“No… that’s not it—no…”
Too late, he realized how ill‐conceived his words had been.
“Hah, unbelievable. Why do I feel like I’m the one who got rejected without even confessing?”
Juhan frowned sharply, displeasure flickering across his features.
“I mean, what I was trying to say is…”
Gyeoul’s mind spun desperately for the right words. He attempted to choose each phrase carefully—but with his life on the line, his mouth moved faster than his brain.
“I meant that someone like me—how could I dare harbor such—such audacious thoughts about you, Director? I only meant that we ought to understand our places and protect what’s precious. Like how we safeguard and cherish the olive‐ridley sea turtle, I would regard you as a precious resource of the earth…”
“Stop. I can’t even entertain lies.”
“I’m sorry…”
Despairing, Gyeoul offered the most heartfelt apology he could muster, begging silently for mercy.
“Anyway,” Juhan continued, “we’re not dating—so why are you whispering? Do you think no one can hear you?”
“Ah…”
Normal conversation was one thing, but speaking formally in front of others always made Gyeoul’s voice shrink. And with Juhan as his audience, his nerves were tenfold.
“From now on, if your voice doesn’t reach my ears clearly, be prepared.”
“Y-yes…”
“Speak up.”
“Y-yes!”
Gyeoul yelled so loudly he startled himself—failing again to notice the faint curl of amusement at one corner of Juhan’s mouth. Not that Juhan smiled often—but he smiled most when he felt contempt.
“By the way,” Juhan said, voice shifting, “yesterday there was an unsavory incident?”
“Eh…? Unsavory… incident?”
Gyeoul had no idea what Juhan meant. Nothing unpleasant had happened—until a thought struck him.
“Oh! Well… sometimes I do have…”
“Sometimes?”
Juhan must have heard from the guards about Gyeoul’s earlier retching. Having witnessed him collapse like he’d vomited his insides, Juhan had called it “unsavory.”
Of course, Gyeoul misunderstood. Juhan referred to the chainsaw episode.
“Yes—I get impulsive and can’t help myself… I’m sorry.”
“Is that typical for you?”
“Yes… not every time, but sometimes worse than before.”
The more Gyeoul explained, the darker Juhan’s expression grew. Sensing his displeasure, Gyeoul hurried to speak again.
“But I can handle it on my own, so it won’t interfere with work!”
“Secretary Cha, you’re more terrifying than I thought.”
“Uh…?”
Gyeoul often found Juhan’s cryptic remarks hard to parse. Too scared to ask for clarification, he forced a small smile.
“Thank you,” he said, hoping it was praise.
“You’re nothing like you seem. I like that.”
This was when things began to unravel—and Gyeoul had no idea.
Crash!
Clatter! Bang!
Smash! Boom!
What on earth was happening inside Juhan’s office?
“What do I do…?”
Gyeoul watched anxiously as burly men in black suits stormed through the heavy door, followed by the sounds of shattering glass and crushing blows. Clearly, something serious was unfolding.
In Gyeoul’s imagination, Juhan lay battered on the floor, bloodied and helpless—reaching for aid, only to collapse. Though purely fantasy, Gyeoul thought it plausible: that many large men could overpower anyone.
He couldn’t stand by. After all, he was Juhan’s secretary.
I have to do something, he told himself.
Pacing the hallway, Gyeoul steeled himself, then dashed into the supply closet. He grabbed whatever he could—breathing heavily as he prepared to face whatever awaited.
“Director!”
Again his volume soared uncontrollably, echoing through the office. Instantly, every pair of eyes turned to him.
Yet the scene inside differed from his worst imaginings. Or rather, it matched them—almost.
A man lay sprawled, drenched in blood; office furnishings lay in ruins. But the one covered in gore was Juhan himself, and the hulking security men were on the floor, unconscious. Juhan, bruised but standing, single‐handedly had subdued them all. Blood coated his fist.
Gyeoul’s scalp prickled with sweat. Facing a crazed, bloodsoaked Juhan—eyes wild—left little room for composure. He realized he’d overstepped.
“I’m sorry! I thought you were hurt…”
Bowing so low his head nearly touched his knees, Gyeoul turned to leave—pretending to have seen nothing. But a voice stopped him cold.
“What’s that in your hand?”
Gyeoul froze, then turned and hid his hand behind his back. Pointless—Juhan had already seen.
“Uhm… it’s a pry bar.”
“I told you not to whisper.”
“P-pry bar!”
Gyeoul straightened and revealed a heavy J-shaped iron bar. A tool—certainly no weapon, technically.
“…”
He’d answered the question, but Juhan said nothing. Uncomfortable in the silence, Gyeoul opened his mouth again—only to hear Juhan’s low, amused laughter.
“Hah. Secretary Cha, you really are an entertaining person.”
Gyeoul would’ve preferred a scolding to that laughter. Juhan’s face—splattered with blood, eyes glinting with madness—was more horrifying than any punishment. He looked the very embodiment of a villain, capable of anything.
“I like you very much.”
Juhan strode forward, still holding one guard by the collar. Gyeoul stumbled back until his spine hit a hard wall. No escape remained—yet Juhan kept approaching.
“Don’t you wonder what’s happening here?”
Bending forward, Juhan met Gyeoul’s gaze. Up close, the terror only intensified.
“N-no! I’m not curious at all!”
Gyeoul shook his head vigorously. He truly had no desire to know.
“Our finance director siphoned off the slush fund. Three billion won.”
Gyeoul’s jaw dropped. Three billion won—an almost unimaginable sum.
“We caught him trying to flee overseas. But here’s the problem: the money’s gone without a trace.”
“H-how…?”
Juhan continued: “The finance director won’t talk. We used my men to interrogate him—he gave up no leads.”
At last Gyeoul understood why Juhan had bested those giants. This was a matter of billions.
“Can’t you call the police?”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s slush funds. If it came to light, the chairman would go down first. Not that I mind that outcome.”
Juhan spoke as if it didn’t concern him at all—truly the mark of a hardened scoundrel.
Gyeoul finally asked what had been burning in his mind:
“Pardon me, Director—why tell me this? Isn’t it better if no one else knows?”
This was hardly a secret to share with a mere secretary. A sum that large demanded silence from top to bottom.
Juhan smiled. “Find it.”
“Pardon?”
“Find out where the three billion went.”
“…”
Is he treating me like I’m Doraemon?
Some tasks are simply impossible—and this was one of them.
“Use whatever means—chainsaw or crowbar—no matter. Just find it.”
But life doesn’t let you pick only desires you can fulfill.
“You refuse?”
A cold hand brushed Gyeoul’s cheek. Juhan’s thumb—caked in dried blood—rubbed against him. Gyeoul glanced at the crumpled guard still in Juhan’s grasp.
If I refuse… what then?
A gruesome vision flashed through his mind, causing Gyeoul to gasp.
“Thank you for trusting me!”
He had no idea Juhan was joking.