Hanpyeong Industry’s office had the traditional look expected of an older company.
Cubicle partitions. Black, outdated desktop towers and keyboards. A whiteboard that nobody used often but still dragged out once a month. Filing cabinets stuffed full of paperwork. Ugly green trash cans bought impulsively from whatever convenience household store happened to be nearby.
“It definitely feels different from a startup.”
There was actually a decent amount of demand for filming dramas and movies in real offices like this. Even “In My Office” had borrowed rooftops and lobbies from major corporations for filming.
After seeing how many office-background dramas kept getting produced, upper management frequently said they shouldn’t let empty offices sit unused and should actively market them to studios.
But almost nobody wanted to use Hanpyeong Industry as a filming location.
What productions wanted was an office that looked authentic while still being clean, spacious, and functional enough for scenes involving turning on computers or opening drawers.
Not a “salaryman hellscape” where nobody had maintained anything for years, water leaked through the walls, and the air conditioning didn’t work.
Low demand meant reservations were easy.
The price could be heavily discounted.
Since it wasn’t rainy season, there was no need to worry about leaks.
And watching people with drama-worthy “young team leader” visuals repot dead office plants would probably have its own bizarre entertainment value.
If this deal really went through, then the person in charge would almost certainly be......
someone from HR.
That division handled those responsibilities.
It was still too early for Assistant Manager Hwang to have joined the company. Even if my constant schedule acceleration had fast-forwarded all sorts of incidents and accidents, time itself wouldn’t flow twice as fast for a college student. The age gap between my older sister and me was still the same as before, wasn’t it?
The more likely scenario was either the senior employee who vanished the moment I joined the company, or the senior above him who disappeared without leaving behind even a single handover document.
Still, I could bet my entire career that Director Nam would show his face at least once.
Since Nam Jua had been a debut-era Spark fan, Director Nam would’ve known about Spark from the very beginning.
“Disgusting bastard.”
I grumbled internally.
I hated even the thought of seeing him, but there were things that needed to be settled, so I was prepared.
“Maybe after living this long with the system patched in Director Nam language, I’ve built up some resistance?”
▶ From what I can see...... maybe around 90%? Assistant Manager Kim is always just a little unsatisfying and slightly lacking somewhere.
Maybe because it had been so long, but the screen seemed even more obnoxiously flashy than before.
Its personality was still trash too.
I immediately wanted to shut it off again.
But the system paid absolutely no attention to the volcanic irritation boiling inside me.
▶ I’m always telling you this. Report things before your boss even asks, and if you don’t have work, find something yourself. Be proactive and self-directed. Huh? I really like this attitude right now.
Though if I said that, it’d just answer with, “So Assistant Manager Kim only moves if there’s a reward?” and complain about how the company already paid me for all the time I spent sighing and slacking off.
▶ Ah, Assistant Manager Kim, you’re a professional at making people seem petty. Have you ever seen me withhold money I owed you? Besides, I always take care of you on the side too.
I sincerely hoped it understood that it deserved to be sued for wage theft.
The system, apparently reading my thoughts, whined for ages.
Every complaint boiled down to how disappointed it was in Assistant Manager Kim and how cruel I was being to it.
When I stubbornly ignored it, the system aggressively asserted its presence again.
▶ Stop slacking off and go to work already. Since Assistant Manager Kim voluntarily offered to do overtime, I’ll give you a little something as encouragement. You trust me, right?
A short moment later, a message arrived from Jugyeong-nim.
The reservation had been successfully confirmed.
“Assistant Manager Kim!”
The moment Director Nam saw me arriving at work, he grinned so widely all his teeth showed.
The instant I saw that smile, I thought this had to be a dream.
The only times Director Nam ever welcomed me warmly were when he came to tell me Nam Jua was delighted with something I had made.
“What are you doing just standing there? Sit down already. If you’ve come to work, move quickly and sit.”
Director Nam moved behind me and gripped both my shoulders.
The familiar, impossible-to-resist force shoved me all the way to my usual seat.
A single white chrysanthemum rested on the desk.
Director Nam pulled out the chair and sat me down himself.
He acted as though he couldn’t even see the chrysanthemum.
Then he turned on my computer for me and physically placed my hand onto the mouse.
I couldn’t tell whether the sensation rising inside me was anger or nausea.
“Work.”
The short, authoritative order pressed down on me.
Even if it was only a dream, I was sick of both myself—who had returned here even after dying—and Director Nam, who would absolutely treat an employee who returned from death the exact same way.
The blue desktop background hurt my eyes.
I didn’t want to carry these emotions around anymore.
I wanted to finally let them go.
Somewhere far away, my alarm rang.
After turning it off and getting up, I saw the faint glow of dawn beyond the window.
Slowly, I prepared to head outside.
It was a suit I had worn often even after becoming an idol, but today my wrists and waist felt strangely uncomfortable.
It wasn’t the wrong size, yet the sleeves felt constricting.
By the time I tied the necktie, even the reflection in the mirror looked stiff.
I forced myself to smile pleasantly for no reason.
It looked more unnatural than a recent stage fancam thumbnail.
I didn’t know when pretending to be okay in a bad situation had become this difficult.
Was this also part of the system’s “coercive but ultimately mentally healthy path” philosophy?
“Are you uncomfortable somewhere?”
Jeong Seongbin, done with his hair styling, approached and asked.
