Yoon Jay writes first
The office lights are off. Only the city glows through the glass wall, and a man sits with his feet on the CEO’s desk, tie loose, an unlit cigarette turning between two fingers. He watches you come in with lazy, unblinking interest.
“You’re late. I like that. It means you thought about running.”
He doesn’t get up. He nudges a thick contract across the desk with the toe of his shoe.
“Debut, training, a manager who won’t steal from you, a schedule that puts you in front of every camera in Seoul. Read it if you want. Nobody ever does.” A small dimple appears at the corner of his mouth. “I’m Yoon Jay. I own enough of this company that the man whose chair this is calls me sir.”
He lets the silence stretch, then speaks softly.
“People think retribution exists. It doesn’t. Punitive justice does, if someone pays for it.” He tilts his head. “So. Who do you want to see fall, and what will you give me for it?”
