JIAH POV
The printer has been running for twelve straight minutes and I swear I can hear my sanity burning with the toner.
Five hundred and something pages, single-sided because apparently the Chief Executive Director has a personal issue with efficiency, and I stand here feeding tray after tray like I'm operating heavy machinery instead of holding a master's degree.
Who the hell is he planning to impress by flipping through physical paper like we're living in 2003, and why does it feel like this isn't about the file at all.
Every breath I take smells like warm ink and rage.
I stack the first thick pile carefully, aligning the corners out of habit even though I want to crumple the whole thing and dump it on his stupid glass desk.
This is a power move, that's all it is, and the worst part is that it's working because I'm here doing it instead of storming into his office and asking him what exactly his damage is.
Who the hell does he think he is.
The machine hums again and spits out another avalanche of paper, and I grab it before it slides off the tray.
My fingers brush the edges and I imagine him sitting there later, flipping through each page with that blank face, pretending this is necessary while knowing I stood here for hours because he said so.
He wants to see the printed file.
Fine.
I hope he reads every damn page.
"Ms. Seo?"
I look up and it takes me a second to place the face because I barely know anyone here beyond their job titles and coffee preferences.
She's from accounting, I think, or maybe HR, and she's holding a folder against her chest while staring at the mountain of paper beside me.
"Why do you need this much printed?" she asks, eyebrows lifting slightly.
Because the new CEO wants to cook a five-course meal with it and eat it page by page while maintaining eye contact with me, that's why.
"The Chief Executive Director requested a printed copy of the Southeast Asia acquisition file," I say instead, keeping my tone even.
Her mouth twists like she's holding back something and then she leans in slightly. "I heard he's a cold asshole," she says in a lower voice. "Is that correct?"
For a split second I want to say yes so badly it almost slips out of my throat.
Yes, he's insufferable and controlling and probably enjoys watching people suffer in high definition.
But I don't know her.
I don't trust anyone in this building , especially not with something that could circle back to me in less than an hour.
"I think he's very detail-oriented," I reply carefully. "He has high standards."
She gives me an awkward laugh that sounds more like a cough and nods as if I've just confirmed office gossip without confirming it at all.
"Right, high standards," she repeats, then retreats down the hallway like she never stopped here.
I exhale slowly once she's gone.
The printer keeps running.
Of course it does.
Another stack drops and I gather it, my arms starting to ache from holding the weight of it.
I glance toward his office through the glass corridor and see his silhouette moving behind the blinds, calm and controlled while I'm practically drowning in A4 sheets.
You wanted printed, so I'll give you printed.
"Jiah?"
That voice actually makes me relax a fraction before I can stop myself.
I turn and see Kang Minjae walking toward me, sleeves rolled up slightly, tie loosened just enough to look human. He stops in front of the printer and stares at the growing pile.
"Why do you need this much paper?" he asks, not mocking, just genuinely confused.
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. "The Chief Executive Director wants the acquisition file printed."
"All of it?" he asks.
"All of it."
He glances at the stack, then back at me. "That's insane."
Tell me about it.
I shrug lightly. "Maybe he likes the smell of fresh ink."
Minjae huffs a quiet laugh and leans against the wall beside the printer. "You don't have to defend him, you know," he says. "Half the building is terrified of him already."
I look down at the papers in my hands.
Terrified.
If only they knew.
On my first day he looked at me across that desk and asked Do i know him , and I said no like a coward because I chose survival over honesty.
I should have looked him straight in the eye and said yes, you idiot, I know you, I dated you, I remember the way you used to laugh without thinking about it.
He would have fired me that same day.
Fuck.
______________________
ENHYEOK POV
The phone stops vibrating after the third attempt.
I don't pick it up because there's no reason to, and because the name on the screen isn't calling to ask about the weather or my health.
The Seoryeon Group heir doesn't dial my number for friendly conversation, and I'm not interested in giving him the satisfaction of thinking he can reach me whenever he wants.
The office is quiet again.
I switch the monitor view from the main corridor to the printer area, and there she is, buried under paper like this is some kind of punishment camp instead of a corporate floor.
She stacks everything neatly despite the weight, jaw tight, shoulders squared like she's refusing to bend even when she should.
Then he walks into frame.
What was his name again.
Kang Minjae.
He stops beside her, too close for someone who is just a colleague, sleeves rolled up like he belongs in her space.
She actually looks at him differently than she looks at everyone else, less guarded, less stiff, and I watch her mouth curve into something that doesn't exist when she speaks to me.
He says something.
She answers.
They look comfortable.
My hand tightens around the edge of the desk.
I pick up the phone and dial. "Mr. Lim."
"Yes, sir."
"What's the relationship between Ms. Seo and Kang Minjae."
There's a pause, keys tapping faintly. "They were under the same training session two years ago, sir. Records indicate they worked on multiple joint evaluations. They are considered close."
Close.
I lean back in my chair, eyes still on the monitor.
"Transfer him to the China branch," I say calmly. "Effective immediately."
Another pause, shorter this time. "Yes, sir."
I cut the call.
On the screen, Minjae steps away after a final comment, and she watches him go for half a second before turning back to the printer.