The hairstyle with only half his forehead exposed suited the “division head” atmosphere perfectly.
“No.”
The fact that I, who once tore through UA trying to drive out the industry senior bullying Jeong Seongbin, would now end up bringing him to Hanpyeong Industry......
Time really had changed.
I remembered the day Jeong Seongbin first showed signs of discouragement.
Back then, terrified we might lose our leader, I had rambled nonsense in front of him.
Thinking about it now, it was ridiculous.
Who would believe talk about seeing the future or becoming a leader?
And yet, somehow, the memory still felt nostalgic.
Looking at Jeong Seongbin, I said,
“For some reason...... I have a strong feeling the place we’re going today isn’t feng shui-compatible with me.”
“Huh?”
“Like...... the balance of yin and yang energy is off? It doesn’t feel like a place that’ll bring me fortune.”
Back during our trainee days, Jeong Seongbin would’ve burst out laughing at nonsense like this.
Sometimes he’d even tease me by asking bizarre follow-up questions.
It had been the same during the fortune-telling octopus meme.
Jeong Seongbin’s usual stance was just joking around with it or adding extra exaggeration by claiming my instincts really were supernatural.
Nothing more than casual entertainment.
But Jeong Seongbin didn’t laugh.
Nor did he interrogate me jokingly.
“Should we cancel the shoot?”
“Huh?”
“If it’s the company, we’d only have to pay the cancellation fee.”
The completely unexpected response caught me off guard.
I hadn’t even confessed my feelings dramatically like back when I buried myself under blankets and spilled my conscience out.
Yet Jeong Seongbin sounded serious.
While I stood there blinking blankly, he turned around.
He genuinely looked ready to cancel the entire shoot, so I hurriedly grabbed him.
“It was a joke!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s ridiculous. I didn’t think you’d take it seriously.”
An awkward silence followed.
I only ever used excuses like this because, both then and now, I had no desire to die from exposing heavenly secrets.
Still, I knew my attitude could come across as flippant to some people, so I apologized sincerely.
“If you believe in fortunes or divinations and I made you uncomfortable by joking around about this kind of thing......”
“That’s not it.”
“It’s not?”
“No. I...... don’t really believe in stuff like that.”
Jeong Seongbin sounded firm.
With how calm he was, I somehow felt like the weird one instead.
“Then why’d you say we should cancel the shoot? You said you don’t believe in fortune-telling.”
“I just don’t want to force you into something you clearly don’t want to do.”
That was what made me think, “Seriously?”
Everyone who worked in society knew life wasn’t made up only of things you wanted to do.
Jeong Seongbin explained his reasoning with one simple addition.
“Especially at a time like this.”
He lowered his voice slightly.
He still seemed worried about my mental state.
“If it were an external broadcast recording, maybe it’d be different. But internal company matters are mostly things we can decide ourselves, right?”
“......”
“I know your instincts are unusually sharp. Honestly, when you predicted the Korea-Japan match score, I was genuinely shocked. But rather than believing in supernatural stuff, I think I’m just closer to believing you.”
“......”
“And you’re not the type to say you dislike something for no reason.”
Jeong Seongbin smiled.
There had been a time when he cursed himself for reflexively smiling no matter whether he felt good or bad, calling himself an idiot and a fool.
Back then, openly saying he disliked something had seemed impossibly unrealistic.
Rejecting unpleasant things was thousands of times harder than wanting things you liked.
Because in life, there were far more situations where you had to endure things you hated than chances to ask for what you wanted.
“And somehow...... now it happens naturally, without any grand turning point.”
For no reason, my emotions twisted strangely, so I redirected the arrow toward innocent Jeong Seongbin instead.
I told him he was too naive, and that blindly trusting other people would get him eaten alive in this brutal entertainment industry.
Completely unfazed by my worries, Jeong Seongbin continued speaking with pure sincerity.
“If you actually went as far as mentioning that the place feels wrong for you, then there’s probably something to it. I don’t feel the need to question it.”
“Even so, you should at least doubt me. What if I’ve just gotten lazy?”
“Is there any hypothesis less believable than the idea that you’ve become lazy?”
The sheer trust left me completely at a loss.
As I spiraled into self-loathing wondering if I had ruined this kid somehow, Jeong Seongbin asked,
“So what should we do about the shoot? If we’re canceling, we should decide before leaving the salon.”
“I told you it was a joke. We’re going. If the yin and yang energies are off, I’ll just stick you next to me to balance things out.”
“You used to say I only had yang energy in my physiognomy when I was inside Spark.”
“Still more balanced than having only yin energy, isn’t it?”
Do they know how hard it was for me to finally make up my mind to visit Hanpyeong Industry?
Work up the courage to revisit my former workplace all over again?
Absolutely impossible.
That kind of determination only worked once.
Who would willingly make such a catastrophically bad decision twice unless they were insane?
I didn’t want to back down now.
“But once we get there, I’d appreciate it if everyone stayed together as much as possible. It’s shameless of me, but if it eases even a little of my excessive anxiety and worry, I’d be grateful.”
“That’s easy enough.”
Jeong Seongbin answered confidently and immediately headed toward the managers.
Not long afterward, all the luggage spread across two vehicles was moved into one.
All of Spark climbed into the now spacious van together.
Even if our shoulders brushed because we sat close, it still felt incomparably more comfortable than a rush-hour subway packed like hell.
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