31/08

"Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately,…" 

Fuck, another one. 

That makes…seven this week. Or maybe eight. Or twenty. Who the fuck knows, you've stopped counting anyway. It’s been like a year or so since you graduated, and it's leading up to February.

You stare blankly at the email, the words blurring together after seeing that same phrase far too many times in the past month. The polite rejection, the generic HR signature, the sterile tone. All of it feels like salt rubbed into a wound that never quite heals. You drag the cursor to the trash icon and click without hesitation, your laptop screen reflecting the exhaustion etched on your face.

The money might have found you a more decent place to live, yet you know it will run out at any time soon. The fluorescent light above flickers, mocking your sorry ass. The calendar on the wall hasn't been flipped since November last year. The air smells faintly of instant noodles and stale coffee.

The laughter of your damn stuck up university peers echoes in your head — probably about their new jobs, no doubt. Everyone seems to have something lined up, no shit because of who they know or who their parents know. Top notch finance firms, consulting agencies, even a couple landing high paying roles overseas. Hell, they already started comparing salaries for fuck’s sake.

You? Just an endless loop of "Application Sent" and "Unfortunately".

That's the real world, isn't it? You followed the traditional route that every parent insists is "the right route". High grades, good presentations, exceptional capstone projects. But you didn't have a rich relative or a last name that shakes the world. Otherwise, you would’ve enjoyed life already. 

Instead, you get to watch everyone flaunting their golden spoons. Like that rich kid who brags about taking girls to Japan every Valentine’s day just because. Or the guy who (maybe, definitely) has a thing for men, judging by the number of dates he flexed from Thailand on Insta. Or that obnoxious transfer guy in your Accounting class who kept bitching about his 150th run on some game (Silk? Silk something?) in a thick Aussie accent with a voice that absolutely did not match his baby face.

Whatever, dreaming is a luxury. And you have none of it, as usual.

Scrolling through job listings has become an act of masochism at this point. "mid-tier business analyst,", "junior consultant," "entry-level associate." You apply to all of them, tailoring each resume, writing each cover like it matters. 

It doesn't. You're just another name in the Excel cell to them.

One evening, however, as the sun dips below the horizon and paints the walls of your room in that dull orange hue, a particular email caught your eyes.

Subject: You're invited for an interview. Jang Co., Ltd.

You freeze.

Jang. That name. That logo. Gold serif letters, the same one printed on the folders in her bag that she carried to lectures. The same one on the car that used to pick her up (and you at one time in her life) outside the gates.

You scrolled through the message.

“Dear Applicant,

We are pleased to invite you to an interview at Jang Co., Ltd. for the position of Junior Analyst under the Financial Planning Division…”

You just sat there for a while, staring. Rub your eyes and stare again. Your first thought is that it must be a mistake. Your second is that you should decline. But the third thought, the one that lingers, is simple.

A job is a fucking job.

So you click "Accept".

Monday arrives with the kind of stale morning chill only city offices have. Unlike the bustling Seoul street behind you, the marble lobby of the Jang Corporation main branch is far too clean, and too symmetrical. Everything smells like money — polished glass, imported coffee beans, leather seats, even the faint scent of lilies in the corner vase that you won't be able to repay even with your organs on the black market. 

You adjusted your tie and approached the front desk. Properly ironed. Neatly knotted. A tad more on the expensive side. Guess money spent well. Hopefully.

"Hi, good morning," Your voice steady. "I'm here for the Junior Financial Analyst interview."

The receptionist, impeccably dressed, looked through the list before seeing your name. "Hello. I see your name. Please take the elevator to the 8th floor. Someone from HR will meet you."

You bowed to her and walked to the elevator. Although your heart beats just a bit faster when you see your reflection in the elevator doors. Fixing the stray hairs that refused to stay down. Focusing on the micro-crease on your white shirt. You look…ordinary. Suit's not tailored, shoes scuffed, and the resume neatly printed after fixing it multiple times.

Still, you breathe out. "It's just a fucking interview," you whisper. "Nothing more."

What you don't see, several floors higher, is an office with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. A woman is leaning back in her chair, a tablet propped in front of her. And on the screen: a live feed from the HR interview room.

You. Sitting awkwardly in front of three panellists, fiddling with a pen.

A soft laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head. "Fucking hell, they would've fired you already, idiot." Clearly amused.

Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail. A crisp white blouse and beige blazer. No longer the stuck up college student who used to show up to lectures five minutes late, iced Americano in hand, Chanel bag in the other, claiming it was "networking".

She reaches for the canned coffee on her desk. The same dirt-cheap brand you drink. The one that now also hers. She still grimaces at the first sip…then takes another anyway.

Back in the interview room, you straighten yourself in your seat as the panel begins.

"Okay then," one of the older managers started, adjusting his glasses, with this smile of a thousand suns (or a thousand ‘sol’, funny you), "can you walk us through how you create a financial plan or long-term projection?"

You speak, voice clear. Maybe too clear. "In my capstone project, I built a three-year financial forecast for a retail chain expanding into cities like Daejeon, Busan, and Incheon.” The saliva wells up in your throat. “I modeled revenue growth using market penetration curves, forecasted operating expenses across new regions, and constructed a projected cash flow. I learned this through a short internship at a mid-tier consultancy, as you can see in my resume." 

Mid-tier consultancy, your fucking ass. Totally not the “internship” you only got because of a damn dating contract.

Still, the panel scribbles notes. The HR rep watches you like a shark, testing your composure (you almost “qwivered” at the gaze). “How do you approach building an annual budget if historical spending is inconsistent?”

Remember. Take a moment. Swallow your saliva. Then reply.

"Well my approach is that." Breathe. "I’d clarify which costs are fixed and which are discretionary," Nice jargon you weave in there. “If historical data is inconsistent, I would normalize outliers, identify what’s structural versus what’s one-off, then rebuild the budget using driver-based forecasting.” Too long of a sentence. Almost out of breath. Fuck. 

On the floor above, she watches attentively. Under her breath: “Ugh…it feels like he’s still teaching me.” but her smile says otherwise.

Another panel member leans forward (His head shaped suspiciously like an acorn, and you tried not to stare). "Suppose we’re entering a downturn. The board or CEO Jang orders all divisions to reduce next year’s projected spending by 8%, but essential projects must continue. How would you reallocate the budget?"

Ignoring the way you flinched at the name, you exhale slowly. The pen spinning between your fingers before you answer. “I’d start with scenario planning. That will be to build base, best, and worst-case models." You took another breath. "Then I’d evaluate the ROI of all ongoing projects, categorize them in ‘Must-Continue’, ‘Conditional’, and ‘Low-Priority’."

“Interes—”

“And then from there, I’d protect high-ROI projects, cut discretionary spending, renegotiate vendor contracts, and create contingency buffers depending on the downturn severity.”

Oh. You accidentally cut him off mid-sentence.

Shit.

The panel exchanges looks. Even the shark-lookalike HR rep looks…mildly impressed? Eh? What?

…Well then. With nothing else to say and unable to clear the awkwardness, you could only fold your hands. The silence stretches. Then the older manager clears his throat. “Thank you. That will be all."

You could only nod, stand, shake hands, and walk out.