I remember 2:11 a.m. that way—

  not because the call continued afterward,

  but because nothing was the same once it ended.

  By my second month in the lab,

  the internal structure had begun revealing itself.

  And the first thing I learned

  was the power of a seal.

  “Min-ah, this one’s urgent. We need to make a withdrawal.

  Wait here—I’ll bring your seal.”

  Professor Han Do-yoon carried his students’ seals in his bag at all times.

  He called it “management.”

  Even when stipends or scholarships were deposited into our accounts,

  withdrawals only happened when he decided.

  More accurately,

  only he could do it.

  The first time I saw a withdrawal in person, something inside me twisted.

  My name was on the bankbook.

  But the seal wasn’t mine.

  And my hand never touched the transaction.

  I was just the person holding the book.

  “Please confirm the amount withdrawn,” the bank clerk said.

  But I didn’t count the money.

  The professor stood beside me, waiting.

  I simply placed the bills into an envelope.

  “Just keep it like that and bring it to me at the lab,” he said casually.

  The envelope disappeared into his bag.

  And that was that.

  It felt strange—

  but no one else seemed bothered.

  Back in the lab, he spoke as if explaining something trivial:

  “Don’t worry about these things.

  I’m managing all this to help you focus on your studies.

  Research is family.”

  Family.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  A gentle word, soft on the surface—

  but the more he used it, the colder it sounded.

  If we were family…

  Family doesn’t seize bank accounts.

  Family doesn’t hide where the money goes.

  Family doesn’t call you at 2:11 a.m.

  That afternoon, a senior handed me a USB drive.

  “Min-ah, sort this file too.”

  It was the same patient data the physician had brought earlier.

  “Why am I doing it?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  Senior Bohyun lowered her voice.

  “Because the youngest starts with data cleanup.”

  I took the USB without another word.

  And I finally realized it—

  “family” didn’t mean helping one another.

  It meant enforcing roles.

  Some people only did experiments.

  Some only wrote.

  Some managed bankbooks.

  And the professor watched all of it from above.

  A few days later, a message arrived in the lab group chat.

  [Lab Notice]

  This Saturday: Lab Family Dinner.

  Any absence must be reported to the professor individually.

  Family dinner.

  Family trip.

  Family culture.

  In this lab, anything labeled “family” wasn’t optional.

  It was mandatory.

  On Saturday evening, I caught my reflection in the subway window.

  I looked a little tired.

  At the restaurant, the professor had already emptied a bottle of soju.

  “Our family works so hard. Especially you, Min-ah.

  You write well. The physicians praised you.”

  My stomach dropped.

  It didn’t sound like praise.

  It sounded like an assignment.

  The female students laughed.

  The male students read the room.

  The seniors raised their glasses.

  In this group, even emotions, reactions, and silence

  followed the hierarchy.

  When dinner ended and I walked home,

  I held my phone tightly—afraid another call might come.

  It didn’t.

  But a message did.

  Professor:

  Min-ah, your expression wasn’t great today.

  Family shouldn’t make each other feel hurt.

  Come early to the lab tomorrow.

  We need to talk.

  My breath caught.

  My hands trembled.

  I dug through my bag.

  The notebook.

  The black-covered notebook.

  I opened it and began to write.

  Mid-May 2003 — First withdrawal accompaniment

  Professor repeated: “Research is family.”

  Praise during dinner → implied assignment

  Message to meet separately tomorrow. Discomfort noted.

  Even after closing the notebook,

  my heart kept racing.

  The next morning, the professor was waiting at the lab door.

  “Min-ah, about yesterday—”

  Just then, my phone vibrated.

  It was Bohyun.

  Bohyun:

  Min-ah… did the professor call you again in the middle of the night?

  I stared at the screen.

  Bohyun:

  He used to do that to me too.

  My hand froze.

  Bohyun:

  Be careful.

  I stood motionless in front of the door.

  Again?

  Used to?

  To me too?

  I wasn’t the first.

  And there were no exceptions—

  only a sequence.

  the word “family” in this lab isn’t affection—

  it’s structure, hierarchy, and obligation.

  none of these are random.

  They are parts of a system designed to see who follows,

  who hesitates,

  and who can be pushed further.

  Early support truly matters on RoyalRoad.

  and the “family rules” no one talks about.