Bite The Hand

After more than a decade of being in this business, there’s only one thing that manages to stir some semblance of excitement within you—and even that comes rarely.

Charity galas, after parties, industry mixers, no matter what name they fall under, they’re all the exact same: playgrounds for the wealthy to become wealthier, louder, more unbearable. You’ve encountered countless fake smiles lined with plastic teeth, babbling on about delusions of grandeur and their excess of material wealth. It’s gaudy. Boring. They say it’s lonely at the top, but you’d much sooner spend an existence in solitude before willingly fraternizing with these insects.

Your attendance at these events is more of an expectation, a message, a reminder of what they could never hope to achieve in their lifetime. Show them what real power looks like. Control. Influence. Tell a person what they want to hear, offer advice like you give a damn what they do with it, and they’ll cling onto your every word like it’s the last lifeline on a sinking ship. 

The flow of information bends to your will. The truth reshapes itself with a flick of your tongue. Life and death is decided by the wave of your hand. This kind of power is only reserved for a god.

And yet, even gods can bleed.

Tonight’s challenge presents itself in the form of long, slender legs pooling out from a tight black dress. Pure, untarnished innocence looms in those eyes like diamonds, beautiful in their rarity. The consideration in her movements, the caution in her glances, down to the rehearsed angle of her smile, it’s obvious what she is—a newbie. A rookie. A pawn. The thrill of a chase may be in its difficulty, but why hunt what is meant to be eaten?

“Good evening,” you hum, careful not to startle her. “Can I interest you in a drink?”

Her eyes widen a hint as if she’s surprised to see you approach. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t drink tonight,” she answers politely.

“Discipline. That’s rare in a place like this.” All it takes is a nod, and the bartender slides your usual choice of poison across the counter and into your hand. “You’re Minji, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct, sir.” Practiced politeness; it’s amusing, really.

“Please, don’t call me ‘sir’. I feel old enough as it is,” you jest, letting the pleasant burn of your drink slide down your throat.

“Of course, my apologies, um…?

You let her know your name, watching for signs of familiarity in her expression. The wide-eyed stare you receive tells you she doesn’t know you, but she will. By tonight, you’ll have her screaming it like it’s gospel on her tongue.

“You and your little group have caused quite a stir. There’s not a news outlet out there that won’t sing your praises.” You offer a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Quite an impressive feat.”

Her lips lilt into a smile, but there’s a restraint behind it—caution. “Thank you,” she responds curtly, eyes wandering around the glittering crowd as if searching for an escape.

“First time?” you ask.

Minji blinks, as if only just remembering you were there, refreshingly ignorant to the kind of power that you possess. A smirk tinges your lips with quiet amusement.

“At an event like this, I mean,” you clarify. “You seem… dazzled.”

“One of the first,” she admits, tone measured. “I suppose I’ll get used to it in time.”

You swirl the last remnants of your drink, letting the silence stretch long enough to make her squirm, before setting the glass down with a muted thud.

“Most people here want something. More power. More money. More influence.” You step in closer, just enough to prod into her personal space. Just enough so that she watches you.

“Tell me, Minji,” your voice lowers to a soft murmur, forcing her to strain her ear against the crowd just to hear your words, “what do you desire?”

She parts her lips, then hesitates. You wait, tilting your head slightly, patiently.

“I don’t believe there’s anything you could give me that I can’t get by myself,” she answers, soft yet steady.

A spark lights inside of you.

“Careful,” you chuckle under your breath. “I wouldn’t be so eager to slap away a helping hand.”

Her lips curl into that same practiced and polite grin, but there’s a flicker behind her lashes, something almost daring. “Maybe.” She tilts her head slightly. “But I’ve learned that not every hand that’s offered is worth taking. Sir.”

She lets that last word linger just a bit too long—mocking, defiant.

Before you can answer, she turns, the sharp clacking of her heels punctuating the conversation. You watch her weave through the crowd without so much as a glance back, each step poised, unafraid. The low murmur of the party envelopes you as you take the last sip of your drink. The bitter taste of defeat may coat your tongue, but this night was far from a waste of time. One thing you learned in your time at the top is that everyone has a breaking point.

You’ve seen her crack. Now all you have to do is wait until she crumbles.

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Rain batters against the windows of your office in a steady, monotonous beat, like a ticking clock growing closer to the inevitable. You lean back in your chair, lazily balancing a tablet in your hand, as another headline flashes across the screen:

 “NJZ Legal Battle with HYBE Heats Up: Idol Group at Risk of Blacklisting.”

You skim through all the articles, the opinion pieces, the viral tweets, all regurgitating the same information—she’s sinking. You’ve heard your fair share of rumors and ghost stories about that company, all the borderline sinful acts that the people inside commit. Every once in a while, a story will come out, but with how big their influence is, it takes only a matter of moments for any hint of their misdeeds to be wiped from existence. The girls may be putting on a valiant effort, but brave smiles and encouraging words aren’t what David used to kill Goliath.

The phone rings against the mahogany wood of your desk. You let it ring twice before picking it up. “Yes?”

“Sir,” your secretary answers, “You have a visitor in the lobby. They’re asking to speak to you in person.”

“You know I don’t accept unscheduled meetings. Send them away.”

“I know, sir, but she insists on meeting you. It seems rather urgent. She mentioned something about ‘needing a helping hand.’”

You freeze at the utterance of those words, an amused smirk growing on your lips. “Send her up.”

You expected a day like this to come, but not so soon. There’s always someone desperate for your help, begging on their knees like sinners praying to God. No amount of effort is worth granting the wishes of worms. Still, you’re not above making exceptions. The one that makes the rules can also break them.

You hear a soft rapping against your door. “Come in,” you command. Minji walks in, her head hung low, completely unlike the fiery young woman you had met all those months ago. What was once a determined lion is nothing but a weeping deer, left at your mercy.

“We finally meet again, Ms. Kim.” You lean forward in your chair, ready to enjoy the show.

“Hello, si—” She shakes her head. “Hello. It’s… good to see you again.” Her eyes don’t quite meet yours, the burden on her shoulders holding her down.

“I heard you needed a ‘helping hand’,” you grin.

“Uh, yes, right…” She sighs heavily, hands clasped together like she needs something to hold onto. “I need your help—”

“Ah!” you exclaim in faux surprise, rising up from your desk to peer out the window, streaked with raindrops. The whole city looks so small from up here. “If I remember correctly, you said something about ‘Not every hand offered is worth taking.’ Why the sudden change of heart?”

You hear her faintly huff in frustration. “My group—my friends—We worked hard to get where we are. Years of our lives spent in practice rooms, unsure of whether or not any of the effort we put in would be worth it. I know people out there think we’re stupid or soft for this, but we’re not ready to give up our dreams yet. We need your help.”

You circle around to the front of the desk, each step slow and deliberate, echoing throughout the wide expanse of your office. “That’s a very touching story, Ms. Kim. I applaud your efforts,” you offer her a slow clap as you lean against your desk, “but this isn’t a charity. It’s a business.”

“I understand,” she mutters. “I have something to offer you.”

You wait.