Tiffany POV

I don’t remember when the numbers started to appear.

I just know they did, some time in my life.

The digits are everywhere.

Quite literally for me.

I see them floating, right above people's heads.

Everyone has a number. Whether it be 20718274 or 1, they all have it.

I lean against the metal pole, hands in my pockets to protect them from the biting cold. I let out a shaky breath, exhaling white steam that soon disappears into the freezing air.

People bustle about left and right, bundled up in their thick winter jackets, though it’s not quite snowing yet at this time of year. Noise and laughter rings in the air, for it’s always busy at the street vendors.

My vision centers upon a smiling customer, handing money over to the kind man running the tteokbokki store.

The number above her head, originally 56738, drops down to 40738.

My eyes switch to an obviously drunk man, downing a shot while leaning back against his chair.

His initial 8 turns into a 9.

I look at all the white, hovering numbers, studying each and every one of them.

I spot a girl, who looks no older than 24. Her skin is pale, with light blonde hair that reaches her shoulders. She sits at an outdoor table, arms crossed on top of the white plastic surface. She swallows a shot of alcohol, and sets the glass down.

Her number?

30.

The girl caught my gaze.

Her next movement was quick. So sudden, so rapid, I would’ve laughed it off and told myself I was imagining things. That I was imagining that her eyes had flickered to the top of my head.

I would’ve, if her eyes hadn’t widened slightly before her expression turned stoic once more.

I made my way through the bustling crowds to get to where she was, then seating myself down on the chair that stood on the other side of the table.

“Seat’s taken. Thanks for dropping by though.”

Her eyes hadn’t even flickered to me.

The corner of my mouth twitched, and after a second, I replied.

“You see them too. The numbers, don’t you?”

She spoke not a single word, her eyes staying glued to her phone.

“You looked above my head. Not in my eyes.”

She finally set down her phone, then looked at me straight in the eye. She spoke.

“What’s your pattern?”

I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

She sighed, in obvious annoyance.

“Your pattern. What do the numbers mean for you?”

My eyebrows meet in the middle in confusion.

“I don’t have one. I see all kinds of numbers. Five minutes ago, I saw a guy move from his 8th to his 9th shot. By the way...you look much younger than 30.”

She stares at me, her expression changing for a split second, then returning to her poker face.

She smiles. It’s not a happy one. It’s one that’s void of feelings, especially those of happiness.

The girl finally spoke after a few seconds of silence.

“You’re a Drifter then. That’s how we all start. The numbers start to appear, and they’re all different. But over time, a pattern will develop.”

I take in the information.

“Then what’s your pattern?”

She tilts her head to the right. “I’m a Polyg. It’s short for polygraph. The numbers above p