My Boss is a CHICKEN?!

If looks could kill, I'd already be lying in a velvet coffin with angel wings photoshopped onto my funeral portrait.

I stood there, head bowed like a tragic K-drama princess being dragged to marry a playboy duke for family honor.

Across the table, Mr. Jeon was giving me the kind of silent death glare that could vaporize planets.

Ten minutes of eye-daggers.

Ten. Silent. Minutes.

Was he meditating? Was he rebooting?

OR IS MY FACE JUST TOO GORGEOUS TO PROCESS?!

(Okay Mira, not the time to compliment yourself.)

Then suddenly—he rang that creepy little silver bell on his desk. The one that sounds like it summons demons. (Or HR, Same difference.)

A poor soul walked in carrying a mountain of paperwork, carefully placed it on his desk like offering a sacrifice to the devil, gave a polite bow, and vanished faster than my GPA in 10th grade.

Mr. Jeon didn't even acknowledge him.

Not a glance. Not a nod.

Nothing.

This man is emotionally dryer than the Sahara.

I stared at the papers.

Holy Mother of Excel.

Who was supposed to finish this? A village?

The stack looked taller than the Eiffel Tower. No—maybe taller than Jeon's ego.

I actually felt bad for whoever had to do it.

He got up from his seat without a word and started walking toward the shelf behind his desk.

Each step slow, calculated like a villain monologuing without even opening his mouth.

His fingers skimmed across a row of neatly arranged files, then plucked a thick file with the same finesse one might use to select a weapon from an arsenal.

"You're going to complete these files by 5 PM" he declared, like he was announcing the purge while opening the file to read.

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

What in the actual fried chicken—

"W-What do you mean by complete these files by 5 PM?" I asked, my voice already shaking like a rookie actor in a horror film.

"It means I want you to study every detail in those files and brief me on the project's flaws" he replied flatly, not even sparing me a glance.

His focus was laser sharp on the files—meanwhile, I was over here trying not to spiral into existential panic.

I blinked at him, dumbfounded. "W-what?"

"I said what I said" he muttered, finally sparing me a quick glance—just enough to set my anxiety on fire—before going right back to his precious files.

"No, this isn't fair!" I exploded. "Do I look like a robot? A machine? A Google AI?"

"Do you want to work here or rot in jail?" he asked, voice as calm as a psychopath in a crime documentary.

I—excuse me???

JAIL??!

Why is my employment contract giving prison break vibes?!

"This isn't work, it's employment torture! You can't possibly expect me to go through all of this by 5 PM!"

He slammed the file shut and then turned towards me, his expression unreadable.

"You dare to talk back?"

He walked towards me slowly, ominously—like a soap opera villain who just found out I'm secretly the heiress of his enemy's company.

"I'm not talking back, I'm just—" I stuttered.

Now he was right beside me— or in front of me. Looming. Towering.

"Zip your mouth and do the work, or I'll call the security to throw you out. Again."

Oh wow. Not this again.

"You're taking revenge on me, aren't you?!"

"Yes." he said while locking my eyes with his.

Did he even blink? No.

I choked on my own disbelief. "You're just openly admitting that?!"

"You didn't really expect me to roll out a red carpet and sing you a welcome song, did you?"

"I—I didn't expect anything including a bed of legally questionable tasks either!"

"Less words. More labour."

I clenched my jaw.

He clenched his.

We were two teeth-gritting champions in a showdown.

He dropped the file in front of me with all the gentleness of a judge slamming down a guilty verdict.

"These are details about the Daejeon Hotel Project" he added, sliding the file towards me like a gangster offering a shady deal.

"Study it. Propose a business plan. Today."

I stared at him like he'd just asked me to bake a wedding cake on a volcano.

P-propose a business plan?

"Today?! Are you trying to kill me or promote me to ghost employee of the month?!"

"Do it with the same enthusiasm you had while breaking into my house."

OF COURSE HE BROUGHT THAT UP.

