisible strings and began a series of manic, athletic displays of frantic leaps and spins, looking as if he were suspended in mid-air. As he his arms out and threw his head back, power coursing through his muscles, his eyes met mine and I froze, the breath had been out of my lungs. At that moment, Lee Taemin looked like a god.

And then he dropped back to the stage, landing on his knees, his head bowed as the curtains crashed closed around him. The audience sat in stunned silence for several long seconds before collectively roaring to their feet, the applause vibrating the walls. Jonghyun, looking impressed, leaned over and murmured something in my ear, which I didn’t hear. My hands hung at my sides as the curtains slid open again. Taemin stepped forward and bowed to a swell of cheers and applause. He grinned broadly as he raised his arms, but I noticed a glitter in the corner of his eye.

My phone rang as I was packing my briefcase to leave that evening. “Jonghyun,” I said as I picked it up.

“Hey, how'd you know? I thought ‘psych’ stood for ‘shrink,’ not ‘psychic’.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Me and the boys are going to a game tonight,” he replied. “We've got a few extra tickets. Want to come?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Aww, come on! We never do anything together anymore,” he protested.

“Sorry, Jonghyun,” I replied. “I'm busy tonight.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. You always are. But I thought I'd give it a try.” His voice suddenly deepened, turning into the half-lecturing, half-bullying tone used by all the police. “You need to get out more, Onew. Being with people will do you good. Staying alone in your room...well, you know what happens. People start getting ideas.”

It sounded like a joke, but I could hear the threat underlying the words. I kept my face impassive and my voice flat as I replied, “Thanks for the tip, Jonghyun. I’ll talk to you later.”

I opened my desk drawer and took out the pack of blank computer chips that I used for storing memories. I crushed them in my fist, before tossing them into my trashcan, stirring them in with bits of crumpled paper so they wouldn't all be on top. Next, I opened the elegant pen case I had received when I graduated from medical school and took out the velvet lining. Dozens of tiny chips lay there, each labeled with a name and date and wrapped in tissue paper. Carefully, I shook them into a tiny box and shoved the box deep into my briefcase. Zipping up the briefcase and setting the combination, I turned off the lights and left the office, calling good-bye to Minho on my way out.

I heard later that it was the best he’d ever performed and I knew why. Unearthing those long-forgotten memories of his father had reminded him of why he threw his heart and soul into each dance in the first place. It was so simple and childish, just like his smile- he wanted to make his father proud. And after his father disappeared, in the midst of all that controversy, he’d maintained the belief that if he continued performing on bigger and bigger stages, his father would one day see him and come back to him. Over the years, his hopes had faded until his appointment with me, when I'd brought them back.

I didn’t sleep that night, or any of the nights leading up to Taemin’s next appointment. The image of his body suspended in mid-air, gleaming in the stage lights, was burned into my mind. I knew what my duty was, as a psychiatrist. I knew where my loyalties lay. But taking away the dangerous thoughts in Taemin’s mind would be taking away his spirit, his gift, that passion that drove him to perform so beautifully every night. I couldn’t do that. Not to him.

In the end, I made the only decision I could.

I kept my eyes fixated on my feet as I walked home, not paying attention to where they were taking me. Thoughts tangled into tighter knots in my mind until I couldn't figure out where one ended and the next began.

I needed to watch my behavior around Jonghyun. And Minho, too, who I knew was starting to get suspicious. Just because it wasn’t his place to ask questions didn’t mean he wouldn’t take them somewhere else-

There had been a change in him, a change that was obvious. I had gone back to the theater to see him again, and that fire that had ignited the crowd had vanished. His technique was still perfect, but-

Those trusting eyes that turned towards me as I told him to lie back and relax. The tension that had left his brow as I placed my hand on his forehead-

With a frown I suddenly looked up, realizing that I had missed a turn, so lost was I in my thoughts. I turned around to retrace my steps and collided with the person behind me.

I looked up to apologize and my voice choked before the words could be born.

Ironic how I almost didn't recognize him, even though I’d been searching for him wherever I went for the last three years. The babyish lines of his cheeks had angled and the sparkle had faded from his eyes. His golden limbs, so dazzling on stage, looked tarnished in the fading evening light.

“Are you alright?’ he asked. His soft voice had a slight edge to it that I had never heard before.

Words swelled in my chest and died at my lips. After years of looking for him, so that I could apologize for what I had done, even though I knew he couldn’t understand because he didn’t remember any of it or me. And I could remember everything because I had downloaded his memories into my brain to preserve them. I wanted to tell him I regretted erasing his memories from the moment he stared up at me with confused and empty eyes, that I had done it because it was my duty, but if I could do it all over again, if I could give back what I took-

He started to step past me and I quickly reached out a hand to stop him.

“I’m sorry.”

He brushed my arm away and shrugged without a hint of his old grace. “It’s fine.”

Taemin turned the corner and walked down the street with his shoulders slumped, his hands in his pockets, and his feet scraping along the ground. I watched him blend in among the ten million people that flooded the streets of Seoul every night, and disappear from sight.