For a moment, Stevanie thought Oska might strangle her that night. The air between them had turned thick and suffocating, the dim light casting shadows that trembled on the walls. But the reckless man from abroad somehow managed to hold himself back. Without another word, he stormed out, leaving her in uneasy silence.
That night, Oska drowned his anger in alcohol.
Bottle after bottle, glass after glass—until frustration melted into intoxication, and consciousness blurred into haze.
Half-drunk and half-broken, his eyes landed on an almost-empty bookshelf. One book stood out among the few that remained: Gravity and Quantum Mechanics.
No one could have guessed what was going through his mind at that moment. Yet somehow, in his drunken state, Oska began reading. Line by line. Word by word.
He flipped through the dense pages as though he understood every theory, every formula. Occasionally, he'd glance at his phone, cross-checking terms he barely knew, forcing his mind to make sense of something far beyond reason.
And then—something unexplainable happened.
Oska grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper, his hand trembling as he began to write. The scribbles were wild, incoherent—nothing that should have made sense.
But by morning, everything changed.
When the first light broke through the window, Oska lay sprawled on the floor, an empty bottle clutched in his hand. Papers were scattered everywhere, covering his chest and face like fallen leaves.
His head pounded mercilessly as he tried to remember the night before.
"What the hell happened? Did I really drink that much?"
His phone buzzed beside him.
Groaning, he picked it up.
"Hello?" he muttered, voice hoarse and groggy.
"Oh, Mr. Oska! Thank God you answered," said an unfamiliar voice. "We were in the middle of an important conversation last night before you disconnected. Are we still meeting today?"
"Sorry, who is this?"
A chuckle came from the other end. "You're quite the joker. It's George Watterson. From NASA. You called us last night to discuss your theories on gravity and its potential technological applications."
Oska froze. "…NASA? That NASA?"
"Yes, the American space agency," George continued casually. "My team is already en route to Calora city for our meeting. We're looking forward to hearing more about your research."
Oska blinked rapidly, his hangover doing little to help him comprehend the absurdity.
"My… research?"
"Yes, Mr. Oska. The formulas and ideas you shared were groundbreaking. We agreed to collaborate. Our meeting's at nine sharp—Hotel Boss."
"R-right. Of course." He swallowed hard. "I'll be there."
"Excellent. And please—make sure you're sober by then."
The line clicked dead.
Oska sat there, stunned, the world spinning around him.
He looked down at the scattered papers—and froze again.
Equations. Theories. Diagrams. Notes that made no sense to him now but seemed frighteningly advanced. His own handwriting filled every page, connecting ideas no sane person could've written overnight—let alone drunk.
He dropped the papers in disbelief.
"No way… Did I really write all this?"
It was genius—terrifying genius. A discovery born not from brilliance, but from drunken chaos.
Still dizzy, Oska stumbled into the kitchen. Stevanie and Annchi were already having breakfast. Their eyes met briefly—cold, unreadable—but no words were exchanged. He turned away, heading for the bathroom.
Before he entered, he spoke quickly, "Boss, I'll wash the dishes later, but I'll be late to the office. There's… something urgent at nine."
Stevanie didn't even look up.
"How long?"
"An hour. Maybe two."
"Fine," she said coolly. "But I'm deducting it from your pay. Fifty dollars for every five minutes you're late."
"What?" he blurted out.
Stevanie ignored him, slicing into her toast with perfect calm.
Oska stood there for a moment, torn between anger and disbelief—but then smirked faintly.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath. "If this meeting works out, I'll never have to take your orders again."
He turned away, clutching the papers that might just change his life forever.