Winter is Coming

It’s Monday, the best day of the week, and you start the morning with three garment bags, four coffees, two remaining braincells, and absolutely no will to live.

The building’s completely decked out like a luxury Christmas ad—fancy gold bows, tacky fake snow, and designer branded ornaments that more than likely cost more than your rent. Is it pretty? Sure, maybe in that soulless rich-people-are-strangely-obsessed-with-red-velvet kind of way. You’d probably appreciate it more if your fingers weren’t going numb around a cardboard drink tray and your shoulder wasn’t about to dislocate from carrying couture like some kind of pack mule—or whatever the fashion equivalent of that is.

And best of all, surprising to approximately zero people, your boss has already texted you.

Director Lee

Where are you?

You check the time. 8:12am. Work “starts” at 9:00am. How adorable. Apparently contracts are more of a fun suggestion when you’re at the bottom of the corporate food chain.

Just got in, on my way up! 😊

You stare at the smiley face for three seconds before deleting it. He doesn’t deserve emojis.

The elevator walls are mirrored, which feels rude this early in the morning. You catch a glimpse of yourself: shirt wrinkled from your coat, collar slightly crooked, tie hanging on for dear life, hair doing that ‘I tried, then gave up’ thing that seems to be your new do. You look like the Before picture in a men’s skincare ad, and the dark circles definitely don’t match the brand mood boards.

The doors slide with a hum and reveal the un-magical top floor: open concept, glass walls, icy stares, and the giant lit-up company logo AESPA GROUP glaring down at you like God (if God only cared about profit margins and engagement metrics).

You shoulder the door to your boss’s office open.

He doesn’t even look up. “Took you long enough,” he says, still typing. “Is that my Americano?”

You set the tray down with the restraint of a man choosing not to commit homicide.

“Yes. Americano, no sugar,” you say, handing it to him. “Just like you.”

“What was that?”

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking over your face, then your shirt, quickly enough that it feels like judgment.

“Just like you ordered.” You smile back—the kind you reserve for people who can fire you.

He takes a sip. “Too much foam. Tell them to fix it next time.”

You make a mental note to throw yourself into traffic. “Yes sir.”

“Hey, and try to look less tired,” he adds, waving a hand at you. “We’re one of the biggest fashion houses in Seoul, not an accounting firm. Iron that shirt next time.”

“Sure thing, boss,” you say. “I’ll just stop sleeping and start photosynthesizing.”

But he’s already typing again, so technically you could have just insulted his entire bloodline and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Outside, the office hums with the chaos of fake productivity converged with real deadlines. People actually say things like “brand synergy” or “content pillars” with straight faces.

You head to the intern corner—a tragic little island made of two mismatched desks, one sad plant surviving purely out of spite, and a shit-ton of unspoken trauma.

Ningning is already there, legs crossed, lipstick perfect, scrolling on her phone like she owns the Wi-Fi. Today she’s in a cream knit, white stockings, and a skirt short enough to be illegal in three countries.

She spots you and lights up. “My coffee hero!”

You set her cup down by her laptop. “One latte, minimal foam. Crafted with love and mild resentment, Your Majesty.”

“You’re the best,” she says, taking a sip. Her eyes flutter as she lets out an actual moan that draws a few looks from nearby desks. “God, marry me.”

“Tempting,” you say, taking a seat. “But I’m not sure I want to be your caffeine dealer for the rest of my life.”

She laughs, head tipping back, hair falling over her shoulders in perfect waves (you’re pretty sure her hair has a higher paying contract than you do). “Oh please, you love me. You’d last two weeks tops here without me. I make this place bearable.”

“You make this place an HR hazard.”

She leans forward, perhaps a little too far. “So, did he bite your head off again?”

“You mean metaphorically or literally? Because at this point, I’m not ruling anything out.”

Ningning chokes on her drink, giggling. “God, you’re dramatic.”

“God, I’m underpaid.”

“He really hates you, huh?”

“He hates the foam, my shirt, and my face.”

She gives you a once-over, not subtly at all. “Your face is fine. You could be someone’s office crush if you tried.”

“And yet, tragically, my main office role is ‘guy who carries things and gets blamed for the weather.’”

“Hot guy who carries things,” she corrects. “Be specific.”

“Thanks, I’ll put it on my resume,” you say, letting yourself look at her properly.

Ning Yizhuo, your fellow intern who started the same week as you. Perfect hair, glowing skin, a perfume cloud worth half your paycheck. She’s the kind of girl the whole office notices—the kind that makes whispered excuses for why she’s allowed to leave early. And somehow, she gets away with everything.

You? You’re just The Intern. The one with the dark circles and the good emails.

Across the room, some guy from merch swings past and calls her name. She lifts a hand in acknowledgment without taking her eyes off you.

“You stayed late again, right?” she asks. “I saw your light on when I was leaving.”

“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. “Slides. Samples. Whatever else he remembered at 8:59 p.m.”