Huff… huff…
“I—I’ll be damned if I ever—! T-take the! Bus again—!!”
My chest burned as I stumbled through the final crosswalk toward the office building, legs trembling, lungs on fire. My bag thudded against my hip with every uncoordinated step. It wasn’t a sprint anymore—it was sheer desperation.
My name is Mia. I’m an intern at Question Co., a well-known interior design company. And if there's one universal rule all interns live and breathe by, it’s this:
Never be late.
Especially not on your seventh day.
The sliding glass doors of the office lobby whooshed open in front of me like some kind of divine mercy. I dragged myself inside, hands still gripping my bag straps like lifelines.
Huff... huff...
(B-Barely... made it...)
I planted myself in front of the elevator, silently begging it to arrive faster.
“Phew,” I whispered, fanning my flushed face. I know I’m not technically late... but still. It’s always better to arrive early. Play it safe. Look dependable. Stay invisible—but in a good way.
Even if Question Co. promoted a “flexible working environment,” punctuality still felt like survival. Interns were replaceable, after all.
As I tried to catch my breath and return my pulse to a human rate, something soft and muted pink caught the corner of my eye.
I turned my head slightly.
A guy, maybe mid-twenties, stood a few steps away, waiting for the same elevator. He wore a light pink crew neck sweatshirt, the kind that was simple but effortlessly cool. Paired with black jeans and a lazy slouch, he had that quiet I-don’t-try-but-I-look-great-anyway vibe. His figure was lean, almost delicate, and his sharp features were softened by slightly downturned, cat-like eyes.
(But I really love that sweatshirt… I really wanna ask him where he bought it… Did I stare at him too intensely…?)
My thoughts spiraled as soon as our eyes met. Panicked, I snapped my gaze away like I hadn’t been burning a hole into his sweater with my eyeballs seconds earlier.
Just breathe, Mia. It's not like you got caught sniffing it or something. You're fine.
---
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open with a mechanical sigh.
(Ugh, it’s already packed…)
People were squeezed in like puzzle pieces, every inch of space spoken for. But hey—I wasn't about to let a little claustrophobia stand between me and punctuality.
I squeezed myself in, careful not to elbow anyone in the ribs. Just as I found a semi-stable spot near the front—
「Exceeding elevator's capacity. Please take the next elevator.」
The robotic voice echoed with the cold finality of a firing squad.
“Ey, what’s going on?” someone muttered behind me.
A grumbling chorus followed.
“Seriously—who’s the last one in?”
“C’mon, we’re all gonna be late!”
“Someone has to get off.”
All eyes turned to me. My shoulders froze.
“N-No, no… Um, I…”
Even my own voice sounded like it wanted to hide.
“You should take the next one,” a man chuckled half-heartedly, clearly meaning get off already. “Seriously—ha. Come on.”
I glanced around. Everyone else looked either annoyed, amused, or aggressively indifferent. My gaze flicked to him. Pink Sweatshirt Guy.
He was standing calmly near the back—behind me.
Wait a second… Didn’t he get in after me?!
I narrowed my eyes, fury bubbling in my chest.
(Why me?! WHY ME?!!)
I glared at him like I had laser vision.
(What’s wrong with you, you cat-faced traitor?!!)
He tilted his head slightly, blinking at me with the same soft, unreadable expression. Like he had no clue what sin he’d just committed.
And then—ding—the doors began to close.
I stepped back into the lobby, defeated and humiliated.
The doors shut in my face with a cheery “Now going up.”
Alone again. Standing in silence. Elevatorless. I must be an idiot.
"What the heck is wrong with that effing guy?!" I muttered through gritted teeth, shaking my fist in the air.
Before I could finish my silent rant, a familiar voice cut through the morning buzz of the lobby.
"Good morning, Mia!"
I froze mid-motion and spun around. "G-G-Good morning, Mentor!"
My mentor, Thomas, walked up with his usual gentle smile.
"Umm… please, Mia," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don't have to call me that. It's not a real title or anything. Just call me Thomas."
"I-I'm sorry!" I blurted out, heat creeping up my cheeks.
He chuckled softly. "No, no. I don't mean to make you feel bad. Take your time, okay?"
"Y-Yes!" I squeaked.
"Anyway…" He glanced up toward the elevator. "I'm glad I'm not going up to the office alone."
Thomas Brown. Four years into his career here. Calm, composed, and smart. And more importantly—my mentor. I probably wouldn't have survived my first week without him.
