"........,"

╭──────────.★..─╮

Second (1) week ;

So expensive ,,, I can tell why he acts like that now .

╰─..★.──────────╯

"Goddamn, his whole outfit then probably costs more than my life savings, my dignity, and a kidney on the black market combined."

[Your Name]. T^T

BY THE TIME MONDAY MORNING ROLLED AROUND, [Your Name] was practically a walking skeleton, looking like he hadn't seen a scrap of food or a wink of sleep in three days.

The clock ticked to an ungodly early hour as he slouched into Yevgeny's office with the cursed stack of completed reports in hand, having the appearance of some person who'd just emerged from a particularly grueling episode of Survivor: Office Edition.

Dark circles under his eyes, hair slightly disheveled, his whole vibe screamed "man on the brink."

He swore his soul had left his body somewhere around Sunday afternoon.

Yevgeny, of course, looked flawless.

He sat behind his massive, intimidating desk, the kind of desk that made [Your Name] feel like a peasant delivering tribute to his king.

The CEO barely glanced up from his own work, eyes narrowing just slightly when he caught sight of his most recent secretary, raising an eyebrow that was somehow more judgmental than a disappointed parent.

"Ah," he let out smoothly, setting his papers down with the care of someone handling ancient artifacts. "The reports. On time, as expected."

- As expected?

As if he hadn't just sentenced [Your Name] to a weekend of suffering?!

The younger man suppressed the urge to dramatically collapse onto the floor right then and there as the other extended a perfectly manicured hand.

Instead, he slid the stack onto the older's desk with a shaky hand of his own, praying the man would just take it and wave him off.

But no, of course not.

The Bogdanov leaned back in his seat, slowly, almost like he was savoring the look of desperation on the other's face.

He picked up the stack of papers without even sparing a glimpse at [Your Name]'s zombie-like appearance, flipping open the top page with all the urgency of someone leisurely reading a novel rather than a mountain of data.

Minutes ticked by.

And then more minutes.

Way more minutes than it should have taken to SKIM a single stack.

One finger of his idly flicking through the first few sheets, taking his sweet, sweet ass time with each one.

[Your Name] was forced to stand there like a human statue, barely breathing, watching Yevgeny's every move with a mixture of horror and resentment.

Half-hunched, he practically chewed his lip off as he awaited the inevitable "This is all wrong" speech.

To make it worse, every so often, the CEO would glance up, the ghost of a frown tugging at his lips, as if he were about to point out a critical, life-ending error.

His assistant swore his soul left his body each time he looked up like that, only to float back in when the man returned to the page without saying a word.

The mental whiplash was unreal.

Finally - finally, after what felt like the longest Monday morning in the history of Mondays - Yevgeny finished the last page.

He set the stack down, took off his reading glasses with a deliberate slowness that was, frankly, just rude, and leaned back further in his chair.

For a split second, [Your Name] felt a glimmer of hope seeing.

Was... was that a hint of approval in Yevgeny's gaze?

"Well," the said man began, steepling his fingers with an unreadable expression like he was some kind of movie villain.

'Here it comes,' his employee dreaded. 'This is it. This is the part where he tells me I missed a comma on page forty-seven and demands a full rewrite.'

But then, to his utter shock, Yevgeny... smiled.

"Good job," he cheered, his tone almost - almost - sincere. "You did well, Mr. [Last Name]."

For a second, [Your Name] just stared at him, struck dumb.

Did he... did he hear that right?

Praise?

From Yevgeny?

The same man who probably wouldn't notice if he ran a marathon and then passed out in his office?

Did he actually just say something nice?

Had hell finally frozen over?

He blinked, his brain taking a full five seconds to process the compliment.

When it did, his cheeks betrayed him with a faint unfortunate flush - a tiny, traitorous [c] color creeping up at the edges - and he scrambled to plaster a neutral expression over his internally screaming face. "Uh... t-thank you, sir."

He managed to choke out, voice cracking like he'd just gone through puberty again, heart racing like he'd somehow pulled off the impossible.

Just as he awkwardly turned to leave after cursing himself for stuttering, a full-body sigh of relief building up inside him, the other cleared his throat.

"Wait," Yevgeny called, tapping a finger on his desk, his gaze like a spotlight boring into [Your Name]'s back.

The word froze the man in question mid-step.

Oh no.

That one syllable might as well have been a death sentence.

The CEO reached down, opening a drawer, and pulled out another towering stack of documents.

"You're not done yet," he added, his tone that deadly mix of polite and sadistic as his secretary turned around, dread filling the latter's soul once his eyes met the blonde's, only to see him holding up a fresh, thick folder. "I have a few additional tasks for you..."

