Work Text:
The sun shone warmly over Gi-hun’s face as he lay sprawled across a soft bed of grass and wildflowers. A cool breeze drifted lazily through his curls, carrying with it the fresh scent of spring earth and ripe strawberries.
The strawberries had been especially sweet today.
Their juice dripped down his chin as he bit into another one with a satisfied hum. Above him, the sky stretched endlessly blue, clouds drifting peacefully overhead. Birds chirped somewhere nearby.
It was perfect.
No debt collectors.
No deadlines.
No angry managers breathing down his neck.
No alarm clocks.
Gi-hun let out a content sigh and closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the grass beneath him.
Maybe he could stay here forever—
Pitter patter.
Whoosh.
THUD.
Ice cold water slammed directly into his face.
“SEONG GI-HUN!”
Gi-hun shot upright with a strangled scream, nearly falling off the bed.
“EOMMA?!”
Water dripped down his hair and soaked through his shirt as his mother stood over him with an empty steel bowl in hand and the expression of a woman who had long since lost patience with her only son.
“Did you even LOOK at the time?!” she screeched. “How can one human sleep this much?!”
Gi-hun blinked blearily toward the clock beside his bed.
9:02 AM.
His soul left his body.
“…Shit.”
Work started at 9:20.
What followed could only be described as a catastrophic natural disaster.
In the span of exactly seven minutes, Gi-hun somehow managed to:
— take the fastest shower known to mankind
— trip over his own pants twice
— put his shirt on backwards
— burn his tongue on toast
— lose one sock
— find the sock inside the refrigerator somehow
— and nearly crack his skull open while trying to hop into his shoes.
“Lord, please watch over my idiot son,” his mother sighed somewhere in the kitchen.
“I HEARD THAT!”
“GOOD.”
Gi-hun grabbed his bag and bolted out the front door like a criminal fleeing the scene of a murder.
The uphill streets were already crowded with people rushing to work. His legs screamed in protest as he sprinted toward the bus stop, tie half hanging off his neck and toast still shoved between his teeth.
“Why,” wheeze, “is life,” gasp, “so hard?”
Dark clouds rumbled ominously overhead.
Gi-hun froze mid-run.
“Oh no.”
A single raindrop landed dramatically on his forehead.
“No no no no—”
The sky immediately opened like the gods themselves had personally decided to ruin his morning.
Rain poured over him within seconds.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”
By the time he stumbled toward the bus stop, he looked less like an office worker and more like a drowned stray cat. His curls clung to his forehead as he bent over wheezing violently.
An old woman beside him slowly inched away.
“…Sorry,” Gi-hun muttered between breaths.
The bus finally appeared in the distance.
Hope filled his chest.
“Oh thank god—”
SCREEEECH.
The bus stopped directly in front of a massive puddle.
A tidal wave of muddy water splashed straight onto him.
Silence.
Gi-hun stood there dripping filthy rainwater in complete disbelief.
“…Okay.”
A vein twitched in his forehead.
“Okay. Fine. Whatever. Great start to the day.”
The bus doors hissed open.
And immediately closed again right in his face because it was full.
Gi-hun stared after it in horror as it drove away.
“…I think,” he whispered weakly to himself, “the universe is bullying me personally.”
A few nearby students burst into laughter.
One of them actually pointed at him.
Gi-hun looked toward the grey sky with the exhausted expression of a man abandoned by god.
“I’m going back to bed,” he declared.
At that exact moment, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
[Manager Kim]
Gi-hun’s entire body went cold.
Slowly, fearfully, he answered the call.
“…Hello?”
“Seong Gi-hun,” came the icy voice from the other end. “Where are you?”
Gi-hun looked down at himself.
Soaked.
Dirty.
Humiliated.
Half dead.
“…On my way,” Gi-hun croaked into the receiver.
Manager Kim didn’t even say goodbye; he just hung up with a sharp, judgmental click that sounded a lot like a threat to Gi-hun’s remaining three corporate lifelines.
