My Boss is a CHICKEN?!

MR. JEON WAS ON OUR FLOOR.

Our. Freaking. Floor.

My soul nearly left my body.

With the reflexes of a caffeinated meerkat, I jolted upright and started pretending like I was the most hardworking employee in the entire galaxy. Typing like I just finished 499 out of 500 files, when in reality… I was still stuck on file number eight and a half.

Click.

Click.

Click.

My ears twitched.

That sound.

That terrifying, goosebump-inducing sound.

The sound of Louboutin shoes.

The devil's heels.

The apocalypse soundtrack.

My fingers were flying across the keyboard like I had just hacked into NASA's mainframe.

I started typing at the speed of light—no idea what I was typing. Could've been the lyrics of boy with luv for all I knew. It didn't matter. I just needed to look employed.

Because those footsteps weren't just footsteps.

They're the devil's call.

And they stopped…

Right. In. Front. Of. My. Cabin.

Sweet baby potatoes, this is how I die.

I gulped hard, suddenly finding the document in front of me to be the most interesting thing ever written in human history.

Who knew spreadsheets could be so thrilling? I started typing gibberish like, "Project default analysis report quarterly Q1-Q4 revenue reverse KPI synergy metrics."

I don't know what any of that means. I don't think anyone does. But it sounded corporate, so I ran with it.

One minute passed.

Then two.

Was he gone?

I lifted my eyes just a little. Like a spy in a war movie peeking out of a trench.

And, oh dear diety of unpaid internships—

He was there.

Staring at me.

Like I had just murdered his whole bloodline.

Like I had eaten his dog.

Like I had fried his left wing and served it with peri-peri sauce.

I panicked and slammed my eyes back down to the file like I was reading the final chapter of a life or death thriller.

But curiosity is a dangerous little goblin.

I peeked again.

STILL THERE.

Staring.

Unblinking.

Stoic.

Murderous.

His eyes were drilling holes into my forehead. It felt like he was using me as a human PowerPoint clicker with his laser beam death stare.

I gave him a small, timid, "please spare my life" smile.

The kind you give when you're about to be the first one voted out on a reality show.

He didn't smile back.

Instead, he raised his hand.

Five fingers.

I blinked.

What did it mean?

Was he giving me a high five?

Was it the number of lives I had left?

Then it hit me.

5 fingers = 5 PM.

He was silently reminding me of the deadline.

I nodded slightly like, Yes sir, of course sir, I'll submit the work within 5.

He didn't say a word, just turned and walked away like a mafia boss after issuing a silent death sentence.

As the Louboutin clicks faded into the distance, I finally exhaled the breath I'd been holding since 1998.

My coworker peeked over the desk divider and mouthed, "You alive?"

"No" I mouthed back.

"Start planning my funeral."

She ducked back down, then peeked up again just to check if the walking corporate death penalty was still in sight.

Once confirmed the coast was clear, she flopped into her chair like a deflated balloon and muttered,

"Gosh girl, how did you survive as his assistant back in the days?" she asked and strutted toward my desk like we weren't sitting in the middle of a corporate prison.

I stared at her, war flashbacks hitting me like a ton of PowerPoint presentations.

"…I'm still trying to figure it out."

She let out a chuckle. And—

"OH SWEET MOTHER OF EXCEL—WHAT IS THIS?!"

Her eyes zeroed in on the monstrous Everest of files on my desk like she had just discovered an ancient cursed tomb.

"Did someone die under that pile?!"

I sighed, leaned my elbows on the desk, and facepalmed with the drama of a Shakespearean widow.

"They're assigned to me.." I whispered like I'd just confessed to a murder.

She blinked. "You mean… to our team?"

I looked up at her, deadpan.

"No. Me. Alone."

She gawked at me like I had personally resurrected a cursed mummy for fun.

"You're joking."

"I wish."

"Damn girl, you're doomed"

She grabbed a file cautiously like it might explode and began flipping through.