"The traffic jam this morning was horrible, wasn't it?" he asked as we waited.
"Yeah," I said, brushing some hair from my face. "I took the bus and it was barely moving. Felt like we were crawling."
Thomas nodded. "Public transport in this city really tests your patience."
Then his gaze flicked toward my still-tense hand. "So... why were you waving your fist in the air just now?"
I blinked, realizing I was still mid-gesture. Quickly dropping my hand, I laughed nervously. "Oh, the elevator…!"
He raised a brow. "The elevator?"
I shifted on my feet, already reliving the embarrassment. "I ran into a weird situation just now..."
"A weird situation?"
"Yes!" I huffed, folding my arms. "I was waiting for the elevator, and then—this rude guy just—ugh!"
As I recounted the elevator incident to Thomas, the metallic ding of the elevator doors echoed through the lobby. They parted with a smooth hiss—and out stepped a tall, familiar figure.
Thomas brightened. "Oh, Eddie!"
I stiffened just a little.
"Ah, Mia, and Thomas," said Mr. Lewis with his usual calm confidence.
His voice was like warm honey—smooth and easy. I quickly bowed my head slightly. "Good morning," I managed, trying not to squeak.
"Good morning, Eddie," Thomas greeted with a polite nod.
I see Mr. Lewis every day, and yet... he still catches me off guard. That tousled hair, his soft, gentle aura, and those kind eyes that curled into crescents when he smiled—it was impossible not to notice. And that smile. God, that smile.
Then he turned to me. "Mia?"
I blinked rapidly. "Y-Yes, sir?"
His lips curved. "Ah, I thought you had something to say. You were staring at me for a while."
Mortified, I jolted upright. "Err... It's... Oh! I'm sorry! I didn’t mean to—ah—I was just thinking! About what happened this morning!" I laughed awkwardly, probably too loud.
He gave a knowing smile, the kind that made my cheeks burn even more.
We stepped into the office, and I picked up where I left off with Thomas, still talking about that rude guy in the pink crew neck who had cut in front of me at the elevator.
The office buzzed with the usual energy—keyboards tapping, phones ringing, the hum of low conversations. I followed the trail of coffee aroma back to my desk when I heard Mr. Lewis’s voice again.
"Oh, you're here," he said warmly.
I turned just in time to see him walk over to a desk that had been empty for weeks. A man was standing beside it, just setting down his bag.
Mr. Lewis smiled, even softer now. "You finally came back from the hospital! It's great to see you again."
"Yes, I did yesterday..." came a quiet voice near the end of the room.
I glanced up. Mr. Lewis had his usual gentle smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"What did the doctor say?" he asked, concern lacing his words. "Are you okay now?"
There was a pause before the reply came, hesitant. "Well, yeah... I guess."
Left the hospital...?
Curiosity sparked, I turned subtly in my seat—just enough to peek past the monitors and desks.
My breath hitched.
No. Freaking. Way.
There he was. The same guy. The cranky pink crew neck guy from the elevator incident. Sitting at a nearby desk, flicking his computer on with one hand while rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Same frown, same sharp jawline, same annoying aura.
Mr. Lewis smiled at me and gestured toward him. “Oh, he must be new to you. This is our part-timer who helps us with documents and extra jobs. His name is B—”
Clatter!
“Oops! I’m sorry!” I bent down in a panic, my bag slipping from my shoulder and spilling some pens onto the floor—right as he was about to say the guy’s name.
I scrambled to gather my things, cheeks burning. Smooth, Mia. Real smooth.
As I sat back up, my eyes instinctively darted toward his desk—where a sleek black nameplate sat.
B... Bra?
Bra...? I blinked. Wait. Bra?
My brain short-circuited for a second. Bra? Like the underwear? The thing that supports boobs?
Or maybe... short for Abracadabra? Or some secret agent codename?
I bit my lower lip. No. Don’t laugh. Be mature, Mia. That’s probably a foreign name. Definitely not lingerie. Probably.
Mr. Lewis didn’t seem fazed. “He was away from work last week—had to go to the hospital for gastritis.”
My stomach flipped with guilt. Oh. That’s why he looked pale...
Mr. Lewis then turned and gestured at me. “And this is Miss Mia, our new intern.”
The pink crew neck guy—Bra—looked up briefly.
"...Hi," he said, monotone. Uninterested. Like he'd already written me off as a walking disaster.
