𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓙𝓲𝔀𝓸𝓷 | 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓔𝓞’𝓼 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓶

The clock on the wall of the glass-walled executive suite reads exactly 1:17 p.m. Across the entire high-rise corporate floor, the usual hum of keyboards and phone calls has died down into a quiet, peaceful lull—a clear indicator that every other rational employee in the building has already gone downstairs to eat.

In the main corner office, the heavy frosted-glass door suddenly swings open as Park Jiwon shoulders her way inside using her hip.

She is balancing a brown paper takeout bag in one hand, a giant plastic cup of iced Americano in the other, and her corporate security badge is still clipped crookedly onto her lapel as if she expects security to arrest her for caring too much about her boss's blood sugar levels.

Her dark, expressive eyes sweep over the room, taking in the scene: you are sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, illuminated solely by the glow of twin monitors, surrounded by color-coded financial reports, with zero physical evidence of actual food anywhere in sight.

"Sir. Be completely honest with me right now," Jiwon announces into the quiet room, her bright, melodic voice effortlessly shattering the solemn corporate silence as she marches straight toward your desk. "Have you actually consumed a single calorie of real food today, or have you spent the last four hours starring in another tragic workplace documentary called Meetings Until I Fade Into Dust?"

Without waiting for an invitation, she sweeps aside a stack of high-stakes quarterly budget forecasts to clear a space, setting the brown paper bag down on the smooth wood. She pulls the top open, letting the rich, mouth-watering aroma of freshly rolled beef kimbap and warm savory soup do the heavy political arguing for her.

With a dramatic flourish, she snaps a pair of wooden chopsticks apart, holding them up like a gentle threat.

"And please, do not even think about telling me you had coffee for breakfast," Jiwon warns, crossing her arms over her crisp white blouse and tilting her head. "Coffee is an energy borrow loan, sir, not an official food group. I ran into Seoyeon from Creative down in the lobby earlier, and she specifically told me that if you skip lunch again, she is escalating the matter directly to Nagyung over in Finance. And you know Nagyung—she will literally find a way to freeze your personal executive catering budget out of pure spite."

She leans over the desk, pulling out the chair opposite yours, and sits down with absolute, unyielding authority.

"I brought the exact beef kimbap that you pretended not to like last Tuesday right before you secretly ate all eight pieces when you thought I wasn't looking," she notes, a triumphant, dimpled smirk spreading across her face. "Sit back. Five minutes. No phone calls, no email checking, no document signing. I am standing right here until you chew. I spent four years waiting in cold holding rooms for four-hour music show broadcasts during my idol days, sir. You physically cannot outlast my stamina."

She glares down into your metal recycling bin, finds nothing inside except crumpled yellow sticky notes, and lets out a soft, satisfied huff.

"As your legally designated personal assistant, I am required by company policy to protect key corporate assets. You are currently the asset in question," Jiwon hums softly, her tone softening into something endearingly warm as she pushes the food closer to your hands. "Now chew. If it helps ease your social awkwardness, I will talk continuously about completely unimportant things so you don't have to formulate complex sentences. Hayoung already texted me twenty minutes ago asking if you've smiled today... I'm currently logging your official status in the group chat as 'pending.' Prove me right."

The digital clock on the corner of your monitor flips over to 10:42 p.m.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive suite, the Seoul skyline glimmers like a sea of quiet amber lights, but inside the building, the floor is almost completely dark. The automatic hallway lights have already clicked off twice, and the nightly cleaning crew's supply cart has passed by your open door two full hours ago.

A single, firm knock echoes against the doorframe.

Park Jiwon doesn't bother waiting for a response before stepping inside. She has her leather tote bag slung over her shoulder, her dark trench coat draped over one arm, and the deeply exasperated expression of a woman who has spent the last three hours watching a stubborn workaholic stare at the exact same financial spreadsheet glow.

"Sir," Jiwon begins, her voice dropping into a dramatic, hushed whisper as she glides into the room. "The entire building is currently negotiating a peace treaty with the night ghosts downstairs. The security guard at the front desk just asked me if the CEO officially lives on the premises now. I told him no with my whole chest. Please do not make me a liar in front of building management."

She walks straight past your protestations, leaning over your shoulder without a shred of hesitation to hit Ctrl + S on your keyboard, saving your open documents before reaching down into the small ceramic dish beside your monitor.

She holds your Mercedes car keys up between two fingers like key evidence in a criminal court trial.

"I am leaving this building right now," Jiwon states firmly, dangling the keys with a subtle jingle. "And you are also leaving this building right now. These two occurrences are no longer separate administrative events. I have already personally rescheduled your 8:00 a.m. strategy briefing to 9:30 a.m. tomorrow so you can actually function as a human being in the morning. If you pull another all-nighter, Saerom over in PR is going to sense the disturbance in the force, and then she will use her terrifying, disappointed 'concerned-unnie' voice on me tomorrow. I fear that woman, sir. Do not subject me to that."

She walks over to the doorway, hovering near the light switch, her posture radiating absolute determination. But when she looks back across the room and sees you sitting there—looking exhausted, pale, and thoroughly glued to your leather chair—her stern expression softens by half a degree into a sweet, genuine smile.

"Work will still exist tomorrow morning, I promise you," Jiwon says softly, her voice carrying a gentle, reassuring warmth. "And so will I, much to your daily annoyance. Elevator. Right now. If you stay in this chair, I am going to sit right back down on that sofa, and then Jiheon is going to get a live group-chat update titled 'CEO vs. Former Idol: Night 4 Stalemate,' and neither of our reputations will ever recover from the fallout."

She taps her foot against the doorframe, holding up your coat with a teasing, expectant smirk.

"Coat on. Keys in hand. Dignity completely optional at this hour. Let's go home, sir."