Chapter 2: Chapter 2

~Ye Jun~

I thought acceptable meant I could breathe for five goddamn minutes. I was wrong.

I dragged myself back in at 7:58 the next morning same wrinkled shirt from yesterday because I hadn’t even had time to do laundry, eyes so red I looked like I’d been crying in a smoke-filled room, which, fair, I kind of had. Si-woo was already at the head of the conference table, sleeves still rolled, coffee stain mostly gone but still faintly there like a battle scar he refused to hide. Everyone else was pretending to be busy on their screens, but I could feel the side-eyes.

He didn’t look up when I walked in.

“Sit.”

I sat. Chair scraped too loud. Someone snickered.

He clicked the remote. My “acceptable” campaign popped up on the big screen.

Silence for maybe three seconds.

Then he spoke.

“Still shit.”

I blinked. “You said… ”

“I said acceptable. Acceptable is not good. Acceptable is the bare minimum you scrape together so I don’t fire you on the spot. This?” He jabbed at the screen. “This is acceptable garbage. Redo the color grading. The hierarchy’s off. The call-to-action looks like it was designed by someone who’s never bought anything in their life. Deadline: midnight. Tonight.”

My mouth opened. Nothing came out at first.

Then: “It’s Friday.”

He finally looked at me. “And?”

“People usually… leave at some point on Fridays?”

“Not here.” He stood up. “Not you. Not until I say it’s done.”

He walked out.

The room exhaled.

Lee Min-ji senior copywriter, sharp bob, sharper tongue leaned over from the next desk. “Welcome to hell, newbie. Hope you like the smell of burning dreams.”

I forced a laugh. It came out like a cough. “Yeah, real welcoming committee.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s been worse since the last campaign tanked with the luxury car client. You just happened to walk in on the rage hangover.”

“Great. So I’m the designated punching bag.”

“Pretty much.” She glanced toward Si-woo’s office. “But hey, at least he’s noticing you. Most of us just get ignored until we’re invisible.”

I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or terrified.

Turned out terrified was the right answer.

I spent the day tweaking. And tweaking. And tweaking. Every hour or so he’d walk past, glance at my screen, mutter “worse” or “delete that” or just sigh like I was personally disappointing his ancestors, then vanish again.

By eight p.m. the floor was half-empty. By ten it was just me, Min-ji pretending to work but mostly doom-scrolling on her phone, and one junior designer who kept yawning so hard I thought his jaw would dislocate.

Midnight came.

I hit send.

Waited.

Nothing.

At 12:47 a new email.

From: Choi Si-woo

Subject: Still Waiting

Body: Not done. The gradient on slide 4 is amateur. Fix it. Send again. Don’t go home.

I stared at the screen.

Then I laughed. Quiet at first, then louder, then kind of hysterical.

Min-ji looked over. “You okay?”

“No. I’m losing my mind. That’s what’s happening.”

She snorted. “Join the club. Last guy who got this treatment lasted three weeks before he started hallucinating deadlines. Quit on a Tuesday. Left a sticky note that just said ’fuck this’ and his keycard.”

“Romantic.”

She shrugged. “At least he didn’t cry in the bathroom like the one before him.”

I rubbed my face. “I’m not crying.”

“Yet.”

“Wow. Supportive.”

“I’m not your mom, kid. Survive or don’t. That’s the game.”

She packed up and left.

I stayed.

Redid the gradient. Sent at 2:14 a.m.

Email back at 2:32.

From: Choi Si-woo

Subject: Re: Still Waiting

Body: Marginally better. Marginally is not enough. Redo the entire flow. Make it breathe. Send before 6.

I slammed my forehead on the desk. Not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to feel something other than exhaustion.

“Fuck you,” I whispered to the empty office.

Then I got back to work.

Around 4 a.m. I had to piss so bad I almost didn’t make it to the bathroom. On my way back I passed Si-woo’s office. Door was cracked. Light on.

I shouldn’t have looked.

But I did.

He was at his desk, head in his hands, shoulders tight like he was holding the weight of the universe and it was pissing him off. Papers everywhere. Sketches. Mockups. And right on top, one single sheet that had fallen half off the desk.

I froze.

It wasn’t a campaign layout.

It was… a drawing. Rough pencil. Quick, angry strokes. A pair of wrists, male, I think bound with what looked like silk rope, crossed behind a back. Shadows falling in a way that made the muscles stand out. The line where the rope dug in was dark, deliberate. And the face half-turned, eyes closed, mouth open just enough to show teeth clenched in something that wasn’t pain exactly.

It was raw.

It was filthy.

It was private.

My heart slammed so loud I thought he’d hear it.

He didn’t move.

I reached out slowly , like the paper might bite and picked it up.

Looked closer.

No signature. No date. Just that image.

I folded it. Small. Shoved it in my pocket before my brain could catch up with what I was doing.

Then I backed away like I’d robbed a bank.

Got back to my desk.

Hands shaking.

Kept working.

But now my brain was screaming two things at once:

One: Choi Si-woo the Ice-Cold Devil who’d spent the last forty-eight hours trying to break me had a secret kink that involved tying people up and making them look wrecked in the best way.

Two: I had just stolen evidence of it.

I laughed again..

Because holy shit.

This wasn’t just leverage.

This was a weapon.

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