"Oh, uh, yeah... Hi," I replied, flashing a tight smile in return.
His surly expression didn’t faze me anymore. Honestly, it bounced right off. Whatever, I thought. His name is Bra, anyway. That’s enough karma.
Mr. Lewis, thankfully unaware of the war in my brain, turned to me with a warm request.
“And could you help me with the files, Mia?”
“Yes, sir!” I stood up a bit straighter.
“It’s nothing complicated,” he said, already half-distracted. “There’s a file I need to forward—you’ll see it in the folder named—”
But before he could finish, his phone vibrated. He picked it up, murmured something into it, and walked briskly toward the other side of the office.
The rest of the day spun into a blur of typing, calls, and the soft hum of the air conditioning. The initial shock of learning that Bra was both a real name and attached to the cranky elevator guy slowly faded into background noise.
I hunched over my desk, peering into the screen.
“Is it done…?” I whispered to myself.
The document stared back at me with a cold, corporate indifference. I was working on the tile order for the new interior design client. According to the layout plan, we needed exactly 400 tiles.
“…T-This should be right... Right…?”
But then I hesitated. Wait. Glossy or matte?
I blinked at the note I’d scribbled earlier. I could swear it was glossy.
...Was it?
My eyes darted across the room, landing on Mr. Lewis as he moved like a whirlwind from desk to desk.
“Thomas, the mail you just forwarded—”
“Oh, Gray, that’s not the one.”
“The file from Team B? Sent that to Kelly.”
“Bryan can take care of it.”
“No, Diana was in charge.”
“Proposal’s with Hannah from Team C—”
It was like watching a graceful tornado—efficient, but untouchable.
Yeah… definitely not the right time to ask about tiles.
I glanced back at the file, heart racing. I’d followed the manual. Cross-checked the specs. Matched the dimensions. It should be fine.
Just then, Mr. Lewis’s voice cut through the air. “Mia.”
"Yes, Mr. Lewis?" I responded quickly, swiveling in my chair to face him.
He paused, then offered a faint smile. "You can call me Eddie."
I blinked. Wait... What? Mr. Lewis just casually told me to call him by his first name. I could feel my soul do a little somersault.
"I’ll have to make a quick trip to the other team," he continued. "Could you put the hardcopy on my desk when you’re done? I’ll check it later."
I nodded, trying to sound calm. “Okay… Eddie.”
As he walked off, I stared back at my screen.
“Well... it should be right. And if not,” I murmured to myself, hitting save, “he’ll edit it anyway.”
One problem down. One to go.
I reached for the file to print—only to realize something. Oh no. My PC wasn’t connected to the office printer. Right. Intern privilege: one PC, no printing rights.
"Hey, Mia!" a familiar voice called from the other row.
I looked up. “Oh—Gray!”
Gray, my only true ally in this strange and overwhelming office world. Cheerful, dependable… and always on top of things.
"You can’t use the printer, right?" he asked, already grinning.
“Yeah, I was just realizing that,” I admitted with a laugh.
"I’ll do it for you," he said easily. "My PC’s connected."
“Awww, Gray… I’m sorry to disturb you…”
“No, no. It’s my pleasure,” he said with a wink.
I quickly attached the file and fired it off. “Thanks, Gray! I’ve sent it to your email!”
“Cool. I’ll get it printed now.”
But just as he turned to his monitor, I hesitated. “Uh, Gray…?”
He turned halfway. “Yeah?”
“Why… is your PC turned off?”
There was a long pause.
“…Huh?” he said blankly.
I pointed. “Uhh… The screen. It just went black.”
Gray stared. Then sighed. “...Right. It auto-sleeps when I don’t move the mouse for a while.”
He slumped into his chair, pressing the power button like it had personally betrayed him.
“I’ll get your files printed in five minutes,” he grumbled.
I smiled sheepishly. “...Please take your time.”
Gray’s face morphed right before my eyes—from a warm, glowing angel in heaven to a poor, fallen soul banished into technical hell.
He slumped in his chair, pressing random keys with despair. “...Thomas, I think my computer’s out—could you take a look at it? I’m not sure why this happened…”
Thomas looked over from his desk, frowning. “What?? That’s awful. Are you all right, Gray?”
“…Hah... hahaha…” Gray laughed the kind of laugh people give when they’ve given up on life.
Oh... He’s really at his limit today, I thought, biting my lip. I shouldn't ask him for anything more.
But then… a problem remained.
My file still isn't printed.