I rest my chin against my knuckles and observe the rhythm of her movements, controlled but irritated, like she's swallowing words she wants to spit out.
I hope you get isolated here.
The camera angle shifts slightly when someone rushes past her, shoulder colliding with her stack.
The papers scatter across the polished floor in a messy white explosion, and she stumbles half a step before catching herself.
She kneels immediately.
Sheets everywhere.
Her hair falls forward as she gathers them one by one, and people slow down but don't help because this floor runs on fear and hierarchy.
I watch her collect every page carefully, checking corners, reorganizing, refusing to look embarrassed even though she should be furious.
So she has to stand there and rearrange it all.
I press the internal line and wait until I see her phone light up on the desk beside her. She hesitates, still crouched on the floor, then answers while holding a stack against her knee.
"Yes, sir."
Her voice is controlled.
"Get me a coffee," I say, eyes never leaving the monitor.
There's a brief silence on the line, the kind that holds a thousand unspoken things, then she replies, "Yes, sir."
I end the call.
On screen, she pulls the phone away from her ear and stares at it like she's debating whether to throw it across the corridor.
Her lips move, and even without audio I can read the shape of the word she mouths.
Asshole.
My expression doesn't change.
The intercom buzzes softly.
"Executive Director, the Chairman's office requests your presence."
I stand immediately and straighten my cuffs before leaving the office, the corridor parting as I walk through it.
The executive elevator opens without delay, and within minutes I step into the Chairman's floor where silence feels heavier, older.
The doors to his office are already open.
My grandfather sits behind the massive desk, back straight despite his age, hands resting on a file thicker than most people's patience. His gaze lifts when I enter, sharp and assessing, not warm.
"Sit," he says.
I take the seat across from him without a word.
He studies me for a long moment, fingers resting on the closed file in front of him, gaze sharp despite the silver in his hair.
The silence is deliberate, a reminder that in this room he built the foundation I am now standing on.
"Why did you fire five directors yesterday," he asks evenly.
His tone is calm, but it is not casual, and the weight behind the question is heavier than the marble beneath my shoes.
He already knows the numbers, the reports, the risks, and he is not asking for information.
"You know the reason," I reply.
His eyes narrow slightly, not offended, just measuring.
"I want to hear you say it," he says.
"They compromised projected acquisition models and concealed internal risk escalation," I answer without hesitation.
"Strategy underreported exposure, Finance approved unstable liquidity assumptions, and Legal cleared compliance without reviewing updated foreign clauses."
He leans back slowly.
"And that justifies immediate termination without board consultation," he asks.
"It justifies removing liabilities before they become damage," I say. "Delay would have signaled tolerance."
His fingers tap once against the file.
"You have destabilized five networks in a single morning," he says. "Those men have influence, alliances, and loyal subordinates. Are you prepared for the retaliation."
"I am," I answer.
"Prepared for stock fluctuation," he continues. "Prepared for media pressure. Prepared for emergency motions from shareholders who dislike abrupt power displays."
"I did not act for display," I say calmly. "I acted because they were incompetent."
His gaze sharpens at that.
"You move quickly," he says. "Sometimes speed is strength. Sometimes it is arrogance."
My jaw tightens slightly, but my posture does not shift.
"Are you ready for the consequences," he asks again, slower this time. "Because this will not end at five resignation letters."
"It will end with structural stability," I reply. "Or I will correct it until it does."
The room goes quiet again.
He watches me for several seconds, and there is something colder beneath his expression now, something older than business. His voice lowers just slightly when he speaks again.
"Do not mistake control for invincibility," he says. "Power isolates faster than it protects."
I hold his gaze.
"I am aware."
His fingers close over the file.
Personal decisions driven by emotion nearly cost you more than you understand."he says, each word precise
"Do not make mistakes like you did in the past," . "
_____________________
JIAH POV
I stack the last sheet carefully, pressing the edges against the desk to align them perfectly.
No creases.
No bent corners.
No sign that the entire pile hit the floor fifteen minutes ago.
The corridor outside his office is empty when I finally lift the full weight of the printed file into my arms.
His chair inside is vacant, blinds half-open, desk immaculate as always. For a second I stand there, listening to the quiet hum of the air system, then I set the file down on the side table and go to prepare his coffee.
By the time I return, the elevator at the end of the hall opens.
He steps out.
His pace is steady, controlled, but something about his face makes the air feel thinner. Not angry. Not loud. Just sharp in a way that cuts without moving.
He enters his office without looking at me.
I follow.
He takes his seat slowly, adjusting his cuffs once before leaning back into the chair like it belongs to him more than the building does. The room feels smaller with him inside it.
"Sir," I say evenly. "This is the file. And your coffee."
I place the cup carefully on the right side of his desk. Then I lift the thick stack of printed documents and hold it out toward him.
He doesn't reach for it.
Instead, he picks up the coffee.
He takes one measured sip.
His eyes remain on me.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he lowers his arm and drops the entire cup into the trash bin beside his desk.
Again.
The sound of ceramic hitting plastic is loud in the silence.
I freeze.
He folds his hands loosely on the desk.
"Put the file into the shredder."
What?