Yevgeny extended it with that same smile, smooth and calm, like he was offering a high-quality, fancy dessert instead of a new nightmare, his stance devoid of so much as a shred of mercy. "These need to be reviewed by tomorrow morning. Think of it as... extra credit."

[Your Name] stared at the new pile in horror, with the look of a man who'd just been slapped with a second, even more depressing, tax bill.

- Extra credit?

Who the hell was this guy, his high school math teacher?

"By... tomorrow?" he squeaked out, voice barely holding it together, somewhere between laughing and weeping.

"Yes." Yevgeny crossed his arms, smiling as if he'd just won the lottery. "Oh, and I trust you'll take the same dedication as you did with the last set."

The secretary gave him a pained smile that screamed screaming. "Of course, sir. Anything for the company..."

The blonde raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his assistant's suffering. "I knew I could count on you."

[Your Name] didn't even make it past the door before his body gave out.

The second the wood clicked shut behind him, he dropped to his knees like he'd been taken out by a sniper.

"WHY?!" he howled, clutching at his chest like Yevgeny had just personally reached into his ribcage and crushed his lungs with that extra credit stack.

He pounded his fists weakly against the floor, which only made his hands hurt more because - surprise - it was marble.

The receptionist peeked her head over the front desk, looking alarmed. "Uh, are you-"

"DON'T LOOK AT ME!" The man wailed dramatically, crawling to the wall like some kind of broken anime character.

He braced his arm against it, letting out a soft sob. "Don't look at me... I'm hideous."

His forehead hit the wall with a pathetic little...

- thunk .ᐟ

...and he stayed there for a moment, shaking his head.

"He hasn't even let me sleep since Friday," he muttered to no one in particular. "Friday. FRIDAY! The freeloader on my couch ate my only food. I had to drink TAP WATER. TAP WATER, I TELL YOU."

Another mournful

- thunk .ᐟ

...of his forehead against the wall.

But just as he was gearing up for a full breakdown - possibly including banging on the walls and screaming about "how unfair life is" - a chilling voice echoed from seemingly nowhere.

"Get back to work."

He froze.

The voice sounded far too close, like Yevgeny was standing right behind him, breathing down his neck.

Slowly, he turned his head and spotted the blinking red light of a camera mounted in the corner.

Shit.

Yevgeny had a microphone.

Which meant...

Oh, god.

The camera had SEEN THINGS.

His entire life flashed before his eyes.

Did that mean Yevgeny saw when he flipped him off that one time?

Or worse - what about the time he snuck into his office to spit in his coffee?

And the endless muttering of "Damn that Bond villain wannabe" under his breath every time he walked away from the man's desk?

His face turned pale as milk as he remembered one specific moment: that Friday morning when he used Yevgeny's stapler as a makeshift nutcracker for his pistachios.

He snapped his head toward the camera and immediately morphed from a man on the verge of a public meltdown to the literal embodiment of Employee of the Month.

"Of course, sir!" he chirped, voice suddenly sunshine and rainbows.

He saluted the camera like it was the national anthem and gave a smile so wide it looked painful. "Right away, sir! I love my job! I'm so passionate about my work! You're an amazing boss, by the way! Truly inspiring!"

He gave two thumbs up, his face twitching under the strain of maintaining such an enthusiastic expression.

"I've never been happier, sir," he added, hoping that would erase the mental image of him spitting in the CEO's coffee. "I live for these challenges! You keep me motivated!"

He stood up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, patting the wrinkles out of his disheveled suit like he hadn't just been on the floor five seconds ago.

"This is fine," he whispered through clenched teeth as he stumbled back to his desk. "Everything's fine. We're fine. I'm fine. Just a little sleep-deprived. And haunted. And probably cursed."

As he sat down, he glanced back at the camera with a smile that could only be described as "someone help me," then quickly got to work pretending to actually read the reports.

But in the back of his mind, one horrifying thought lingered:

'If he saw all that... does he know about the time I called him "Blond Satan" in my texts?'

"........,"

[Your Name] sat slumped in the breakroom like a man who had seen the face of Death - and then asked for a refund because even Death looked like too much effort.

His eyes were empty, [c] hollow pits of despair, fixed on the dark abyss swirling in his coffee cup.

He took a long, soul-draining sip of his drink, which had approximately six sugar packets and half a tub of creamer in it.

Not because he liked it that way, but because he needed something - anything - to mask the taste of corporate oppression.

His phone buzzed on the table, and he halfheartedly flicked a finger across the screen to check his texts.