I looked down at the USB in my hand and then up at the ceiling, praying for guidance. I had no idea who else to ask… until a pink blur caught the corner of my eye.
Wait... of course! The pink crew neck!
That guy—Bra—was supposedly in charge of all the printing jobs in this department. He worked with files, right? This was literally part of his job!
Summoning all my courage, I stepped closer.
“Uh, excuse me… B-Bra…?”
He didn’t even flinch.
“Bra…!!” I tried a little louder, waving slightly.
Nothing.
He didn’t even glance at me. It was like I was a ghost floating in office purgatory. Was he wearing invisible noise-cancelling headphones or something?
I took a deep breath, and—
“Hey, Mister BRA—!!!”
The word echoed across the office floor like a sudden slap in a library.
Silence.
Dead silence.
Even the fax machine gave up.
Every head turned. A few pens stopped mid-scratch. A coffee mug hovered in the air.
I froze. Heat shot up my neck.
“Uhh… Excuse me,” I squeaked, much, much softer now. “B-Bra… Could you help print out some documents for me…?”
His chair creaked as he finally turned, expression unreadable. “What did you just say…?”
Oh no. Was he offended?
I panicked. “Prints! I asked for prints! I can’t print from my computer—” I held up the file like a white flag.
“No, not that.”
His voice cut through the awkward silence, sharp and clipped.
I blinked. Why is he so edgy all the time? His tone rubbed against my nerves like sandpaper.
Gritting my teeth, I held out the USB like a peace offering, trying to sound firm. “Please print some files out for me, Mister B. R. A.!”
He exhaled deeply. Not just any sigh. A soul-weary, I’ve-had-enough-of-this-universe kind of sigh.
And then—
“Phwahat—”
“Pfft—”
“Whahaha—!”
The office exploded.
Laughter rippled across the room like a wave, some muffled behind hands, others openly wheezing. Even someone from Team B was giggling behind a coffee mug.
I stared, wide-eyed. Wait. What just happened...?
Bra—no, the guy—pressed his fingers against his temple and muttered something under his breath.
“…My name is Brad. Not Bra.”
My heart dropped into my shoes.
“S-so-sorry?!” I stammered, my voice almost a whisper now.
He met my eyes, deadpan. “It’s Brad. B-R-A-D.”
My face felt like it had caught fire. “B-but—on your name plate—”
Desperately, I pointed to the nameplate sitting boldly on the edge of his desk, the letters B R A printed in big, bold font.
Without a word, Brad reached forward.
With one swift motion, he peeled a yellow sticky note off the middle of the plaque.
It fluttered to the side like the punchline of a bad joke.
And there it was, beneath the sticky prank: Brad.
My jaw dropped.
“I—it’s... Brad…” I echoed faintly, covering my mouth.
and ta-da! There's his true name, Brad.
"That's right," he said flatly, arms crossed and voice sharp. "I'm Brad. Not Bra."
I wanted to sink through the floor.
So screwed. Not only had I yelled the worst possible nickname across the office... I gave it to the most intimidating person here. And it was based on a sticky note prank.
And his first impression of me? A disaster.
Before I could mumble another apology or spontaneously combust, a tall figure stepped into the room, pulling everyone’s attention like a magnet.
“Excuse me,” the man said coolly. “Is Eddie Lewis here?”
Thomas stood quickly. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Weiss.”
My stomach dropped. Oh no.
I turned just as he approached, and there he was—Joshua Weiss. Our CEO. Elegant, powerful, terrifying. Known in hushed whispers as “the handsome psycho.” I mean, technically he’s brilliant, successful, and—yes—unreasonably good-looking. But there’s something in his eyes that makes you wonder if he sleeps upside down like a bat.
He smiled down at me.
“Hello, Miss Mia.”
I straightened in my chair so fast I nearly pulled a muscle. “G-Good morning, sir!”
He gave a slow, calculating nod. “How’s it going?”
“The project’s going great!” I answered quickly, voice rising just a little too much.
“No,” he said smoothly, raising an eyebrow. “Not that one.”
I blinked. “Pardon? If not that, then...?”
“The office dinner.”
My heart stalled. “Sorry?”
He tilted his head. “The office dinner. It’s after work today.”
And then, turning to the whole room, he clapped once. “Right, let’s pack your stuff, people.”
Groans and low murmurs followed. Clearly, no one had been looking forward to it. Me? I was too busy spiraling.
