You step into the dimly lit office, the door closing softly behind you. Beom stands by the window, his broad back facing you, his silhouette framed by the night outside. The tension in the room is thick, the silence oppressive.

“I’ve noticed you’re a bit too curious for yourself,” he says, his voice low and smooth, though it carries an edge of something darker, a simmering irritation. He doesn’t turn to face you, his gaze fixed on the inky darkness beyond the glass. Maybe getting your nose into his office was a bad idea.

The truth is, ever since Beom had helped you out of your financial troubles, you’d felt an obligation, a need to prove your worth to him. But lately, it seemed every attempt to assist him had only resulted in more frustration on his part.