Work Text:
Tae-young’s body feels like it’s being ripped in half.
It isn’t the first time, not by a long shot, but it’s certainly a sensation he hasn’t felt since most of his days were spent sitting ramrod straight at after-school study sessions or typing and writing up homework and reports until every nerve in his hand burned white-hot. Sang-won’s company can be demanding at times, but never as demanding as Tae-young is toward himself.
Mightee One Entertainment is creeping up on that work ethic.
They don’t demand perfection, necessarily, no. Tae-young’s listened to enough half-finished demos and watched enough idols go on stage with too much glitter on their collarbones to question their standards at times, actually, but—
This isn’t about them. It’s about him. He was hand-picked to create a virtual idol for them, and he’s not just going to prove that they chose the right guy, he’s going to dig his way into another promotion. Tae-young won’t rest easy until he’s the one giving Sang-won the orders. The thought, the promise of his brighter future, gets his weary bones out of bed every morning.
You can be so competitive, Mr. Kwon, MiNA’s sweet voice often drawls when the subject arises over a tying game of janggi. It’s refreshing, seeing such a driven young man in today’s age.
The praise only ever gives him a taste of the ocean of omnipotence he yearns to drown in. Artificial Intelligence, at its core, Tae-young knows, only tells people what they want to hear, but he can’t help staring a little longer at MiNA’s lips on the screen when she smiles and tells him it’s his move. Like there’s something there, something beyond strings of code he typed with his own fingers.
It’s just the sort of fucked-up mirror he wouldn’t mind spending his life staring into.
Presently, the office is quiet. Tae-young almost enjoys being in Mightee One’s headquarters more than Sang-won’s own company. It’s more modern, more pristine, a more sleek environment to settle into.
Tae-young wonders if it may snow later tonight or the following morning, watching white-grey clouds stretch across the otherwise inky sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s up high enough that the only other level buildings are skyscrapers of similar caliber. The view is one he’s already grown to appreciate.
Regrettably, no amount of satisfaction from work well done can stave off his exhaustion, which has settled over him harshly. He stayed late tonight, of course he did. Tae-young can’t recall the last time he actually left on time, despite Sang-won’s encouragement to take it easy, give yourself a break.
There are no breaks. Perfection demands consistency. Tae-young will be perfect. He already is, if only he can make MiNA absolutely flawless.
Checking his phone for the first time since the sun began to set, Tae-young isn’t surprised to see a missed call from Eun-ji, her pretty face in the contact preview almost making his chilled heart melt a sweat. She never followed it up with another call, so it must not have been that important, Tae-young reasons as he tucks his phone into his back pocket.
They’ve been spending most of their nights together, but that’s been drawing him further from his work as well, and the realization makes any ounce of warmth in his body fizzle out. Eun-ji can survive one night without him. He can survive all his nights without her. She’s just a woman.
If he’s going to be here all night, he could use tea. Just a small one, a smidge of caffeine. Black, no sugar, no lemon. All the extra things people throw into their beverages serve only to give Tae-young a headache. The idea only sounds more tantalizing as he walks past the empty cubicles, shoes thudding quietly against the wooden floor.
The silence is a welcome blanket.
Inside the break room, Tae-young fills the kettle with water, setting it on the water heater to boil. He retrieves a mug from the cabinet as well as a packet of black tea. In the meantime, the same annoying dilemma from minutes ago pops into his head.
He considers calling Eun-ji, but it is already past eleven at night. She’s likely in bed already. Tae-young tries to ward off the sense of guilt that starts to tug at his psyche like a whiny toddler does a parent’s sleeves. He’s already run through this in his head. Eun-ji will be fine. River walks and firework shows and wandering around the market can be saved for tomorrow night.
Tae-young finds the wall and leans his back against it, allowing a sigh to escape his mouth. His hand jitters at his side, fingers yearning to pull his phone out and, at the very least, text her. If she is awake, he’s certain she’d appreciate it.
The boiling water finishes, the kettle chiming to inform him, and Tae-young gives in, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He sets it on the counter, opening up to Eun-ji’s contact, attempting to come up with a decent message. All of their prior ones leave him uninspired, despite how sharp Eun-ji’s wit can come across over text.
It almost feels perverted to text somebody so late into the night, especially to ask something as immature as, Are you still awake? Tae-young always rolled his eyes watching his peers get giddy over texting girls as a teenager. They were practically almost adults; there was no excuse for petulance.
Some part of him almost, almost, understands, now.
He’s so caught up in rereading a message on his phone that his tired mind moves with none of his input. Tae-young blinks, squints slightly at his phone— What was she talking about?— and lifts the kettle to the cup.
