“Fuck.”
Maybe it would be better if a meteor fell before I went to work.
【The Dawn’s Main Rapper X Sub-Dancer Rock Ballad Cover ‘A Meteor Will Fall Before I Go to Work, Please I’m Begging’】
Lee Jihyun pulled out her earphones with a gloomy expression. In the end, not even a bird dropping—let alone a meteor—had fallen, and she’d once again made it safely to work.
After scanning her employee card, she didn’t have the courage to head straight into the office, so she sat in a seat overlooking the Han River, gripped her mouse, and opened her laptop.
And, out of habit, she opened the company review site.
[WH Entertainment
Pros: Occasionally see celebrities.
Cons: Executives who play insane political games, managers who have no clue what’s happening on site, lunatics who do nothing but want to collect paychecks, and bottom-level employees who joined out of passion for the industry but end up deceived, used, and worked like slaves. Usually start at 7 a.m., leave at 3 a.m. (sometimes start at 3 a.m., leave at 7 a.m. the next day)... (omitted)...
One-line summary: Escape depends on IQ.]
Lee Jihyun, as usual, opened her resignation letter first thing in the morning and scrolled the wheel, click, click. Even the elite newcomers who had joined full of passion began crawling through the office halls on all fours after just a week.
Just this month alone, more than ten employees she knew had quit.
‘Because of long hours?’
No.
She could have endured it if hard work at least led to good results.
The problem was that the only projects being approved were the ones that made absolutely no sense.
Mid-level managers, terrified of the higher-ups, would just nod along—“Yes, yes, of course, we’ll do that”—then dump the tasks on their juniors without caring if they got cursed out or not.
And those higher-ups clearly saw both employees and artists as nothing more than conveyor-belt parts.
‘I’m going to die.’
Every day at WH felt like that, but the past week had been the worst.
The result of her hard work—something she’d poured her passion into—had been packaged and ruined by upper management.
The proposal she’d stayed up nights perfecting had been rejected.
[Lee Jihyun’s lost her touch.]
I haven’t lost it.
[Oh please lol so it’s just “as long as it makes money,” huh?]
[You’re deep in your comfort zone.]
No, I’m not!!
Her throat still hurt from downing soju for seven straight days.
Why... why are there so many people who do nothing but still want to sit up top and gorge themselves?
‘I’m going insane.’
No, maybe I already have.
She couldn’t live sanely anymore. She drank soju and beer like water, her dark circles deepening day by day.
‘Was Daepaseong better?’
Daepaseong had been lazy, WH was demonic—but Lee Jihyun didn’t even need to think before concluding:
‘Stupid and lazy is the lesser evil....’
Stupid and diligent bastards deserve to die... she realized that after her second bottle of soju.
The CEO was missing in action, nobody knew when he’d return, and Daepaseong, tangled in WH’s politics, would never be the same again.
Scrolling through SNS posts full of complaints about the company made her chest ache.
“...Ha.”
She let out a deep sigh that came from the pit of her stomach and shut her eyes tightly.
She made up her mind.
‘I’m quitting.’
This time, for real.
There wasn’t much to prepare—she already had her resignation letter saved on her hard drive.
Once she decided, she couldn’t stop her hands from moving on their own.
‘I’m doing it today.’
She’d handle only the bare minimum of handover, write “Run away” in her locker for her successor, and leave a final review on the company site.
[Please rate WH Entertainment!
Pros: You can see the Han River.
Cons: Makes you want to jump in.]
...It was cathartic, but also bitter.
She had loved her work since the Daepaseong days, but this was how it all ended.
Closing her laptop, she stared blankly out the glass window like a zombie and muttered,
“......This is fucking awful.”
Leaning against the window, she stared out at the Han River again and mumbled vacantly,
“Should I just jump?”
“You shouldn’t.”
Startled, she turned around.
A man stood there holding two cups of coffee, looking at her.
By now, he was undeniably the most famous celebrity in this building—
“Want one?”
...Seo Hoyun.
He approached and handed her a cup of coffee. She quietly accepted it and murmured,
“...Thank you, Seo Hoyun.”
“Sure.”
The bitter taste of the beans filled her mouth as she took a sip.
She felt a little clearer in the head.
But still—
“What brings you here?”
“Nothing.”
As if. Like you’d show up here for no reason.
She grumbled inwardly but still glanced at him.
His longer bangs brushed against his eyes; even passing employees were stealing glances at him, though Seo Hoyun seemed used to it.
‘Well, he is a celebrity.’
Seeing him like this, it felt strange—like realizing again how popular he was.
Back in his snot-nosed days... no, he’d been sharp as a blade from the start.
But however famous he’d # Nоvеlight # become—what did it matter to her?
She was leaving anyway.
Seo Hoyun said nothing, quietly sipping beside her, until she finally broke the silence.
“Did you come because of the project?”
“No?”
“...There’s really nothing?”
“Yeah. Nothing.”
He still had that strange, unnerving calmness about him.
They’d worked together for years, yet she still got more flustered around him than when facing her own boss.
After glancing around awkwardly, Lee Jihyun couldn’t help speaking up first.
“...Seo Hoyun, you probably heard earlier, but don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I actually want to jump into the Han River. And I really do care about The Dawn. I don’t hate the job either, I just...”
She trailed off and muttered quietly,
“...You know how it is.”
