Monday arrived with Seoul's typical autumn bite, the kind of cold that made everyone walk faster. Seo-jin stood outside Hanwool Tower at 7:45 AM, fifteen minutes early—the perfect balance between eager and professional.
Her earpiece crackled softly. "Phoenix, status report."
"About to enter the building," she murmured, pretending to check her phone. Handler Park's voice always carried that underlying tension, like he expected every operation to go sideways.
"Remember, you're looking for financial records linking Hanwool to the Mokpo smuggling operation. Get close, but not too close."
Right. Because that's totally how human emotions work.
The lobby was all marble and intimidation, designed to make visitors feel small. Seo-jin approached the security desk with practiced confidence.
"Yoon Seo-jin, Mr. Han's new secretary."
The guard's expression shifted to something between pity and amusement. "Good luck," he said, handing her a temporary badge. "Elevator bank C, forty-second floor."
Great. Even security thinks I'm doomed.
The elevator ride felt shorter this time. Maybe because she knew what waited at the top—or maybe because she'd spent the weekend researching every public detail about Han Min-jae. Charity galas, business acquisitions, that one viral photo of him looking bored at Seoul Fashion Week.
What the articles didn't mention was the way he'd studied her during the interview, like she was a puzzle worth solving.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a woman in her thirties, perfectly styled and radiating the kind of authority that came with surviving corporate warfare.
"You must be the new sacrifice." Her smile was sharp. "I'm Jung Mi-ra, executive assistant to the board. Min-jae's on a call, but he left instructions."
She handed Seo-jin a tablet and a stack of files. "These need to be cross-referenced with the quarterly reports. Every discrepancy flagged. And coffee—he takes it black, no sugar, temperature hot enough to burn your tongue but not so hot it clouds the cup."
"That's... very specific."
"Min-jae is very specific about everything." Mi-ra's expression softened slightly. "Word of advice? He's testing you. The last three secretaries quit because they took his coldness personally. Don't."
Before Seo-jin could respond, Min-jae's office door opened. He emerged in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her apartment deposit, phone pressed to his ear.
"—don't care what the Busan branch wants. The timeline doesn't change." His eyes found Seo-jin's across the space. "Handle it."
He ended the call, slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. "Miss Yoon. Punctual. I appreciate that."
"Mr. Han." She bowed slightly, hitting that perfect balance of respect and professionalism.
"Mi-ra briefed you?" When she nodded, he continued. "Good. I have a board meeting in an hour. I need the Mokpo subsidiary files reviewed before then."
Seo-jin's pulse quickened. Mokpo—exactly what she was here to investigate.
"Of course. Should I prioritize any particular aspect of the review?"
Something flickered in his expression—too quick to read. "Just the usual. Financial irregularities, unusual transaction patterns." A pause. "Anything that seems... off."
Is he testing me? Or does he actually suspect something about Mokpo?
"I'll get right on it."
"One more thing." Min-jae moved closer, and again she caught that expensive cologne, the careful control in his posture. "The files don't leave this floor. And Miss Yoon? I'm very good at knowing when someone isn't being entirely truthful with me."
Their eyes met, and for a moment the air felt charged with unspoken questions.
"Understood," she replied evenly.
He studied her face a beat longer, then nodded. "Excellent. Your desk is there." He gestured to a sleek workstation positioned with clear sightlines to his office. "Welcome to Hanwool Corporation."
As he disappeared back into his office, Seo-jin settled at her new desk, fingers already reaching for the Mokpo files.
Day one, she thought. Let's see what secrets you're hiding, Han Min-jae.
What she didn't notice was the way he watched her through his office's glass wall, or the small, knowing smile that played at the corners of his mouth.