Kim Suho sat at his desk, staring into space like a man on the verge of inventing something revolutionary.
"Race walking," he whispered.
Not running. Not weightlifting. Just… walking. With rules. It was like the perfect sport invented for lazy geniuses.
"Fifty meters," he added, nodding to himself. "That's… what? Two dramatic strides and some hip action? Done. Gold medal. Thank you very much."
He pictured it: employees wobbling across the floor like penguins with a bad attitude, while he collected rewards for "innovation." For once, the system wasn't trying to break his back—it was practically holding the door open for him.
Suho leaned back, smiling like a man who had just outsmarted capitalism. The eight million was already waving at him, seductive and smug, like a game show prize model.