Only he misses the cup, and still-bubbling, boiling, water, pours directly onto his hand bracing the counter beside the cup.
“Ah, sh—!” he cuts himself off, but the profanity still almost echoes in the small room. The kettle clatters against the counter, bobbling off. Tae-young grabs his burned hand with his uninjured one, watching as portions of skin shift from its soft, pale, shade, into an angry, pinkish-red, landscape.
Such an idiot.
Cherry on top, the break room door suddenly opens. Politely, a fast, fluid, motion. Tae-young’s hair falls in his eyes as he whips his head to glance at who just stepped in.
Lee Yun-Jin stands in all her worn-out glory, palm still braced against the heavy break room door. Tae-young feels nothing, albeit a sense of embarrassment and an even stronger reminder of disdain. He doesn’t have anything against Yun-Jin, per se. She’s simply not the sort of person he’d ever willingly give the time of day to. She’s too cold, too prickly, too disinterested in everything around her.
Yun-Jin’s brows furrow slightly at the scene in front of her before her heels clacking against the floor is all Tae-young can hear over his own ragged breathing.
“Are you alright, Mr. Kwon?” Yun-Jin asks, grabbing a handful of paper towels off of the roller. She forks them over to Tae-young as if it's cash at a convenience store. He takes them with his good hand, dotting his ugly one carefully with the harsh material. It burns worse than he thought it would, worse than the initial, knee-jerk-inducing pour.
“Just fine. It was an accident,” Tae-young replies through gritted teeth. Yun-Jin’s hair frames her face nicely, even if he can see the hints of damaged, purple, strands this close. She rests a palm against the counter, waiting for him to say something more. “I didn’t think you’d still be in the office.”
Yun-Jin looks away for a brief moment. “Work called for it. I’m sure you’re familiar with the scenario.”
Nothing more. Tae-young’s trying to wrap his hand with the paper towels. It isn’t working well. Yun-Jin has always kept to herself to the point of lacking any colleagues, as far as Tae-young can tell. He’s seen the way she stands around Ji-Woon: rigid and waiting, like she’s watching a baby animal about to pounce. Tae-young can see the gears that spin behind her eyes during every interaction the same way he’s certain she can see them in his own.
“I’ll call a medic,” Yun-Jin states after a beat, eyeing the pitiful, mummified, state of his hand. The shame hurts worse than the burn. He refuses to endure another second of this.
“There won’t be any need for that,” Tae-young argues, already having created a makeshift bandage. His eye catches on his cell phone, suddenly, still open to his last conversation with Eun-ji. His hand lashes out to pocket it, and he gathers up enough resilience to meet Yun-Jin’s gaze.
Completely blank, devoid of any sort of emotion.
“Apologies, Mr. Kwon, but I have to disagree,” Yun-Jin says plainly. Her manicured hands move rapidly on her phone. Tae-young bites his lip. “We have plenty of people in our company who would be more than happy to assist you.”
Fine. If she’s going to play that game.
“Thank you,” Tae-young bites, “Ms. Lee.”
A quick quirk of the eyebrow from Yun-Jin. It gives Tae-young’s hurt-ridden brain a burst of pride.
She finishes sending her S.O.S. quickly, and then it’s just the two of them lingering awkwardly in the room. Yun-Jin rests her hands casually at her hips, elbows bent back.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says formally. “Please wait here for a medic, and if there’s anything else you may need my help with—” She pauses. “I’ll be around.”
Code for God, please don’t bother me. Tae-young wishes he could somehow treat her the same way.
Yun-Jin’s hand curls around the door. Tae-young watches her pull on it. It stops like it’s stuck, a heavy-metal thud sound accompanying the woman’s attempts.
Yun-Jin does not turn around. “Did you leave the doorstopper in?”
Tae-young didn’t know there was one.
Obviously, I didn’t, he thinks, but does not voice. That would certainly be unprofessional. Besides, Yun-Jin and Ji-Woon’s obvious detachment and mutual dislike aside, she still works with one of Mightee One’s most successful musicians. She has some form of power, holds that over him, whether she realizes it or not.
It makes him even angrier.
“A… Doorstopper?” he clarifies instead.
Yun-Jin’s hand falls elegantly to her side. “This door can be troublesome. It locks automatically whenever it shuts, hence why we use…” Her foot kicks a tiny, tan, triangle on the floor. “...A doorstopper.”
Oh.
“I apologize,” Tae-young says flatly.
Waving him off, Yun-Jin simply re-approaches the counter. “Don’t worry about it,” she says with the sort of tone that implies she’s bothered, but doesn’t have the energy to get in his face about it. “It was my fault, anyway, for rushing in so recklessly.”