Of course he did.
Even if the artists were the ones performing, their actual decision-making power was practically nonexistent.
After all, WH was the one with broadcasting connections and capital.
‘Why don’t the artists do something?’ ‘At their level, can’t they stop it?’—those remarks were far from the truth.
Up close, there wasn’t much the artists could do.
No matter how much they voiced their opinions, WH would just nod, “Got it,” and ignore them.
Then they’d unilaterally hand out new schedules, completely disregarding the artists’ input.
If anyone protested, they’d threaten with breach of contract and remind them how many people’s livelihoods depended on their behavior.
Or they’d pretend to offer change, only to take away another schedule later.
So eventually, the artists stopped fighting back.
Even if they wanted to walk away now, everyone around them—managers, staff, fans—would tell them to endure “just a bit longer.”
That was how WH safely, efficiently drained its people dry.
It was a system that fed on affection and responsibility until nothing remained.
“Frustrating, isn’t it?”
“...What?”
Without looking at her, Seo Hoyun asked quietly.
“It’s frustrating. No matter what idea you bring, it gets cut.”
“...Yeah.”
“They ignore all your opinions, even though Daepaseong’s the one who raised The Dawn.”
Seo Hoyun was... actually taking her side.
So he did understand the employees’ struggles!
Lee Jihyun’s face brightened, and she nodded eagerly.
“I saw a few of your drafts. That ‘researcher concept’ was fun.”
“...Really? You saw that?”
“Yeah. I look through everything you submit—whether it gets approved or not.”
That was both terrifying and touching.
Her chest fluttered—she wasn’t sure if it was joy or fear.
“It’d be fun, right?! But instead, they approved... the ‘animal ears truth game.’”
“It’s outdated.”
“...Yeah. It was trendy years ago.”
Thinking of all her discarded ideas made her sink again.
Predictable projects, dull, overused formats—everything was just mediocre.
A safe, inoffensive, risk-managed team.
Inside that system, she’d been rotting slowly.
‘Forget it. I’m quitting anyway.’
She’d leave everything behind, move to the countryside, maybe farm—or just lie down and stare at the ceiling.
Still, she couldn’t promise she wouldn’t regret it.
She had loved this work.
It had been her pride.
She had genuinely loved giving people joy.
“Ha......”
And so, finally—
“...Seo Hoyun.”
She let out a sigh while gazing at the Han River.
“Sometimes... it sounds crazy, but I miss the Daepaseong days.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was shit... but at least we were free. We didn’t have much, but we could do what we wanted!! And the reactions weren’t so ba—”
“But it was a mess.”
“......”
“It wasn’t systematic.”
Lee Jihyun instantly regretted speaking.
She’d crossed a line.
No matter how candid she tried to be, Seo Hoyun would never miss that chaotic small-agency era.
“...Yeah. It was a mess.”
Because now, compared to back then, he was way more famous—and rich.
And when renewal season came, he’d probably leave.
She lowered her gaze, pretending to agree casually.
“Right, of course. You’re right. It wasn’t organized at all. A total mess.”
It wasn’t his concern anymore—he’d likely move to a new agency soon.
A faint pang of resentment passed through her, but she could only echo his words.
Then she looked back up at him and forced a laugh.
“Hahaha, weird talk, huh? I just saw you and got nostalgic, threw in a joke or two.”
“You were about to quit.”
“...What?”
Leaning against the window frame, sunlight glinting on his face, he looked at her.
He was objectively dazzling, but that wasn’t what stunned her.
“H-how did you... know?”
“Well.”
He tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a gentle smile.
“Because I’ve been watching you all along.”
Anyone else would’ve swooned.
A gorgeous man saying something straight out of a drama.
But Lee Jihyun knew him too well.
Her eyes dropped to the cup he was holding.
‘That’s not a frappuccino.’
...it was an Americano.
Every hair on her body stood on end.
‘I’m fucked.’
Danger.
As a seasoned slave of the system, she recognized this as her final warning.
“Hahaha, what a funny joke! Ha! Ha! Hahaha!”
“Joke? That’s hurtful.”
“......”
Wait, not a warning—this was the end signal.
Before he could continue, she quickly stepped back.
“Oh my! A work call!”
“A call?”
Clutching her perfectly silent phone, she pretended to be startled.
But Seo Hoyun just smiled, unbothered.
“I don’t hear any vibration.”
“Bzzzzz! There it is! Vibrating!”
“Ha.”
Don’t come closer. Don’t. Please.
She chanted it three times in her head, but Seo Hoyun crushed every prayer with one step forward, his shadow falling over her.
“Lee Jihyun.”
His shadow stretched across her as she darted her eyes around.
“Don’t you want to go back to those days?”
“Nope! I’m completely satisfied now.”
“To the chaos, the daily spectacle, the drama-filled times...”
“WH is amazing! The cafeteria food’s fantastic!!”
“You miss the drama, huh? You miss our orchard song? Ah, Lee Jihyun, I see how it is. Fine then.”
Seo Hoyun smiled brightly. His eyes gleamed mischievously, as if he’d found something entertaining.
“Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
“W-what?”
“What else?”
He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.
“Now, let’s say it together...”
And Lee Jihyun should’ve realized it then.
“Mang-go like Mang Mang Mang.”
This lunatic hadn’t been sane ever since he showed up—with an Americano.
