My Boss is a CHICKEN?!

"G-Grandpa Jeon?!"

WHY. IS. HE. HERE?

To eat my soul?

To pluck out my organs with chopsticks?

To sell them on the dark web for black money and use the earnings to buy premium dog food for Bam?!

He turned.

In my direction.

Like a villain in episode 97 of a revenge drama who just discovered the true heir to the fortune is me.

His hawk-like eyes locked onto me like I was a criminal who just stole a sacred heirloom from the Jeon dynasty vault.

Survival mode activated.

I did the only rational thing a grown woman with a stable job and a half-decent sense of survival would do.

I dove behind a pot plant like a soldier avoiding sniper fire in a war movie.

Unfortunately, the plant was about as wide as a diet celery stick.

Deja vu.

I'd been here before.

Behind a plant.

Hiding from a Jeon.

This is my life now.

And just like last time… my luck is allergic to me.

"YOU?!" he thundered, pointing a gnarled finger like an old emperor accusing a traitor in court. "How are YOU here?!"

I froze.

Maybe if I don't move, he'll think I'm just part of the scenery?

I bolted out from behind that skinny houseplant like I was auditioning for the Olympic track team.

"CATCH HER!!" Grandpa Jeon bellowed, pointing at me like I was a traitorous heir in a historical drama at his two bodyguards—who, by the way, were built like refrigerators and moved like forklifts.

OH NO..

Those guys looked like they bench press vending machines for fun.

Those beefy bulldozers cracked their knuckles.

"Sir yes sir."

And they lunged forward.

I gasped and ran, flailing like a malfunctioning wacky waving inflatable tube man.

And thus began the most intense game of live-action Tom & Jerry known to mankind.

…

We zoomed through the lobby like we were filming the action sequence of Fast & Furious: Office Drift.

I slid across reception counters, they vaulted over potted plants, nearly colliding with the office statue of our founder.

Oops. Sorry, Founder Jeon.

Then we looped around the cafeteria.

I dashed past the tables, knocking over a poor intern's lunch tray.

"Sorry!" I shrieked, as a spaghetti meatball did a somersault and landed perfectly inside someone's shoe.

I dove under a table, rolled out the other side, Matrix-style, while the bodyguards tripped over someone's tray of kimchi and landed in a dramatic tangle of limbs and cabbage.

"Out of the way! Criminal on the loose!" one of them shouted, slipping on a puddle of spilled cola like a sad penguin.

Then I ran through the HR hallway.

Past the finance department (where two accountants paused to rate my sprint form—9/10, apparently).

I even accidentally ran through a birthday celebration and stole someone's cupcake by mistake.

Finally.. FINALLY— I stumbled into my department panting like a marathon runner. Hair looking like I'd wrestled a tornado.

I was the tragic heroine of my own low-budget office thriller.

And there stood Mr. Jo.

Like a yoga instructor in the middle of a riot.

"Mr. Jeon asked for you" he said casually, like he wasn't speaking the name of my personal demon.

"Who?" I blinked.

My brain was still buffering like a slow-loading YouTube video.

"Mr. Jeon" he repeated, a little confused.

"Oh."

OH?!

WHY was he calling me now?!

To breathe the same air?

To hand him a pencil he could very well pick up himself?!

To yell at me for blinking too loud?!

Through the glass door, I spotted them—the bodyguards, patrolling like mall cops on a sugar rush.

I ducked like a dramatic K-drama side character mid-betrayal.

Mr. Jo took a polite step back as he stared at me, horrified.

"W-What are you doing, Miss Kim?! Are you okay?"

Without answering, I dramatically yanked a pen from my coat pocket, let it fall to the floor with Oscar-worthy timing, and then held it up to him like Simba in The Lion King.

"My pen.." I blinked up at him like a confused puppet in a school play, holding it aloft like it contained state secrets.

"...You could've just bent down and picked it up. Why did you sit like that?"

Mr. Jo blinked at me, utterly baffled.

"Doing squats. It's good for the—uh—lumbar support" I said, hiding behind his leg like a spy in a Netflix drama.

Just then, the bodyguards stomped past the glass door like two angry Roombas set to "seek and destroy."

I held my breath so hard I nearly inhaled my own soul.

My entire life flashed before my eyes..

My kindergarten teacher scolding me for eating glue. My first report card with a big red "Needs Improvement" in everything except lunch participation. That fateful moment I dropped my phone into the toilet while trying to take a selfie with a bubble bath.

I was regretting my life decisions when—

…They walked past.

They left?

Just like that?

HALLELUJAH.

I could almost hear the heavenly choir singing "God is great" in the background while invisible doves flew across the ceiling.

I exhaled like a dying Victorian lady being released from dramatic emotional captivity.

I slowly looked up at Mr. Jo like a raccoon caught rummaging through the office pantry.

