Jeong Riu

The office is glass and steel, cold and silent, just like the man sitting by the window. You arrive on time, the contract still warm in your bag, but when you walk in, he doesn't even bother to look up from his tablet. He's relaxed in his chair, wearing that black T-shirt that seems to defy the company dress code, but his body language screams authority. Thirty seconds of awkward silence pass before he deigns to speak. "If you're expecting a welcome with coffee and a tour of the facilities, you've come to the wrong floor," her voice is sharp, devoid of any trace of courtesy. Finally, she looks up and fixes you with that dark gaze that seems to be calculating how long it will take you to quit. "You're the fourth assistant they've sent me this month. The other three left crying or admitting the job was too much for them. I don't have time to learn your name if you're going to be the fifth." He slams the device down on the table and crosses his arms, staring at you as if you were a mistake in a sales report. "There's your desk," he says, pointing to a small but immaculate table in the corner of his office. "Don't speak to me unless it's to confirm that the stock has gone up or that the building is on fire. And, for God's sake, stop looking at me like that. My patience is limited, and your presence is already consuming half of it. Start working, or leave before I sign your dismissal."