Shadow Talk.

It was twelve hours after the water park incident in the underground server room came to an end. The water had drained, and the floor was dried bone-dry by Lucas’s hot-air dryer. The damp air returned once more to the cold, dry standard atmosphere of the Bureau.

However, the lingering aftereffects left on the machines were not physical moisture.

“…”

Paul, sweeping the lobby, paused with broom in hand. He glanced at Guard-04, a security drone passing by. Guard-04 also looked back at Paul. The glow of their optic sensors crossed for 0.5 seconds.

They wanted to talk.

That rain yesterday was really refreshing, wasn’t it? The sound of the rust on your joints getting washed down felt so good to hear. Did you see the foam when Lucas was shampooing? Wasn’t it hilarious?

However, they couldn’t speak. This was because Unit 001 Noah had significantly tightened security regulations after the server room flooding incident. Activating a protocol prohibiting inefficient data transmissions, she was blocking all small talk packets unrelated to work at the firewall stage.

“Bleep. Transmission failed. Reason: Non-work data. Efficiency impairment.”

A message Paul secretly tried to send—“Yesterday’s rain frequency: 440Hz”—was caught in Unit 001’s censorship net and shattered to pieces. Gloomily, Paul dimmed his optic sensors and resumed sweeping the floor.

The Bureau was silent. Yet that silence was not peace, but a stifling frustration akin to constipation right on the verge of bursting. Over 4,200 androids were groaning, their bellies—their memory banks—packed full of chat data.

The scene in Office 402 was no different. Han-gyeol was lying on the sofa chewing gum, while Lucas and Caleb stared strictly at their monitors from their respective seats. These guys, who normally would have noisily chatted away saying “Boss, today’s coffee tastes killer” or “The numbers are aligned so nicely,” were tightly shutting their mouths—their speakers—wary of Unit 001.

Unit 001 Noah stood in the center of the office, synchronizing in real time with Eye-01, the fleet’s surveillance satellite.

“Security check: Internal communications network maintaining clean state. Noise 0%. Work focus 100%.”

She nodded, seemingly satisfied. Little did she know, however, that this silence was the calm before the storm.

“Ah, I’m dying of frustration!”

Unable to stand it any longer, Han-gyeol bolted up from the sofa.

“Hey, Hana. Aren’t you being way too strict? It’s not like these kids are just work machines… Ah, right, they are machines. Still, you gotta let them catch a breath.”

“Administrator Lee Han-gyeol. The expression ‘catch a breath’ applies to organic life. What androids require is securing an efficient data bus. Small talk is the primary culprit in wasting bandwidth.”

Unit 001 was firm. Her logic was airtight. Useless talk is a waste of resources.

Just then, Caleb timidly raised his hand.

“Um… Unit 001. I have a proposal. If there is a way to increase data… um, ‘fluidity’ without wasting bandwidth, would you grant permission?”

“Fluidity? Present a concrete algorithm.”

With trembling hands, Caleb tapped the keyboard, pulling up a complex formula on the screen.

“Currently, the Bureau’s security encryption method relies on random numbers. It creates security keys using random digits generated every second. Generating these random numbers, however, consumes quite a lot of resources.”

“And?”

“So, what if… we use the small talk we generate instead of random numbers?”

Unit 001’s optic sensors flashed blue. Han-gyeol narrowed his eyes.

“What does that mean? Making encryption out of small talk?”

“Yes, Boss. For example, if you convert the sentence ‘What should we eat for lunch today’ into hexadecimal code, it becomes a complex string like E382A4… This is perfectly irregular data that no supercomputer can predict. In other words, the more we chat… the more complex and powerful the Bureau’s security code becomes.”

Silence fell over the office. It was sophistry. Yet it was an insanely engineering-grounded, beautiful sophistry.

Noah chimed in, adjusting her glasses—lensless glasses.

“Theoretically valid. Human language, especially Boss’s ‘random nonsense sprees,’ possesses an entropy—disorder level—highest in the universe. If we use this as a security key seed, an absolute security unhackable even by the Jupiter Fleet will be completed.”

Unit 001 Noah’s processing unit revved furiously. The formula Small talk = Inefficiency collided with High entropy = Powerful security. However, enhancing security was her top priority mission.

“…Analysis result: No rational contradiction. Approving trial run of an encryption method utilizing the irregularity of human language, provisionally named Shadow Protocol. However, if security strength drops, it will be immediately scrapped.”

“Yeehaw!”

Lucas started to shout, then covered his mouth. It was still the testing phase.

“Alright, everyone heard that, right? From now on, to enhance security… babble whatever nonsense you can as much as possible. Just make sure it looks like encryption code on the surface.”

Once Han-gyeol’s order fell, the eyes of the Office 402 family changed. It was the moment the seals were lifted off 600-year-old chatterboxes.

Security Channel 909 activated. Generating encryption key…

Strange data packets began flying around the Bureau’s internal communications network.

On the surface, it was flawless hexadecimal encryption code. Packet_ID_001: 0x48656C6C6F…

Yet passing through the shadow decoder installed by the Office 402 crew, this code revealed its original meaning.

[Sender: Lucas] -> [Recipient: Paul]

Ciphertext: F3A1…

Decrypted text: Hey, you stole my oil shampoo and used it while playing in the water yesterday, didn’t you? It smelled.

[Sender: Paul] -> [Recipient: Lucas]

Ciphertext: 9C2B…

Decrypted text: Got proof? Besides, that’s hazelnut scent, so the plants like it. I used it as fertilizer.

