Chapter 1: Chapter 1

~Ye jun~

“You worthless human with only a pretty face and no brain! Get out of my office.”

That’s not how you want to start a day or even end it but that was how mine looked like. Now let’s rewine before I start sounding like some dramatic dick from some soap opera.

I was already ten minutes late, sprinting through the lobby like my life depended on it, because honestly it kind of did. Mom’s latest hospital bill was sitting on the kitchen table like a death threat, and this job, my first real shot at not being a broken disappointment was the only thing standing between us and me selling a kidney. So yeah, I was moving fast. Too fast.

The elevator doors were closing. I threw myself forward, arm outstretched like some action-movie idiot, and slammed shoulder-first into the guy stepping out.

Hot coffee exploded everywhere.

All over his crisp white shirt.

All over his stupidly expensive charcoal suit.

All over my only decent blazer.

The cup hit the floor and rolled away like it was embarrassed for both of us.

I looked up.

Tall. Ridiculously tall. A face like someone carved it out of diamond then got mad at it for being too pretty. Dark eyes already narrowing. Mouth a flat, furious line.

“Oh shit,” I blurted. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…. ”

He didn’t even blink.

He just looked down at the spreading brown stain like I’d personally insulted his entire bloodline, then back at me.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said. Voice low and cold. The kind of cold that makes you feel smaller than you already are.

I opened my mouth to say something anything apologetic, charming, whatever might stop him from calling security, but my phone started screaming in my pocket. The alarm I’d set for 7:55. First day. Creative floor. Presentation in five.

“I really have to… ” I started.

He stepped around me like I was a puddle he didn’t want to touch. Didn’t say another word. Just walked away, leaving wet footprints and the smell of ruined coffee behind.

I stood there for half a second, heart jackhammering, then bolted for the stairs because the elevator was clearly cursed now.

By the time I burst onto the creative floor, gasping, hair sticking to my forehead, everyone was already staring.

Not at me.

At him.

The same guy.

He was standing in the middle of the open-plan space like he owned it which, yeah, turns out he did. Choi Si-woo. Creative Director. The Ice-Cold Devil in a Tailored Suit. The one whose campaigns made brands cry with joy and designers cry with despair. And right now he had a very large, very visible coffee stain blooming across his chest like a Rorschach test for rage.

He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t even bothered to blot it. Just stood there in ruined fabric, arms crossed, staring straight at me as I tried to slink to the empty desk they’d assigned me.

The entire floor went dead quiet.

I dropped my portfolio on the desk. It landed too loud.

Si-woo tilted his head. Just a bit.

“New one,” he said. Not a question.

I swallowed. “Kang Ye-jun. Nice to.. ”

He cut me off by pointing at the big screen on the wall.

“Connect your laptop. Now.”

I fumbled. Hands shaking so bad I almost dropped the damn thing twice. Finally got it plugged in. My portfolio opened my pride and joy, six months of sleepless nights, rejected internships, Mom telling me “you’re gonna make it, baby” while she coughed blood into a tissue.

I clicked to the first slide.

He didn’t let me get past the title card.

“Stop.”

I froze.

He walked over slowly , like a cat deciding whether to play with the mouse or just eat it. Stopped right in front of the screen. The coffee stain looked even worse up close.

“This,” he said, tapping the screen with one long finger, “is garbage.”

My stomach dropped to my shoes.

The room sucked in a collective breath.

He didn’t stop.

“Amateur color choices. Predictable composition. The typography looks like it was done by a drunk intern who hates his life.” He glanced at me. “Which tracks.”

Someone in the back snorted. Then coughed to cover it.

I felt my face burn.

“I… I worked really hard on… ”

“I don’t care.” He clicked to the next slide himself. “This one’s worse. You used stock photos. Stock. Photos. In a pitch for a luxury skincare brand. Do you think our clients are stupid?”

“I didn’t have budget for ”

“Budget?” He laughed. Once. Sharp. Like a gunshot. “You think I care about your budget? You think anyone here cares about your budget? This isn’t art school. This is money. And this, ” he waved at the screen like it personally offended him “… is not money.”

He closed the file.

Then he opened my folder.

Then he started dragging files to the trash. One by one. Slowly. Letting me watch.

My throat closed up.

“Sir… ”

“Shut up.”

He hit empty trash.

The little animation swirled. Gone.

All of it.

Gone.

I stared at the empty folder like someone had just told me Mom died.

The room was so quiet I could hear the air conditioning hum.

Si-woo turned to the rest of the team.

“Twelve hours,” he said. “He redoes the entire campaign from scratch. Better. Or he’s out. And if anyone helps him, you can join him on the street.”

Nobody moved.

He looked back at me.

“Clock’s ticking, Kang Ye-jun.”

Then he walked away. Coffee stain and all.

I stood there. Couldn’t breathe right.

Someone finally muttered, “Jesus. First day and he already fed him to the shredder.”

Another voice, female, low “That’s gotta be a record.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my laptop through the window. I wanted to chase after him and dump the rest of whatever coffee was left in the break room over his perfect fucking head.

Instead I sat down.

Opened a blank file.

And started crying.

I worked through lunch. Through the afternoon. Through the point where my eyes burned and my hands cramped.

Around seven someone dropped a takeout bag on my desk without a word. I didn’t even look up to see who.

I ate cold kimbap with one hand and dragged mood boards with the other.

By ten the floor was empty except for me and the janitor who kept giving me pitying looks every time he passed.

I was on slide seventeen when the glass door to Si-woo’s office opened.

He stepped out.

No jacket now. Sleeves rolled up. Coffee stain still there, faded but stubborn. Hair a little messed up, like he’d run his hands through it.

He stopped by my desk.

I didn’t look up.

“You’re still here,” he said. Not surprised. Not impressed. Just… stating a fact.

I kept typing.

He leaned over my shoulder. Close enough I could smell coffee and whatever cologne he wore that probably cost more than my rent.

I waited for the next insult.

Instead he was quiet for a long second.

Then:

“Not terrible.”

My fingers froze.

He straightened.

“Finish it. Send it to me before you leave. If it’s shit, don’t bother coming back tomorrow.”

He walked away.

I stared at the screen.

Not terrible.

From Choi Si-woo.

I laughed once.

Then I wiped my face on my sleeve and kept going.

Because fuck him.

And fuck crying in front of his entire team on day one.

And fuck the fact that “not terrible” from the devil himself felt like winning the lottery.

I finished at 3:47 a.m.

Sent the file.

Collapsed face-first on my desk.

And passed out.

When I woke up, neck screaming, mouth tasting like death, there was one new email.

From: Choi Si-woo

Subject: Re: Campaign Redo

Body: Acceptable.

Come to my office at 8.

Don’t be late.

I stared at it.

Acceptable.

I laughed again. Louder this time.

Then I realized I still smelled like spilled coffee and despair.

And I had forty-five minutes to get home, shower, change, and get back here without looking like I’d been hit by a truck.

I grabbed my bag.

Stumbled to the elevator.

And right as the doors were closing, I heard two voices from the copy room.

“That’s the third one this month he’s broken.”

“Yeah. Wonder how long before this kid cries or quits.”

The doors shut.

I leaned my forehead against the metal.

Laughed one more time.

Not this time, assholes.

Not this fucking time.

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