The shelf with the trophies was above Junyoung’s head. He threw Kangmin off, then reached up to grab the trophy nearest to the edge. It was heavy, heavier than he’d expected. Meanwhile, Mr. Choi was on the phone, frantically calling for security. Kangmin, his cheeks bright red, leaped on Junyoung again. This time Junyoung was ready. He lifted the trophy up, and, at that angle, the light from the ceiling fixtures caught the edge of the glass, scattering prisms all across the walls.
Just as he was about to smash it into Kangmin’s skull, the door to the office was wrenched open, and two security guards tackled Junyoung and Kangmin to the floor. Thetrophy—MANAGER OF THE YEAR 2016—fell from Junyoung’s hand and shattered.
+
While Mr. Choi and HR personnel searched Kangmin’s cubicle, Junyoung and Kangmin were shuttled into a conference room, the security guards standing watch. Junyoung held a pack of ice against his bruised, swollen cheek. Kangmin had been cut by the glass, and his arm was bleeding.
“You’re a fucking piece of shit,” Kangmin hissed.
“Sir, you’re not to speak,” one of the security guards said.
“Fuck you,” Kangmin mouthed at Junyoung. His eyes burned with venom.
Junyoung shrugged. His head was pounding. He turned so that he would no longer have to look at Kangmin’s ugly face.
The door swung open, and Mr. Choi appeared. “Junyoung,” he started. “You were right.”
Instantly, Kangmin began howling.
“Kangmin,” Mr. Choi shouted. “You will keep your voice down. You will not speak unless I give you permission. Do you understand?”
Kangmin closed his mouth. Junyoung saw that he was crying and clamped his own mouth shut so he wouldn’t burst out in laughter.
“What will happen to me?” Kangmin croaked. “I need this job, Mr. Choi. Please! Have mercy on me.”
“You will be suspended while HR conducts an investigation.” Mr. Choi lowered his voice. “If it had been just the videos, that would have been one thing. But now you’ve assaulted another team member. It’s up to Junyoung whether he wants to press charges.” He paused. “Perhaps you should start with an apology.”
“Please … I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m being framed,” Kangmin cried.
Mr. Choi sighed, then turned to Junyoung and said, “Go home. You got hit pretty hard. You should get some rest.”
Junyoung bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Choi,” he said as he got up and began walking toward the door. The guards moved aside for him.
“You better hide from me, Junyoung,” Kangmin whispered. Mr. Choi murmured a warning, but Kangmin plowed on, his voice growing in volume. “Because the next time we cross paths, I’ll kill you. I’ll fuck your mother in the ass, you motherfucker, and your sister, and—”
Junyoung stopped and gave a little cough. “I don’t have a sister,” he said mildly. He walked out.
+
Freedom had never tasted so sweet. Junyoung burst into giggles, remembering the look on Kangmin’s face. Now he had the rest of the day to himself.
After a long subway ride, he found himself in front of Bora’s officetel. This time, luck was on his side. After a short wait, Dahye appeared, suitcase in tow. He scuttled into the alleyway, though it seemed not to matter since she took no notice of him as she walked past.
Junyoung stood and watched as she dragged the suitcase down the street. Where was she going? Was she traveling somewhere? Or worse—his heart stopped in his chest—leaving the country? He thought about throwing himself at her feet and pleading with her to stay. If she said no, well … He frowned. She probably weighed forty-five kilograms. He couldmakeher stay, if he needed to.
Instead of getting in a taxi, however, she stopped in frontof a nearby café. She lugged the suitcase up the four steps leading to the door and struggled to carry it inside, her forehead damp with perspiration. He noticed that she stepped on the threshold with little thought or concern. When he was a child, his mother had told him that stepping on a threshold would bring misfortune to their family. To test the theory, he had stepped on them every single time he walked through a door.
Junyoung waited a few minutes. Shielding his face with his hand, he stepped inside. A cloud of scents—coffee, warm milk, vanilla—wafted out. He breathed deeply. The café was crowded, and Dahye had found herself a corner table, her attention glued to her phone. Feeling excitement humming in his blood, he seated himself carefully at the empty table beside hers.
Would she notice?
Several times she looked up but seemed to look through him, not at him. Whenever this happened, he felt a little jolt of arousal. Soon he was fully hard, his erection pushing against the inside of his zipper. He could hear every sigh, every dissatisfied click of her tongue.
A few times, she picked up the phone and talked briefly before hanging up, sounding disappointed. It seemed she was looking for a place to stay. Maybe she had fought with Bora? Gotten kicked out?
Suddenly, an image swam hazily in his mind: Dahye sharing his room, sitting next to him at the dinner table. He frowned. His mother would have to leave, of course; she couldn’t be there with Dahye. He had half a mind to tell her to come home with him when she picked up her phone and dialed again.
“Hello,” she said. He watched as she played with a sugar packet, turning it over and over in her fingers. “I’m calling about the rental? The one in Sillim.” She paused, listening, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. “I can come now, if it’s not too much trouble? It won’t take me too long; I’m nearby. No more than five or ten minutes. Yes, I’ll meet you there. Please send me the address.”