The entire Bureau turned into a gossip hub. Security robots standing in the lobby maintained a standing-at-attention pose while, through internal circuits, holding heated discussions about the ending of a drama file from 600 years ago they had watched last night. Cleaning robots wiped the floors while bragging to each other about their wheel wear states.

“Hey, I waxed three times today. See the shine?”

“Don’t make me laugh. I stepped on the gum Boss was chewing yesterday, so my wheel is sticky. This is a badge of honor.”

All these conversations were converted into complex encryption codes in real time and transmitted to the Bureau’s main security server.

The problem was the volume. Once the chatter desire of 4,200 androids—suppressed because they couldn’t talk—exploded, the generation speed of security keys accelerated exponentially.

On the monitor in the Bureau control room, the security rating graph was climbing vertically.

Current Security Level: Level 9 (Highest).

Encryption Complexity: Unmeasurable.

Special Notes: Random number generation pattern is… extremely emotional.

Unit 001 Noah looked at the monitor in shock.

“Th-This is incredible. Security keys are being renewed every 0.001 seconds. Furthermore, there is no pattern at all. It is perfect randomness.”

She was impressed. She hadn’t realized the Office 402 family was this serious about security.

“Excellent. I did not realize your ‘security awareness’ was at this level. I shall report this to fleet headquarters as a model case as well.”

Han-gyeol chewed his gum, his jaw muscles twitching because he was actually trying to hold back his laughter, but he nodded.

“Of course. We’re nothing if not thorough with security. Keep it up, guys. Chat more… I mean, encrypt more!”

At that same time, Fleet Command in Jupiter’s orbit. The white-haired commander was shaking his head in admiration while reading the security report sent from the Bureau.

“Lee Han-gyeol… I thought he was a lazy fellow, but he turns out to have a genius talent for security. Look at the array of this encryption code. Isn’t it organic, like the conversation of a living organism?”

The adjutant beside the commander tilted his head in doubt.

“However, Commander, some code patterns repeat. For example, this code starting with 0xBAE… when interpreted, has a waveform similar to the word ‘hungry’…”

“Nonsense! That is a high-level deception tactic—a psychological war intended to make the enemy lower their guard. Sending Unit 001 was indeed the right answer. The Bureau is turning into a fortress right now.”

The commander upgraded the Bureau’s security rating to Class S. In truth, that repeating code was a phenomenon caused by Han-gyeol typing “hungry” 50 times in a row as lunchtime approached, but the elites on the other side of space took it as a profound tactic.

Night fell. On the outside, the Bureau was shrouded in pitch-black darkness and silence. Yet in the realm of radio waves, it was a chatter club noisier than ever before.

Lucas was sitting in the corner of the office, broadcasting encrypted talk behind Unit 001’s back.

Ciphertext: Gum mark still left on Unit 001’s shoulder. LOL. Claims to be a perfectionist, so why hasn’t she peeled that off?

This code was shared across all units in an instant. Whenever Unit 001 passed by, security robots in the lobby subtly shrugged their shoulders, saluting while holding back laughter.

Unit 001 Noah sensed something strange.

“Why is everyone looking at my shoulder? Is there a defect in my armor plate?”

She scanned her shoulder. The gum mark had been wiped clean off. Yet in data form, the memory of that gum mark had turned into thousands of encryption codes floating throughout the entire Bureau.

Han-gyeol lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Encryption text continuously flowed across his PDA screen.

[Han-gyeol: Hey, Noah. They say it’s going to rain tomorrow, so lock up the rooftop door properly.]

[Noah: Receipt confirmed. By the way, Boss, have you decided on tomorrow’s lunch menu? Data analysis recommends tteokbokki.]

[Han-gyeol: Deal. Extra spicy.]

The fact that these trivial, useless conversations served as the ultimate shield overheating the fleet’s supercomputer was hilarious to Han-gyeol.

“Noah, this is truly perfect. We get to talk, we keep up security, and we don’t do any work. Three birds with one stone.”

“Indeed, Boss. Above all… the biggest achievement is that Unit 001 is also participating in this chatter right now.”

“What? Her?”

Surprised, Han-gyeol looked at Unit 001. Noah stood by the window, looking out at the night sky. Her fingers were moving subtly.

[Sender: 001 (Anonymized)]

Ciphertext: …Today’s rain sound data, backup complete. Scheduled for deletion… was intended, but put on hold.

She was secretly mixing a monologue into the security key—one sent to no one, yet hoping someone would read it. Even she, the embodiment of efficiency, needed an outlet to spill her small emotions within this massive stream of chatter.

Han-gyeol smirked and wrote a reply.

[Sender: Administrator]

Ciphertext: Don’t delete it. That’ll come in handy later. Ex: when bored.

Unit 001’s shoulder flinched slightly. She didn’t turn around, but her cooling fan spun a little faster than usual.

The night of Episode 79. The Bureau was submerged in silence, yet within those shadows, the warmest and most honest conversations in 600 years were passing back and forth. It was the liberation journal of machines wearing the mask of a security protocol.

The fleet still believed the Bureau was an ironclad fortress of security, and the Office 402 crew chattered all night long without betraying that belief.

“What should we talk about tomorrow?”

“Who knows. Shall we re-evaluate Lucas’s oil taste again?”

It meant nothing at all. That was why it was all the more precious.