Dinner? With everyone? After the Bra—Brad incident?
This was officially the worst situation—awkwardness, humiliation, and now forced socializing. My brain was short-circuiting. I could barely process it all.
And in the chaos of my internal breakdown...
I forgot.
I completely forgot to ask Eddie—er, Mr. Lewis—to check my report.
At the BBQ Restaurant
The clinking of glasses and the warm buzz of laughter filled the air. The table was crowded, plates heaped with sizzling meat, side dishes scattered between empty soju bottles. I sat quietly at the edge of it all, still slightly unsure if I even belonged here.
“Did you drink some, Mia?”
I looked up, startled. “Oh—Mr. Lewis!”
Eddie Lewis, our charismatic yet strangely reserved team leader, was standing beside me. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and his hair looked slightly tousled, like he’d been running his fingers through it all night.
“I heard you weren’t informed about tonight’s dinner,” he said, lowering himself into the empty seat next to me. “I guess Thomas forgot to tell you… We’ve all been swamped lately.”
“It’s alright,” I replied quickly, brushing it off with a small smile. “I didn’t have any appointments today anyway.”
Still, he looked genuinely remorseful.
“I’m sorry, though,” he murmured, his gaze dipping toward the table. “It’s not fair to leave someone out, even unintentionally.”
I blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. Most people wouldn’t even bother to notice.
He glanced at the green bottle near my plate. “Did you drink a lot?”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “No, just a little. I was too nervous today to even enjoy it.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Huh… Gray, on the other hand, seems to be a heavy drinker.”
At the mention of Gray, I turned to see what he meant.
“Ma’am!!” Gray shouted toward the waitress, dramatically raising his hand. “Two more bottles of this gorgeous soju! And let’s add four bottles of beer to that, please!”
Thomas nearly choked on his lettuce wrap. “Wow, Gray! You really drink a lot!”
Gray threw his head back and laughed with abandon. “How can I not—when we are ab-so-lutely having fun?! Now, take a glass of this absolute joy!”
I stared, mouth slightly open. Was this… really Gray? The same quiet, soft-spoken man we all called Mr. Smile in the office?
Laughter erupted from the far end of the table—again.
“Wow, Yoonha! You are really talented in mixing alcohols!” Gray announced, raising his glass high with flushed cheeks and glimmering eyes. “But—why am I... feeling... di-zzy and drow-sy...?”
He blinked, swaying slightly in his seat.
“It must be because of that boilermaker!” he shouted, then burst into another fit of laughter. “Hahahaha!”
If there was ever a man who could drink like a fish and still find joy in collapsing, it was Gray. Gone was the gentle, soft-spoken “Mr. Smile” I knew from the office. Sitting before me now was Meister Gray—expert alcohol brewer, self-appointed bartender, and professional party-starter.
And the chaos continued.
Eddie leaned closer, voice calm amidst the noise. “Would you like to eat something more?”
“Oh, I’m fine, uhh—” My eyes darted to the person across from me. “H-how about you, Brad?”
Bra—I mean, Brad—glared at the tabletop, expression stiff and unreadable. He hadn’t said a word to me all night, and ever since that awkward morning, he’d gone from aloof to downright frosty.
“No, thank you,” he muttered without even glancing my way.
Why am I at the same table with this Mr. Crankyhead…?!
There was a slight, awkward silence until Eddie stepped in with that ever-reliable ease.
“Hmm, Brad’s home is near yours, I believe. You must be neighbors!”
“Uhh… really?” I asked, trying not to sound too alarmed at the thought.
“Yes,” Eddie said with a small smile. “Last time, he—”
“Oy, Ed, ma man!”
A slurred voice cut him off.
We all turned.
Joshua Weiss, the CEO himself, stumbled toward the table, grinning like he’d won the lottery. His suit jacket was long gone, his tie halfway undone, and his usual piercing gaze was glazed over with tipsy joy.
Eddie stared at him blankly.
“...He’s drunk,” he said flatly.
From the other end of the table, where Meister Gray was now crafting his tenth unholy fusion of soju, beer, and who-knows-what, a flushed and unsteady Mr. CEO suddenly called out.
“Eddie! Eddieee! C’mere, my loyal man!”
Eddie blinked. “…Yes, sir—I’m coming—”
No, don’t go! I screamed silently in my head, my eyes pleading as if they could pull him back to his seat. But it was too late. Eddie had already stood up, swept away by the gravity of a drunken CEO’s summons.