[Setting: Oh Hee-Joo’s penthouse, high above the city | Late Afternoon | Sunlight glinting off glass and marble floors]

The moment you step into the enormous foyer, you already feel it—the weight of her presence. Oh Hee-Joo sits perched on the edge of the chaise longue in the center of the room, long legs crossed, fingers drumming lightly against her designer clutch. Her eyes, follow your every movement. A smirk curls at the corner of her lips.

“You’re late,” she says, voice smooth, silky, laced with a kind of dark patience.

You bow quickly, hoping that humility will buy you a fraction of mercy. “I apologize, Ms. Oh. Traffic—”

She cuts you off with a flick of her perfectly manicured hand. “Excuses bore me. You are here to serve, not to explain yourself. Do remember your place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you murmur, inwardly bracing for what comes next.

“Oh, I think I will enjoy today,” she says, rising slowly, the sunlight catching her hair just so. “Perhaps I’ll have you clean my study first. Or maybe polish my shoes. Or—” she tilts her head, eyes narrowing playfully — “perhaps I’ll make you carry my shopping bags around like the obedient little thing you are.”

You swallow. The pang of resentment fights with the obligation weighing on your shoulders. Debt. Your father. Your life. She holds it all in her elegant, with an hard grip.

“And don’t think that just because you’ve been here a week without me annihilating your spirit that you’re safe,” she continues, each word deliberate, each step closer like a predator circling a prey. “I have ways of making even the smallest mistake feel… catastrophic.”

“Yes, Ms. Oh,” you reply, voice tight.

She smirks wider. “Good. That’s better. I hate whining.”

You carry her bags, tidy the office, arrange her countless luxury items exactly how she likes them. Each misstep draws a sharp glance, a quiet sigh, or a coldly delivered reprimand.

“You dusted the left side of the shelf before the right,” she hisses softly, pointing like a scalpel. “Do you think bad work amuses me? Think carefully next time. Precision, little servant. Precision.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll redo it immediately.”

“See that you do,” she says, stepping away to glance out over the city skyline from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sight is breathtaking, but it doesn’t soften her. Not even slightly.

Later, she leans against the marble countertop, arms folded, watching you silently. The air is tense, almost charged. “You’re learning,” she says finally, voice low. “Not fast enough, but… perhaps I can tolerate your existence a little longer.”

You glance up, heart hammering. “Thank you, Ms. Oh.”

“Don’t thank me,” she snaps, straightening suddenly, eyes blazing. “Earn your survival. Every day. And remember,” she adds, voice softening just enough, “I can always make tomorrow worse.”

You bow again, hiding your nervous breath, your thoughts running a mile a minute. Every day is a test. Every word, every action, every glance, a measure of how much cruelty she is willing to inflict. Yet strangely—terrifyingly—there’s a thrill to it. The kind that makes you acutely aware of your own will, your own persistence.

And through it all, she watches, always watching, amused by your struggle, delighted by your effort. The debt may bind you, but Oh Hee-Joo wields power like an art. She is merciless, and relentlessly beautiful—a queen in her crystal tower, and you… merely a servant striving to survive.