First one was from the freeloader on his couch:

Gay Freak I Hooked Up With 💔

Yo, just wanted to let you know, I tried to make toast but I kinda set your toaster on fire.

Again.

Also, do we have insurance for the microwave?

Asking for a friend 😣

SEEN

He stared at the text for a solid ten seconds, blinking like his brain was buffering.

What the hell did that even mean?

Insurance for the-?

He didn't want to know.

Another text came in from the same chaotic entity:

Anyway, can I please borrow 20 bucks? 🥺

I wanna buy a sword off Craigslist, chat.

SEEN

The man pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it was a miracle it didn't snap. "What the hell is wrong with this guy..." he muttered under his breath.

Then, a third text popped up, this one sent two minutes earlier but just now appearing:

Hey, random thought.

What do you think would win in a fight?

A bear or like, 100 angry geese? I'm betting on the geese...

SEEN

He set his phone face-down on the table, exhaling the sigh of someone who knows their life is a dumpster fire but is too tired to grab a hose.

As he sat there contemplating how much caffeine it would take to replace his blood with pure espresso, the breakroom door opened, and in walked a woman who looked like she had her life 99% together.

She was in her mid-thirties, with neatly curled auburn hair, sharp glasses, and an outfit so well-pressed it could've been an ad for dry cleaning services.

There was an aura of competence about her, like she could solve a minor corporate crisis with nothing but a phone call and an exasperated sigh.

"Hello there," she greeted, her voice warm but with a hint of professional curiosity. "Mr. [Last Name], right?"

He blinked up at her with all the enthusiasm of a houseplant that hadn't been watered in weeks. "Uh, yeah... that's me."

She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "You're the new secretary, correct? I could've sworn you weren't supposed to start until next month..."

That got his attention.

He straightened slightly, looking as confused as he felt. "What? No, the boss told me to start working the day of the interview."

The woman's brows furrowed, her surprise evident. "Really? That's... unusual. The CEO's secretaries typically don't start right away. There's usually a month-long preparation period..."

[Your Name] stared at her, deadpan, as the realization slowly dawned on him.

He turned back to his coffee and muttered bitterly, "He probably did it on purpose to make me suffer..."

The general manager blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied, plastering on the fakest smile he could muster. "Just thinking about how much I love working here. Really gets the adrenaline pumping."

In his head, though, he was already plotting his revenge:

Step 1: Survive this day.
Step 2: Survive tomorrow.
Step 3: Steal Yevgeny's stapler as well as all of his pens and replace them with ones that didn't work.

Baby steps.

The woman extended her hand with a professional smile that could sell toothpaste in a heartbeat.

"I'm Sophia Hartwell, general manager of this department," she introduced herself. "Nice to meet you officially, Mr. [Last Name]."

The secretary jolted out of his caffeine-induced trance, nearly knocking over his coffee cup. Scrambling to his feet, he straightened his tie (that was somehow already wrinkled despite being fresh out of the package) and said, "Ah, yes. Nice to meet you, too, Ms. Hartwell."

She waved a hand dismissively, chuckling softly. "Oh, don't be so formal with me. We're going to be working together, after all. I'd prefer we keep things casual."

The taller figure nodded awkwardly. "Uh... sure, then you can just call me [Your Name]."

She smiled again, folding her arms in a relaxed stance. "Great. Now, do you have any questions about the job or the company?"

He blinked, processing her words like his brain was running on dial-up.

Then, like a lightbulb flickering to life, he started, "Actually, yeah, I do. Uh, why is the CEO conducting the interviews? Should we... I don't know... really be entrusting him with the hiring process? No offense, but I got hired so easily it feels like a prank. And... he kept asking me weird questions."

The manager raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Weird questions?"

He nodded, recounting with all the enthusiasm of a man reliving a fever dream. "Like, really weird questions. 'Am I handsome? What did you eat for breakfast?' Weird."

Sophia snorted but quickly composed herself. "That's just Mr. Bogdanov. He probably thought it'd be fun to mess with you during the interview. He does that sometimes."

"Oh, fun," [Your Name] deadpanned, sipping his coffee.

"But," she continued, "he's serious when it comes to his work. Don't worry - he might joke around, but he's surprisingly good at selecting employees. It's like he can read who's capable just by looking at their face."

He blinked again, trying to process her words through the haze of corporate coffee and existential dread. "Wait... what?"

The older woman chuckled. "You seem like a modest man, [Your Name]."

He froze, staring at her like she'd just accused him of being a unicorn. "Huh? I guess...?"

'Modest? Me?' he thought, internally spiraling. 'Lady, if you knew half the things I say to my friends at 3 a.m., you'd revoke that statement immediately.'

