My Boss is a CHICKEN?!

Two weeks passed faster than my will to live during Monday meetings.

I didn't even realize time was flying—I blinked, and boom, fourteen business days had evaporated like my dignity every time Mr. Jeon opened his mouth.

Every day at this cursed office feels like I'm auditioning for a survival reality show with no prize at the end except dark circles and emotional damage.

The moment I step in, it's chaos. Emails attacking me from all sides, deadlines popping up like mushrooms after rain, and of course, the devil in human disguise—Mr. Jeon—waiting to ruin my peace with a perfectly timed glare or an "urgent" task that's due yesterday.

Coffee is my only ally, the printer hates me, and my chair squeaks so loud during meetings I'm convinced it's plotting against me.

Lunch breaks are a luxury I only hear about in fairy tales, and if I ever laugh too hard, I get the "This is a workplace not a comedy club" look from Sir Ice Face.

Honestly, I don't know if I'm an employee or just the main character in a slow-burn corporate horror story.

I was minding my own business—working diligently, pretending to understand whatever this spreadsheet was doing—when my phone lit up like a warning sign from the universe.

Mr. Jeon.

I picked up, cautiously.

"Report to my cabin in five minutes," he said, voice as cold as a snowstorm in Siberia.

Before I could even breathe out a "Yes sir" click.

He hung up.

That's it. That was the summon. Like Voldemort calling Harry without even saying his name.

I stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed me.

Then I sighed.

Took the deepest breath of my life—like I was about to dive into a shark tank.

Because let's be honest… I was.

I went to his office like a soldier walking into battle—except the enemy wasn't holding a weapon, he was the weapon.

The glass doors slid open with that dramatic whoosh, like even the building wanted me to suffer in 4K.

He was already seated, flipping through some documents with the grace of someone who had definitely never cried over Excel spreadsheets like I did every Thursday.

"You have the report on Project D-14?" he asked, not looking up.

I blinked. "D-14…? Oh. Yes. Almost done, sir. I just need to—"

"It was due at 11:00 a.m."

"It's 11:01…"

He finally looked up.

Oh no. Not the 'disappointed but not surprised' look. My kryptonite.

"Do you plan on finishing it in the next thirty seconds?"

"Technically I could—if I stopped breathing."

He blinked slowly, unimpressed.

"Try again."

"Yes, sir" I sighed, defeated, and scurried back to my desk like a shamed goblin.

By 11:10, I had emailed him the file, proofread it thrice, and even added a useless chart for extra flair. Ten minutes later, I received a reply that simply said:

"Graph alignment is off."

Graph. Alignment.

I stared at my screen, wondering if crying would be considered unprofessional. Spoiler alert: I cried anyway. But internally. Because I'm strong.

Every time I think I've done a decent job, this man finds something wrong with it.

Font size: too small.

Spacing: too wide.

Tone: too optimistic.

Breathing: too loud.

Like— sir, I'm not an AI?

And don't get me started on the other days. The trauma doesn't end at graph alignment.

One day he sent me a message at 3:07 p.m. that read:

"Coffee."

That's it. Just… coffee.

No context, no specifications.

Just the beverage.

Like I was a voice-activated caffeine machine with legs and anxiety.

And when I dared to bring him a medium latte instead of an Americano—because heaven forbid the coffee has flavor—he looked at it, looked at me, and then said:

"Are you trying to kill me with sugar?"

Sir, not yet. But the temptation is rising.

Another day, he summoned me with the urgency of a fire alarm, made me stand in front of him like I was about to be knighted—or executed—and then proceeded to ask:

"Why did you label the folder 'Meeting Notes' instead of 'Client Meeting Notes'?"

I wish I were joking.

My brain short-circuited. "Because… because it's a meeting… and those are notes…?"

"Be more specific next time" he said, dead serious, like I had just caused a diplomatic crisis with Microsoft Word.

I walked out of his office that day and genuinely Googled:

"Can you get paid for emotional damage caused by your boss?"

There was also that blessed Friday when I laughed too hard at a joke In-Young told me in the break room. I was still wiping away tears when I walked back to my desk—only to find him standing there.

Like a horror movie jump scare but with a better skincare routine.

He stared at me.

"You seem… well-rested."

Which, in Mr. Jeon language, translates to:

"Why are you smiling when you should be suffering?"

"I'm done!!!"

Those were my final words—no, my final battle cry—before I dramatically stormed out of the flashback like a K-drama lead who just found out their fiancé is also their long-lost biological cousin.

Flashback ends.

Smash cut to:

Me, strutting through the company lobby like I've just survived three world wars, two betrayals, and a customer service call with my internet provider. I was holding a cup of overpriced coffee I didn't pay for—because I heroically "borrowed" it from the intern pantry. (They owe me for mentoring them with my mere presence.)

"All I want is one—just one—peaceful walk to my cubicle" I whispered like I was reciting a prayer to the gods of corporate chaos. "No drama. No yelling. No boss-shaped thunderclouds. Just me and my coffee. Is that too much to ask?"

Apparently, yes.

Because the universe looked at me and said, "Bet."

Suddenly—BOOM.

A voice erupted so loud it made the chandelier do a little shimmy.

"WHERE. IS. HE?!"

My soul yeeted itself out of my body like, "Good luck dealing with that, babe!"

My neck turned slower than a loading YouTube video on hotel Wi-Fi.

And there he stood.

Grandpa Jeon.

With all his glory..

Wearing a dramatic three-piece suit with a fur coat (In July), gold cane in hand, looking like he just stepped off the set of Willy Wonka.

He was yelling at someone—probably a junior manager who looked like they were reconsidering all their life choices at once.

And me?

I stood there.

Frozen.

Like Elsa, but mentally unstable.

Why. Is. He. Here?

No, like—why is Grandpa Jeon here?!

He's supposed to be at his ridiculously overdecorated mansion right now, lounging in a silk robe, sipping ginseng tea, and feeding Bamseok gourmet chicken legs served on a porcelain plate worth more than my monthly rent.

Not… here, in my place of employment, yelling at employees like he's the final boss of a mafia drama to terrify me.

Send help.

Or a teleportation portal.

Or both.