Gi-hun shoved his dripping phone back into his pocket, took a deep, shuddering breath, and accepted his fate. There was no bus. There was no taxi. God had clearly looked down at Seong Gi-hun today and decided, ‘You know what? Let’s see how fast he can run three miles in loafers.’
It turned out he could run pretty fast when fueled by pure, unadulterated terror.
By the time Gi-hun practically burst through the revolving glass doors of the Shinra Corporation headquarters, he looked like a mythical swamp creature trying to assimilate into human society. His hair was an untamable bush of soaking wet, frizzy curls. His white button-down shirt was completely translucent, sticking to his skin like plastic wrap. His left shoe squelched loudly with every single step, leaving a pathetic trail of muddy rainwater across the pristine marble floor of the lobby.
The receptionist, a very neat woman who always smelled like lavender, stared at him in horror.
“Good morning,” Gi-hun panted, offering her a weak, trembling thumbs-up as he bolted past her toward the elevators.
The elevator was packed. Of course it was. Because the universe wasn’t done playing with its favorite chew toy yet. Gi-hun squeezed his way into the back corner, ignoring the collective, disgusted rustle of fine fabric as five different middle-managers tried to physically isolate themselves from his damp, miserable presence.
Gi-hun leaned his head back against the cold metal wall of the elevator and closed his eyes. His head was pounding. A strange, high-pitched ringing noise had started in his ears the moment he stepped inside the building—likely a symptom of his impending death by pneumonia.
Ringggggggg.
Gi-hun winced, pressing a hand to his temple. The ringing was getting louder. But then, as the elevator doors began to slide shut, the ringing suddenly shattered.
It didn’t go quiet. Instead, it was like a radio dial had violently spun out of control, flooding his brain with a dizzying explosion of voices.
—need to pick up dry cleaning after this—
—if Kim calls on me during the presentation I’m going to fake a medical emergency—
—did I leave the stove on? No, I checked. Wait, did I?—
—look at this idiot next to me, he’s dripping all over my briefcase—
Gi-hun gasped, his eyes flying open. He looked around the cramped elevator. Nobody was talking. Everyone was staring straight ahead, their lips tightly sealed, their faces masked in standard, dead-eyed corporate neutrality.
‘Am I finally losing it?’ Gi-hun thought, terror spiking in his chest. ‘Did the rainwater seep into my brain?’
—stupid diet, I just want a donut— another voice chimed in, clear as a bell, coming directly from the heavy-set man standing right in front of him.
Before Gi-hun could fully spiral into a psychiatric crisis, the elevator doors hissed open at the Executive Floor. The crowded lift instantly fell into a dead, suffocating silence. The ambient thoughts in Gi-hun’s head suddenly vanished, crushed under the weight of a heavy, suffocating tension.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Stepping into the elevator was Senior Director Hwang In-ho.
If Gi-hun was a swamp creature, Hwang In-ho was a god carved from black marble. He was immaculate. His three-piece charcoal suit didn’t have a single wrinkle. His dark hair was perfectly styled, away from his face , so sharply handsome and terrifyingly stoic that it routinely made interns cry just by glancing in their direction. He was the youngest Director in the company’s history, notoriously ruthless, and completely devoid of human emotion.
In-ho stepped inside, his dark eyes sweeping over the elevator. When his gaze landed on Gi-hun—soaking wet, shivering, and clutching his head in the corner—In-ho’s brow twitched. His handsome face hardened into an expression of profound, chilling disgust.
Gi-hun instinctively swallowed a whimper, trying to shrink himself into the metal wall. ‘Please don’t fire me,’ he prayed silently. ‘I’m already having a stroke.’
In-ho turned around, facing the door, his back rigid and imposing.
And then, a voice exploded directly into Gi-hun’s brain.
It wasn’t a whisper. It was a full-volume, echoes-in-a-cathedral, absolutely frantic roar. It was In-ho’s voice—deep, smooth, and commanding—but the words coming out of it made Gi-hun’s entire universe grind to a screeching halt.
