Kim Suho awoke to the sound of chanting. At first, in his half-dreaming haze, he thought he was back in high school being tortured by morning assembly. But as his senses sharpened, he realized the voices weren't reciting the national anthem.
They were chanting his name.
"Kim Su-ho! Kim Su-ho! Mir-a-cle Boss!"
He bolted upright, hair disheveled, shirt half-buttoned, socks mismatched. It didn't matter—outside his office window, the courtyard of Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory looked like a religious revival.
Employees waved banners with his face screen-printed on them. Dormitory workers banged pots like ceremonial drums. Wu Yu, shirtless for reasons nobody questioned, stood on a wooden crate and raised his arms like a preacher:
"Brothers! Sisters! Do you not see? Our boss feeds us wagyu, clothes us with luxury dormitories, and delivers us into the promised land of endless overtime pay without overtime work! Can I get an amen?"
"Amen!" the crowd roared.