"Wait a second…" she squinted at the cover of the file like it was ancient scripture.

"Is this… THE Hotel Daejeon Project?!"

She basically screamed like she just uncovered a cursed amulet from a forbidden tomb.

I sighed and dramatically slumped in my chair, wishing I could shapeshift into a sad little piece of ravioli and just evaporate into the air.

I nodded slowly. "Yes."

Her eyes bugged out. "That project hasn't been touched in YEARS! It's the Bermuda Triangle of business plans! People go in, but they don't come out!"

I gave her the saddest, most exhausted look known to mankind. If my expression had a sound, it would be a dying violin.

"You're doing this ALONE?!"

"I told you" I said, deadpan. "Mr. Jeon gave it to me. What do you want me to do? Argue with Satan? File an appeal with Hell's HR?"

She gasped and dramatically flopped on the edge of my desk like we were in a telenovela.

"Rumor says the land is cursed! Like, actually cursed! Every architect gives up. Budget black holes. Contractors mysteriously disappear. One guy went out to measure the soil and never came back."

I blinked. "You're not helping."

She shrugged. "Just setting the mood."

I rubbed my temples like I could manually erase the trauma from my frontal lobe.

"Okay, but real talk—when's the pitch?" she asked, already bracing herself.

"Today."

She froze.

Narrowed her eyes.

"Today as in like… today today?"

I slowly turned to her with the expression of a haunted Victorian ghost.

"Today. By 5 PM."

Her jaw hit the metaphorical floor so hard it cracked imaginary tiles.

"You're kidding—"

"Why does everyone think I'm joking?!" I yelled, hands flailing like I was trying to swat away cursed energy. "Do I look like the office prank channel?! Do I radiate fun?!"

She held up her hands. "Okay okay! Chill, drama queen. I was just confirming."

I stared into the abyss.

The abyss stared back.

It whispered: "You're not surviving past 4:59."

"Who assigned this to you by the way?!" she asked, already half-convinced I had pissed off an entire government agency.

"The Ministry of Torture" I replied flatly, without even blinking.

She paused. "The what now?"

I peeked through my fingers and looked at her like a war veteran. "Mr. Jeon."

Her eyes widened. "Personally?"

"Yes."

My voice was hollow.

Like my will to live.

"Girl" she whispered, eyes wide with concern. "You must've pissed off a higher power or something."

I stared blankly.

"Like… I don't know—stepped on a shrine, insulted a spreadsheet god, opened a haunted Excel file at 3AM during Mercury retrograde while facing west."

Honestly?

That would explain a lot.

"I'm In-young, by the way."

"…Huh?"

"My name," she said with a grin, "Jung In-young."

Oh.

I didn't notice it till now but she's kinda pretty.

Like, dangerously pretty.

Focus, Mira. Don't let your bisexual brain hijack this conversation again.

"I'm Mira Kim," I said, offering a professional smile while trying not to gay panic.

"I know who you are" she said casually.

"…What?"

"You're kinda famous around here. The assistant who lasted longest under The Ice King.Who doesn't know you?"

I laughed awkwardly. "Wow. Is that my legacy?"

"So" she said suddenly, her tone shifting as smoothly as a pick-up line, "Wanna join me for coffee? My friends are heading to the cafeteria."

"Now?! If we're caught loitering in the cafeteria during work hours, we'll be executed on sight. Swiftly. No last words."

"Chill. It's 4. Break time."

I glanced at the clock.

She was right.

It was break time.

I looked back at the soul-crushing mountain of files stacked on my desk.

500 paper devils.

Each one whispering "you're not getting promoted" in different fonts.

Then my stomach betrayed me with a growl that could summon ancient gods.

She laughed.

"C'mon. A quick coffee won't kill us."

"No, but he might."

She winked. "Worth it."

I sighed.

Looked at the files.

The clock.

Her face.

"…Fine."

If I'm going to get murdered by my boss by 5 PM,

at least I'll die caffeinated.