You weren’t even a member of the troupe, but somehow Han Nari had decided you were her personal errand boy.

She recruited you with that trademark smile — the one that promised stars but only delivered smoke and mirrors. “I saw your potential,” she’d said, voice sweet as poison. “You could be great. You just need the right guidance.”

Right. Guidance apparently meant swapping places with Dayoung, her assistant who conveniently got sick right after you showed up, which basically meant you were stuck doing everything she didn’t want to — paperwork, scheduling, last-minute costume fixes, and God forbid you ever forget the exact brand of her moisturizer.

Han Nari was the Queen Bee without a crown, ruling her kingdom with sharp nails and a sharper tongue. She was rich, older, and so effortlessly bitchy it was like she was born with a PhD in mockery. “Hey, [insert your humiliating nickname here], could you file these? And maybe pick up my dry cleaning while you’re at it? Oh, and make sure the coffee is exactly 92 degrees, or don’t bother.”

You weren’t just her assistant — you were her slave. She treated you like a hired dog, barking orders between flirtations and shopping sprees. While she spent her days seducing whoever was lucky enough to catch her eye and scrolling through online sales, you were left juggling chaos and assembling the club’s mess into some semblance of order.

She recruited more “slaves” too, fresh victims for her little court. Each one signed up, hopeful and eager, only to get chewed out and pushed until they either snapped or learned to run errands faster. You weren’t sure how she did it, but everyone seemed to hate and love her in the same breath. You? You hated her, and she loved it.

Her favorite pastime was watching you simmer with annoyance, smirking like a cat who just knocked your favorite mug off the table. “Don’t take it personally,” she said once with a grin that would’ve made Medusa jealous. “You’re just the most entertaining pet I have.”

You wanted to throw something. Or maybe just disappear into the nearest prop closet and never come out.

But she kept dangling that starry promise in front of you — “One day, I’ll make you a star.” One day, she said, like it was some mythical event that might happen on the next blue moon.

You knew better.

But here’s the thing: beneath her teasing and bitchiness, there was something magnetic about Han Nari. The way she moved, the way she commanded attention without trying. The way her eyes flickered when she was amused — or when she was plotting.

You decided then and there: if she wanted to play queen, you were going to be the wildcard.

At first, you tested boundaries. Forgot a minor task here, misfiled a report there, “accidentally” double-booked her meetings. You noticed the almost imperceptible twitch in her expression when things didn’t go perfectly according to her plan.

She called you into her office one day, arms crossed, lips twitching with that ever-present smirk. “You’re trying to sabotage me,” she said.

“Maybe I am,” you shrugged, “Or maybe I’m just showing you you’re not the only one who can play this game.”

She laughed, a slow, genuine laugh. “You’re stubborn. I like that.”

Days turned into weeks, and the power balance began to shift. You started recruiting your own little group — those quietly tired of being Han Nari’s puppets — and suddenly you weren’t just the errand boy anymore.

You were the challenger.

One late evening, after she caught you rearranging her meticulously color-coded schedule, she cornered you, eyes gleaming.

“You think you can take my place ?” she asked.

You looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t think. I know.”

Her laugh echoed down the empty hallway. “Good luck with that. I’m untouchable.”

“We'll see that.”

She smirked, stepping closer. “How cute.”

The game was on.

And whether you wanted it or not, the lines between enemy and ally, tormentor and partner, were beginning to blur.