The same man who once said, "never mix personal life with professional life."

LIES. LIES AND LIES.

"I had three executives lined up to take on the Daejeon Hotel Project."

I felt my spine straighten on instinct, like he was reading me, not the file.

"I fired all of them this morning." He stared at me while walking up to me, eyes like cold steel.

I met his gaze and instinctively took a step back.

"WHY?!"

The back of my legs hit the edge of a chair and I plopped down like a clumsy cartoon character.

"So I could assign it to you."

Pause.

He turned the file toward me and tapped the charts.

"You claimed to be resourceful in your interview, remember? Said you 'thrived under pressure' and were 'born to multitask.'"

"That was résumé poetry!" I cried. "You weren't supposed to take it literally!"

His eyes still hadn't left mine. "You break deadlines, invade private property, fake emergencies, and speak without thinking."

"But sir—"

"If you channel that chaos into work" he interrupted smoothly, "you'd actually be a competent employee."

I blinked. Was… was that a compliment?

No.

No no no.

This was Mr. Jeon. If he ever complimented me, it would be carved into a tombstone.

"You're not entirely useless" he added, voice low like a villain whispering final words before pressing a red button.

Wow.

I've never been so insulted and encouraged in the same sentence.

He suddenly bent down.

My breath hitched.

His face was too close.

Dangerously close.

Like—"I can feel his breath on my soul" close.

Was he trying to intimidate me? Or check if my pores were FDA-approved?

I leaned back so far, I nearly became a pretzel in that chair.

"Your days of peace are so over, Mira Kim."

"I'm going to make you pay for every single inconvenience you've caused."

How so, sir?

I'm broke

But I didn't say that aloud this time. Mostly because I forgot how to speak. Or blink. Or breathe.

He didn't move. Just hovered there. His sharp jawline practically casting a shadow over my soul.

Then he leaned in even closer.

Sir. Boundary who? Privacy where? Do we even know her?

His shadow literally blocked out the ceiling light. I felt like Simba when Scar said "long live the king."

"Starting today, I want hourly updates. If I don't see any progress.." he said, tone dropping into a dark, rich register that I did NOT consent to, "I'll assign you to the archives."

The… the archives?

"The one with the broken AC?" I whispered, horrified.

"And no windows" he confirmed.

"Oh God" I whispered.

"And no internet."

My soul left my body.

SIR.

WHAT LEVEL OF CORPORATE TORTURE—

"And" he added with a glint of evil joy, "you'll be supervised by Manager Kwon."

Manager Kwon.

The man who once gave a 40-minute lecture on font choices.

THE MAN WHO PRONOUNCES "PDF" AS "Puh-Duh-Fuh."

I clutched the folder with trembling hands.

"You're sick" I said softly, my voice filled with genuine awe and mild trauma.

"Motivated yet?" he asked, his voice dipped in smugness, lips curling into a smirk that should've been illegal under workplace safety regulations.

I wanted to say something witty. Something savage. Maybe even throw in a creative insult involving a pigeon and a lawsuit.

But I couldn't.

Because he was standing way too close.

Like way too close.

Like "I can see the reflection of my soul in his eyes" close.

How the hell am I supposed to cuss him out when I can barely breathe without inhaling his cologne and confusion?

What could I even do?

So, I did the only thing my fried brain allowed me to.

I nodded.

Just… nodded.

Like a dumb NPC.

He raised an eyebrow, pleased.

"Good girl" he murmured.

GOOD WHAT.

I swear on all my ancestors—I short-circuited.

My heart did a triple backflip, crash-landed into my ribs, and filed a restraining order against me.

"Huh?" I squeaked, voice higher than my career ambitions.

But he had already moved away taking a step back, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips.

THE SMIRK.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that whispered, "You're doomed, Mira Kim. Emotionally. Spiritually. Professionally and Romantically."

I wanted to scream.

Or faint.

Or confess something wildly inappropriate.

Instead, I sat there, professionally combusting in silence.