Sophia continued, unfazed. "Mr. Bogdanov values modesty. He was probably already set on hiring you after figuring out your personality. Of course, it helps that you also have the right qualifications."

The assistant laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't think he likes me much. I mean, I spilled coffee on his dress shirt the first day I met him. That's not exactly a stellar first impression..."

Sophia's eyes widened slightly, her lips quirking into an amused smile. "Oh, that was you? The shirt he wore that day... it was a gift from a chairman of another company."

He stiffened, his coffee cup trembling in his hands. "...A gift?"

She nodded, completely unbothered. "Yes, a one-of-a-kind designer piece. It probably cost... oh, I'd say around $25,000."

The number hit him like a truck.

He choked on his coffee, coughing violently as he stared at her in pure horror. "T-Twenty-five THOUSAND?! Dollars?!"

She nodded again, casually sipping her own coffee like she hadn't just dropped the equivalent of his entire life savings into conversation.

[Your Name] sat back down heavily, his soul leaving his body. "That's it. I'm done. Pack it up. Game over. No wonder he hates me."

Sophia tilted her head, her smile almost pitying. "Well, I wouldn't say he hates you-"

"Oh, no, no," he cut her off, waving a hand dramatically. "That number alone justifies all the hatred in the world. If I were him, I'd've already ordered my execution."

She tried to stifle her laugh, but the sound escaped, and [Your Name] groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"I'm gonna die in this job," he muttered, voice muffled. "And he's going to dance on my grave in those designer shoes I can't afford to look at."

The woman patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Well, at least you'll die employed."

She then leaned casually against the counter, swirling her coffee with the air of someone dropping life-changing news into a casual conversation.

"You know," she began, her tone conspiratorial, "I actually saw that shirt lying around in some trash bin the other day."

[Your Name] froze mid-sip, his soul clinging to his body by the thinnest thread. "I—what?"

She nodded, completely nonchalant. "Yeah. Just tossed there like yesterday's newspaper. It was a little rumpled, but unmistakable. Probably had coffee stains on it, too."

His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, his brain short-circuiting.

The scene played out in his head like a horror movie reel:

First, the CEO took off his shirt in the building.

In public.

Somewhere.

In front of people.

Second, someone probably fought tooth and nail to take that thing home.

It wasn't just trash; it was designer trash.

There were probably brawls in the break room over it, hair-pulling, screaming matches, maybe even a secret underground auction.

The general manager sipped her coffee as though she hadn't just shattered his perception of reality.

"Wait... wait... wait," [Your Name] finally managed, clutching his coffee cup like it was the last tether to sanity. "The boss... took off his shirt? Here? In the office?"

Let's not forget the fact that... that shirt was worth more than the secretary's rent for a YEAR, and the blonde just… threw it out because of a stain?

She shrugged. "He's the CEO. He can do what he wants. Handsome young men like him don't exactly follow rules, y'know."

Before the words could fully sink in, a voice like smooth velvet sliced through the air.

❝ Did someone say young and handsome? ❞

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰ ❄ ꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . . 

❝ AUTHOR'S NOTE .ᐟ ❞

HELP.

I FINALLY FINISHED THIS CHAPTER, Y’ALL.

IT FELT LIKE I WAS WRESTLING A BEAR THE WHOLE TIME (the bear won, btw, but I managed to crawl away with this chapter in hand).

I had SO MUCH to write, but I didn’t want to overstuff it like some chaotic buffet of plot.

So yeah, enjoy this serving – more chaos will come next time, I promise.

ALSO, SHOUTOUT TO MY DEAR, LOVELY FRIEND WHO MADE ME A PLAYLIST FOR THIS BOOK.

LIKE, OH MY GOSH, I CRIED.

I HAD TO SIT DOWN AND WRITE THIS CHAPTER BECAUSE IT WAS JUST THAT BEAUTIFUL.

HOW ARE THEY SO TALENTED???

Go follow them: Tofuu-chann.

Seriously, they’re amazing, and their taste in music? Chef’s kiss.

This chapter is basically a big, chaotic gift dedicated to them, because they deserve it.

AND GUESS WHAT? YOU CAN SAVE THE PLAYLIST, TOO! FOLLOW THEIR SPOTIFY ACCOUNT AND THANK THEM LATER FOR PUTTING YOU ON TO PURE VIBES:

Okay, that’s it for now.

Catch you guys next time when I fight another bear, probably.

Take care of yourselves! :3

╰──╮꒰ ❄ ꒱ ╭──╯

❛ WORD COUNT .ᐟ

ִ ࣪𖤐 3, 521

Happy reading! >ᴗ<