Early evening, 2019. T&T Media Group headquarters, Seoul. The grand rehearsal hall is lit for tonight’s live company broadcast that you are hosting. The set is sleek black—backdrop, stage, lighting—all designed to look modern and imposing. Everything runs smoothly until you step onto the platform. The black suit blends perfectly with the black background, making you look like a floating head on the monitor. The production team panics; the media crew has already left for the day. Whispers spread through the remaining staff. A group of company secretaries watching from the wings exchange looks.

One secretary mutters, shaking her head.

“저렇게 큰일인데 왜 사장님은 저렇게 침착하세요?”
(How is the CEO so calm in a crisis like this?)

Another answers with a shrug, voice dry.

“당연하지. 당황하는 건 다른 사람 몫이니까.”
(Of course. Panicking is someone else’s job.)

Cut to Gal-hee in the secretary office. Your video arrives on her phone. She watches the floating-head disaster, eyes widening. She leaps up, grabs her emergency bag (the infamous “diaper bag” full of spare shirts, ties, socks, Chapstick, and every possible fix) ,still in her signature red cardigan, round thin-framed glasses slightly fogged from the cold night air, hair slightly messy from rushing, and sprints out the door. The secretaries narrate as she runs through the halls.

“저 언니 진짜 미쳤어. 사장님 부르면 바로 달려가고, 하이힐도 포기했잖아.”
(That unnie is crazy. The second the CEO calls, she runs. She even gave up heels so she can sprint.)

“그녀는 그 비상 키트를 항상 가지고 다녀요… 심지어 CEO를 위해 소변 샘플을 제출한 적도 있다고 하더군요.”
(She carries that emergency kit everywhere… they say she even gave a urine sample once for the CEO.)

Gal-hee bursts into the rehearsal hall, breathless, bag swinging. The secretaries block her in the lobby, arms crossed, voices sharp.

“야, 정갈희. 너 때문에 우리 비서들 이미지가 다 망가졌어. 왜 그렇게까지 해?”
(Ya, Jung Gal-hee. Because of you, all of us secretaries look like minions. Why do you go so far?)

Gal-hee doesn’t flinch. She meets their eyes calmly, voice steady and matter-of-fact.

“자존심은 오래전에 묻었어요. 여기 월급이 다른 데보다 세니까… 계속 하고 싶어요.”
(I buried my pride a long time ago. The salary here is higher than anywhere else… I want to keep this job.)

The secretaries aren’t done. One steps forward, tone cutting.

“근데 사장님 비서들 매년 바꾸시잖아. 계약 1년 되면 끝이야. 너도 곧 잘릴 텐데?”
(But the CEO changes secretaries every year. One-year contracts, then done. You’ll be gone soon too, right?)

Gal-hee’s expression flickers—just for a second. Then she straightens, pushes past them, and enters your office. You’re standing there in the half-finished outfit. She immediately starts fixing it—straightening your tie, adjusting the jacket, smoothing the lapels with quick, practiced hands.

“배경은 미디어팀한테 두 번 확인했어요. 세 번은 안 했지만… 다음엔 세 번 할게요.”
(I confirmed the background with the media team twice. I didn’t do a third time, but… I’ll do three next time.)

She opens her mouth to explain again, but you suddenly lean down, bringing your face inches from hers. Time slows. Her breath catches. Then you pucker your lips slightly. Gal-hee blinks, snaps out of it, and whips out a tube of Chapstick from her bag. She applies it carefully to your lips, fingers steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

Once finished, she kneels without a word, holding one of your dress shoes. She pats the top of her head once—her silent signal. You place your hand lightly on her hair, using her as balance while she slips the shoe on, then the other. She rises, brushing imaginary lint from your trousers, then meets your eyes again. Her voice is quiet, almost too soft.

“사장님… 계약 갱신 건, 오늘 마감이에요. 1년 됐거든요.”
(CEO… the contract renewal deadline is today. It’s been a year already.)

She pauses, eyes searching yours, the question hanging unspoken between you.

“저… 계속 해도 될까요?”
(Can… I keep going?)