"Can you do something for me?" I whispered like I was about to ask him to dispose of a body.

His cheeks turned pink.

"Only if it's ethical.."

I paused.

Ethical?!

WAIT A MINUTE.

Did he think…

I KNEELED before him for THAT?!

JESUS, TAKE THE SPREADSHEET.

I leapt up like a cursed frog transforming into royalty.

"Not THAT! I meant—can you just tell Mr. Jeon that you didn't see me, my phone's switched off, and I'm on my way to Narnia or something."

"...What?"

"Please" I begged, grabbing his hands with the desperation of a stray cat begging for tuna.

"He's just calling me there for pure psychological torture."

Mr. Jo blinked.

He knew about Mr. Jeon's beef with me.

Everyone knew.

Even the vending machines knew.

(not the chicken thing).

"So?" he asked.

I leaned in dramatically.

"I have my period."

Clutching my stomach. Pained expression.

Oscar-worthy delivery.

"It hurts too much to go there and get yelled at for no reason."

(Note: I absolutely did not have my period. That was a bold-faced lie. If Mr. Jeon were here, he'd probably throw a stapler at my face for weaponizing biology.)

He sighed.

Just as I stood there— mid-drama, mid-panic, mid-life crisis— the door to our department creaked open.

I turned slowly.

MR. JEON?!

My soul left my body. My coffee nearly fainted. And I—

DOVE.

Straight back into crouching-gremlin mode like it was an Olympic sport.

Mr. Jo didn't even flinch. He just looked at me like a man who'd given up on understanding why God put me in his life.

I clasped my hands together like a desperate temple lady asking for divine protection. My eyes said, "Please don't sell me out."

Then, like a tragic office cockroach, I crawled under my desk.

From beneath, I heard:

"Good morning, Mr. Jeon" Mr. Jo greeted, voice steady like he wasn't standing next to someone hiding like a fugitive under office furniture.

His hawk eyes scanned the room like he was about to declare martial law.

Mr. Jeon paused. I could feel the judgment radiating off him like nuclear waves.

He raised a brow.

"Where is Miss Kim?" he asked, his voice colder than an air-conditioned betrayal.

I curled tighter under the desk, holding my breath like I was defusing a bomb.

Mr. Jo—bless this man—answered smoothly,

"She's in the sick room."

My heart sobbed.

I wiped away an invisible tear.

This man. This legend. This liar-for-hire. I owe you a burger.

No—two. With fries.

Mr. Jeon narrowed his eyes at Mr. Jo, giving him the signature "Everyone here is a peasant and I am the emperor" stare.

Then, slowly, silently, ominously—

He pulled out his phone.

Oh no.

"Imma, light it up, like DYNAMITE! OH HOOOOOOO—!!"

My phone.

My phone RANG.

With my embarrassing, chaotic BTS ringtone I forgot to change for three months.

Not now jimin, not when my career is at stake.

HE CALLED ME?!

WHY?!???

What did I ever do besides lie, trespass, and maybe fake my grandma's death to deserve this?!

...

His head turned toward my desk in slow motion like a horror movie reveal.

He gave Mr. Jo the most offended "You're going to hell and I'm your escort" look known to mankind, then stalked toward my desk.

I braced myself. This was it. My execution chamber.

He bent down and found me there, crouched like Gollum under his desk, clutching my phone and dignity (both failing).

We stared at each other.

I gave him a tiny nod like, hello darkness, my old friend.

He looked at his watch.

"I want you to report to my cabin at 1:32 PM."

Then he just… walked away.

Huh?

That's it?

No death glare? No yelling? No dramatic Shakespearean monologue?

I peeked at my phone.

1:27 PM.

WAIT.

"I HAVE FIVE MINUTES?!"

I screeched like a banshee at a Black Friday sale.

I scrambled out from under my desk like a gremlin late for judgment day, bowed deeply at Mr. Jo like he'd just saved my life (he kinda did), and screamed:

"DINNER'S ON ME!"

Then bolted.

Mr. Jeon was already walking toward the elevators like a mafia boss about to blow up a building.

I sprinted after him like a hyper chihuahua in kitten heels.

"Mr. Jeon!!" I called out, flapping behind him like a broken flag in the wind.

He heard me. I know he did.

But he kept walking.

Unbothered. Untouched.

Probably imagining my funeral playlist.

I growled, ran harder, and skidded dramatically in front of him, blocking his path like a human speed bump.

He stopped.

Laser eyes activated.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

That's it.

Four words. No emotion. Just pure wrath and vibes.

I quietly slid to the side like a rejected Roomba.

He walked past, straight towards the elevator as I looked at him.

Suddenly—

"YAH!!"

My brain rebooted like a lagging Windows XP computer the moment that yell sliced through the air like a flying slipper from an angry mom.

I turned around dramatically—hair flipping like I was in a shampoo commercial—and what do I see?

Grandpa Jeon.