The crisp autumn air carried a faint bite as you walked down the bustling Seoul street, the golden afternoon sunlight filtering through scattered clouds. You barely registered the chill, too engrossed in your phone where the biggest K-pop news of the year was unfolding. TWICE’s Jihyo—legendary leader, powerhouse vocalist, the very heart of the group—had just announced her departure from JYP Entertainment after twenty-one years. The internet was ablaze.

Your thumb scrolled endlessly through reactions:

@ONCEforLife: OUR CAPTAIN IS FREE!!! EMITHAUS LET’S GOOOOOOOO!!!

@kpop_analyst: Smart move. Jihyo’s always been the most business-savvy in TWICE. If anyone can pull off independence, it’s her.

@fakeconcern123: idk… isn’t this risky? what if TWICE disbands?

@jihyosbelt: y’all realize she’s STILL in TWICE right? she’s just running her own company now. relax.

@anti_4life: lol overrated. her solo flopped anyway.

You huffed at the last one—absurd, considering "Killin’ Me Good" had dominated charts for weeks. But before you could fire off a reply, your shoulder collided with something solid. A sharp gasp escaped you as you stumbled back, barely catching yourself.

The first thing you registered was the broad chest clad in a sleek black tracksuit—a man, tall and built like a linebacker, glaring down at you with thinly veiled irritation. "Watch where you’re going," he muttered, voice gruff.

You barely had time to nod in apology when someone stepped smoothly around him, the movement so fluid it barely disturbed the air.

Jihyo.

Not on a screen, not across a concert arena, but right there, close enough that you could see the faint shimmer of highlighter dusted across her cheekbones. Her long chestnut waves swayed as she tilted her head, lips twitching in amusement. "Ignore him," she said, waving a dismissive hand at the bodyguard (because that’s what he had to be). "He’s just overprotective."

But then—she looked at you. Not a passing glance, not the detached acknowledgment of a celebrity spotting a fan. No. Her gaze scanned you, up and down, left and right, like she was measuring something, like she was seeing something no one else had.

Then, without warning, she took a single step back and extended her hand. Palm up. Waiting.

A beat of silence. The city noise faded into static.

"You’re perfect," she said, voice low and firm, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.

And then, with the confidence of someone who’d spent a lifetime making stars out of dreams—

"How would you like to be the first trainee at EMITHAUS?"

The world around you blurred. The street noise faded. All you could hear was the pounding of your own pulse.

Her fingers stayed outstretched, waiting.

It felt like a fever dream—the kind of absurd fantasy that evaporated the second you opened your eyes. Yet here you were, standing in front of the sleek, understated building that housed EMITHAUS, the newly founded company of Park Jihyo herself, trying to convince yourself this was real.

How had this even happened? You didn’t apply. You weren’t scouted. No headhunter slid into your DMs. One day, you were just… you, and the next, there was a message waiting in your inbox, formal yet unmistakably her.

"We’d like to offer you a position working directly under me. Let’s discuss details in person."

For days, you’d stared at the message, convinced it was a scam—until the official EMITHAUS account followed up, until verification links led back to her actual profiles, until the reality settled in: Jihyo wanted you.

And now, dressed in your best attempt at business casual (was this too stiff? Too formal? Did assistants wear blazers?), you stepped inside. The office wasn’t the sprawling, chrome-and-marble spectacle you’d imagined. It was smaller, humbler—new. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint and ambition. The walls were mostly bare, save for a few framed TWICE albums and a sleek, handwritten sign that read EMITHAUS in elegant script. A receptionist greeted you with a knowing smile, as if she’d been expecting you, before leading you down a short hallway toward a door at the end.

Jihyo’s office.

No—studio?

The moment you stepped inside, the scent of coffee and something subtly floral—her perfume, maybe—hit you. The space was bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through half-open blinds, illuminating the woman sitting at a sleek black desk, her fingers hovering over a laptop keyboard.

Park Jihyo.

She was dressed down—loose white button-up, sleeves rolled to her elbows, black slacks—but she still looked devastating. Her chestnut hair cascaded over one shoulder as she glanced up at you, a single strand catching the light as it fell across her cheek. The second her eyes locked onto yours, your lungs forgot how to function.

"Glad you made it," she said, voice smooth but warm. "Close the door, yeah?"

You obeyed on instinct, the quiet click of the latch sounding far louder than it should have.

She pushed her chair back and stood, crossing the short distance between you with unhurried confidence. Her handshake was firm, her skin surprisingly soft, her grip lingering just a second longer than necessary.

"I’m Jihyo," she said, lips quirking in amusement, as if the idea of introducing herself was absurd. "But I assume you already knew that."

A beat passed before she gestured toward the empty chair across from her desk. "Sit. Let’s talk about what you’ll be doing here."

You sank into the seat, pulse racing as she settled back into her own, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled thoughtfully.

"I’ll be honest," she began, tilting her head slightly. "It’s going to be more than just scheduling and emails. I need someone who can keep up—with my work, my ideas, my… eccentricities." A faint smirk played at the corner of her lips, like she knew exactly how overwhelming this all was. "But don’t worry. The pay? More than enough to make it worth your while."

She leaned forward then, elbows resting on the table, gaze sharpening—as if she could already see the questions spinning in your head.*

"So," she said, voice dropping just slightly, amused. "Are you ready?"

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