If hell had an office branch, it'd be JEON Corporation on a Thursday morning.
The lobby, usually echoing with half-hearted greetings and the clickity-clack of overworked heels, suddenly froze like it had been flash-frozen by a CEO-shaped blizzard. At precisely 8:59 a.m., the ground floor lobby shifted from casual chaos to military-grade alertness.
The receptionist, who was giggling at a meme seconds ago is now carved from stone. Spine ramrod straight.Smile frozen mid-giggle, like corporate fear just possessed her body.
One poor intern who was a bit late ran inside the office which was on the 22nd floor in her viciously high heels like a caffeinated tornado. Sloshing coffee, she whisper-yelled as she passed by, her voice a high-pitched hiss:
"He's here."
Suddenly, the entire office snaps into emergency formation.
Phones are slammed down like they just turned radioactive. Conversations die in mid-sentence, the last syllable hanging in the air like a ghost no one wants to claim.
Papers are shuffled with fake urgency. Laptop screens flicker from Netflix tabs to spreadsheets so fast it's a miracle no one gets whiplash. Heels begin to click at twice the speed, some employees literally speed-walking to their desks like they're training for the Olympics.
One guy trips over a potted plant. No one helps him. Survival of the fittest.
Managers pretend to be in deep, life-or-death conversations about quarterly reports. HR literally pretends to take a phone call-- "Yes sir, the termination papers are ready, absolutely!" (There's no one on the line.)
It's like watching a royal court scramble to look composed before a tyrant king enters. Everyone knows the drill. Everyone knows the stakes.
Because when Jeon Jaehyuk walks through that elevator—
You don't breathe unless you want to be on his next termination list.
And then—
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss.
Jeon Jaehyuk steps out.
Immaculate black suit. Polished shoes. Rolex gleaming like it knows it's expensive. His jaw is set, sharp as ever, lips in a straight, unforgiving line. His eyes-- those infamous, soul-freezing eyes-- scan the floor once like a sniper calculating the quickest shot.
No one breathes.
I'm following him, tablet in hand, as always. His personal assistant for the past three years, and yet every single morning still feels like I'm bracing for a storm. The only difference is—I've learned to hold my ground in the wind.
I follow him like a lost puppy, my heels clicking in sync with his perfectly timed strides. Each step I take is measured, careful — like I'm walking behind a landmine in a suit.
And then—
He stops.
Without warning.
Dead in the middle of the hallway.
Before I can react, I crash straight into his back, which, to be fair, feels like walking into a damn marble statue.
My eyes widen in horror.
He turns his head slowly -- that icy glare piercing through my very soul.
Oh no.
Abort mission.
Abort LIFE.
"I-I'm sorry sir," I mumble quickly, bowing my head at a ninety-degree angle like it's my new religion. My ears are on fire. My soul has left the building.
But he doesn't say a word.
He just turns his head away from me—dismissive—and stares ahead with razor-sharp focus, scanning the floor like a hawk spotting a mouse.
I follow his gaze.
Oh no.
There.
An employee at his desk, typing furiously, sweat beading on his forehead like he's in a hostage situation. He looks like he's working… but then--
Right there.
Right next to the keyboard.
A. Bag. Of. Chips.
Nacho cheese. Half open. Sitting casually like it belongs there. Like it's allowed to exist in this sacred corporate space. As if this man wasn't in the same building as Satan in Gucci.
Mr Jeon starts walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Each footstep sounds like a death toll.
The employee tries to minimize the damage—shoving the chips into the drawer like it's evidence at a crime scene, fingers fumbling, face going pale.
Too late.
Mr Jeon stops right in front of him. The entire floor falls into a terrified silence. You could hear a pen drop. You could hear a thought drop.
The man looks up, sweat dripping from his temple like he's on trial for murder.
"Is this…" Mr Jeon's voice is low, cold, and lethal, "a cafeteria?"
"N-No sir," the man stammers, voice cracking. But Mr Jeon remained there with a stoic expression."Office policy #47: No food on desk during active work hours." He straightens up. "You've read the handbook, haven't you?"
The guy nods so fast he looks like a bobblehead in a hurricane.
Mr Jeon doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. His silence screams.
"Clear your desk," Mr Jeon says sharply, cutting him off. "And leave your ID card at the front desk."
And just like that, boom. Terminated.
May his career rest in pieces.
The man's face collapses. "Sir—please, I—I have rent, my m—"
I silently prayed for his linkedin profile.
Amen.
Mr Jeon turns around and resumes walking silently with his predator steps without hearing his excuse—like it was just another Thursday.
I hurriedly catch up again, my mouth dry and my heart running a marathon.
The moment ends, and just like that—
life resumes.
No chip bag. No firing. No eye contact. Just the sound of furious typing and mouse clicks echoing in the stiff silence. Because in this office, everyone knows one golden rule:
Don't get involved.
If you so much as look like you're paying attention to someone else's mistake, Jeon Jaehyuk will personally escort you out the building, but you won't be coming back again.
His presence alone sends waves through the floor like a silent tsunami. As we pass the finance department, it's like watching dominoes fall—heads bow, backs straighten, breaths are held. No one even blinks until he's walked by.
I keep pace with him, two steps behind and slightly to the left—exactly where he prefers me to be.
My tablet is open, itinerary ready.
I begin, tone clipped and professional.
"Meeting with the European investors is at 9:30. Your lunch has been pre-ordered and cleared of all allergens. The boardroom has been sanitized this morning. I had the AC temperature adjusted to 20 degrees, just how you like it."
He doesn't respond immediately, just keeps walking like a machine in motion—tailored suit sharp, hair perfectly styled, shoes gleaming.
"...And the new intern?"
I don't miss a beat. "Terminated. She requested a three-day leave, which violates the probation period policy. HR handled it."
A slight nod. Barely noticeable.
But I see it.
That's his version of good job.
The kind of praise you don't get in words—but in not getting fired.
Finally, we reach the end of the hallway—his sanctuary, his executive suite.
The glass doors glint under the ceiling lights.
I pause, bowing slightly, tablet at my side.
He steps forward, the glass doors opening automatically like they recognize their master.
Without turning, without saying a word, he disappears into his kingdom.
And I exhale—finally—because surviving the morning walk with The Ice King is an achievement in itself.