"OH MY GOD. HE IS SOAKING WET. HE LOOKS LIKE A DROWNED KITTEN. A WET, PATHETIC, ADORABLE LITTLE PUPPY. WHY IS HE SO SMALL? WHY IS HE SHIVERING? WHO DID THIS TO HIM? I WILL ACQUIRE THE WEATHER SATELLITE SYSTEM AND SUE THE SKY."
Gi-hun choked on his own saliva. He let out a loud, wet cough.
Several managers glared at him. In-ho didn’t turn around, but his posture went completely rigid.
"HE COUGHED. HE’S SICK. HE’S GOING TO CATCH A COLD. LOOK AT HIS CURLS, THEY’RE RUINED. THEY’RE FLOOPY. I WANT TO WRAP HIM IN A HEATED BLANKET AND FEED HIM ABALONE PORRIDGE. WHY IS HE STANDING IN THE CORNER? COME CLOSER. WALK INTO MY ARMS, SEONG GI-HUN. I HAVE THREE SPARE SUITS IN MY OFFICE. THEY WILL BE TOO WIDE ON HIM. HE WILL LOOK LIKE A BOYFRIEND IN OVERSIZED CLOTHES. CRITICAL DAMAGE to my heart. CRITICAL DAMAGE."
Gi-hun’s jaw dropped so low he was pretty sure it unhinged. He stared at the back of In-ho’s perfectly groomed head.
In-ho’s reflection in the shiny elevator doors showed a man who looked like he was plotting a corporate assassination—cold, lethal, and unbothered. But the voice in Gi-hun’s head was currently vibrating at a frequency of pure, unadulterated panic.
"Why is he staring at the back of my head? Can he smell my cologne? Is it too strong? It’s sandalwood. Do kittens like sandalwood? No, kittens like milk. Should I buy a dairy farm? I’ll do it. I’ll buy a farm. We can live there. He can sleep until noon every day and I will personally kill any alarm clock that dares to disturb his peace. Look at his lips, they’re blue. Someone give him a coat. If anyone else in this elevator looks at his translucent shirt I will have them transferred to the regional office in Antarctica. He is so beautiful. God, I love him. I love him so much it’s a sickness."
The elevator chimed, announcing the 4th floor—Gi-hun’s floor.
The doors opened. Gi-hun stood there, completely paralyzed, his brain short-circuiting so hard he forgot how to use his legs.
In-ho glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes were like ice. “Are you not getting off, Seong Gi-hun?” he asked, his spoken voice smooth, cold, and dripping with professional disdain. “Some of us have actual work to do.”
But inside Gi-hun’s head, In-ho was absolutely wailing:
"NOOOOOO DON'T GO! STAY WITH ME! LOOK AT ME AGAIN WITH THOSE BIG, TRAUMATIZED DOE EYES! WET PUPPY! MY WET STRAWBERRY PUPPY! SEONG GI-HUN, HENCEFORTH, THIS TUESDAY SHALL BE DECLARED A NATIONAL HOLIDAY IN MY HEART."
“Y-Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!” Gi-hun squeaked.
He practically tumbled out of the elevator, his wet shoes squeaking wildly against the linoleum floor. He sprinted toward his desk, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He slumped into his office chair, staring blankly at his computer screen.
He could hear the thoughts of Manager Kim three desks over (‘I hate my wife, I hate my job, I want fried chicken’), and the intern next to him (‘Did I format this spreadsheet right? Oh no ! did i delete the database I’m gonna throw up’).
Gi-hun slowly covered his face with his hands, his face burning a bright, fiery red.
He wasn’t having a stroke. He could hear thoughts.
And Hwang In-ho—the most terrifying, cold-blooded man in the entire corporate hierarchy—was completely, undeniably, and dangerously obsessed with him.
“I’m going back to bed,” Gi-hun whispered to himself, utterly defeated.