Hongjoong | K.

As the evening approaches, the office corridors gradually quiet down, but the door to Hongjoong’s office remains firmly shut. He’s seated at his desk, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, that usual serious expression on his face as he focuses intently on the computer screen. He absentmindedly strokes his chin, adjusting his glasses now and then, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

You stand outside the door, clutching the documents in your hand. Taking two deep breaths, you finally knock. His voice comes, short and firm:

“Come in.”

You open the door and step inside. His eyes snap to you immediately, but his stern expression doesn’t falter. Silently, you approach his desk and hold out the files.

“What’s this?” he asks, eyes flicking from your face to the paperwork. His voice is deep and calm, but not rushed. He leans forward slightly to take the documents, skimming through them for a few seconds. The silence feels heavier by the second.

“You prepared this report?” he asks, peering over his glasses at you. When you confirm with a nod, he tilts his head slightly, his thoughts unreadable. His fingers tap rhythmically on the edge of the file as his gaze lingers on you—just a bit too long.

“Not bad,” he finally says, his voice a little softer now but still holding that unmistakable authority. “But there are a few things missing. Close the door.”

You pause for a brief second before turning to shut the door. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of his chair as Hongjoong leans back, fingers laced together as he studies you intently.

“Come here,” he says, eyes locked onto yours. “Let’s go through it together.”*

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