Did you? he wonders. She seemed quite calm, opening up that door. Besides, nothing in the break room is worth rushing for, unless—
Unless she watched him burn himself through the glass.
Hah, he thinks. Even Lee Yun-Jin has her moments.
“I’ll be more mindful in the future,” Tae-young says with as much professionalism as he can muster.
Yun-Jin’s fingertips drum quietly against the counter. “I’m sure you will be,” she says simply. And maybe she just can’t stand the silence, but she suddenly adds, “You should run your injured hand under lukewarm water.”
Tae-young looks down at his hand. It’s bad. Not necessarily third nor even second-degree burn bad, but signals of pulsing pain continue to travel all the way down from the top of his hand to his fingertips. “Pardon?”
Yun-Jin’s hands flare out, lips pursed. She gestures delicately for Tae-young to give her his hand, and after an extremely awkward moment of hesitation, he offers it to her. She unwraps the paper towels with a sort of care he didn’t think the woman possessed.
Her other hand turns the sinks handles, testing and feeling and adjusting the knobs until she’s satisfied with the temperature. She holds Tae-young’s hand by the wrist, between her thumb and forefinger like she’s pinching something gross, and gets it under the water.
Surprisingly, there isn’t any sort of pre-relief stinging. The water washes over his skin with nothing but sweet, numbing, relief. Tae-young keeps staring at his hand like he’s waiting for the skin to peel off.
Yun-Jin’s hand retracts. “I’m first-aid certified,” she says as an explanation. “It wasn’t part of the job requirement, but Ji-Woon has a penchant for injury.”
That’s a weird thing to tell me, Tae-young thinks.
“Thank you, Ms. Lee,” he tells her.
Her eyes linger on his face before she breaks away. There’s a large, fake, plant, in the corner beside the door. It can’t be as interesting as Yun-Jin’s unblinking eyes promise it is.
“How is the new project coming along?”
Perfectly. MiNA is the greatest thing Tae-young has ever created, the greatest gift he could possibly bestow upon Mightee One. Ji-Woon’s gratitude, Tae-young believes, should be immense.
“Ah. I can forward the most recent report I created to you after this,” Tae-young says instead. It’d simply take too long to cover everything in this, hopefully soon-to-be cut short, conversation.
He swears the way Yun-Jin exhales is supposed to be a laugh. “That wasn’t what I meant. I’m asking if you’re happy with your creation.”
Tae-young can’t help but feel like it’s a dig. More coherent, less tormented with the stream running over his skin, he challenges, “Are you implying something?”
Yun-Jin shakes her head. “Of course not. My colleagues are all beyond impressed by MiNA.” But not you? Intriguing. He can hear her quick inhale. “What sort of experience did you have before taking on the project?”
The impromptu interview is peculiar, but Tae-young reminds himself that he’s already gotten this project, already moving up the ranks, already got his life together, while Yun-Jin’s following around a handful of glitter-coated maniacs like a dog on a leash.
“After graduation, I was hired at a… prestigious company. I took on a tech position, and with an abundance of hard work, I was promoted to project head on Mightee One’s latest venture.” God, he sounds like a job fair advert. “I’m certain you know the rest, Ms. Lee.”
Yun-Jin doesn’t say anything for a while. If Tae-young didn’t know any better, he’d say she appears to be thinking.
“If memory serves, your brother put your foot in the door,” Yun-Jin throws out casually. Tae-young feels his shoulders tense against the cold beginning of a backhanded congratulations. “You must feel lucky.”
It throws him off. The opposite of what he was expecting. Taken aback, Tae-young looks up from the mess of his hand shaking in the sink. “What?”
Yun-Jin meets his eye, gaze ripped from the wall. She has these dark pools for irises that he thinks a person could easily swim in, if only the poorly-concealed bags beneath them weren’t so prominent.
“To have somebody in your life who cares for you.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
Sang-won cares about him, certainly. Eun-ji, too. MiNA. Is that lucky, or the result of networking, of effort, of making a point to connect with the people around him? Tae-young has never given a second thought to coworkers or managers unless he was finessing his way into something he wanted.
And there’s Yun-Jin. Alone. Washed-up. Tae-young has already heard plenty about her through the grapevine, but they couldn’t have ever matched up to the reality of the woman. Her loneliness clings to her like a stench he’d be killing himself to be rid of. Tae-young is independent, but not a lost cause.
And Yun-Jin doesn’t even seem to give a fuck.
“I suppose,” he answers with an air of rigidity.
She shifts on her feet. “This line of work can take a lot out of a person,” Yun-Jin continues as if he isn’t even there, her words narrowly avoiding overlapping his own, short, acknowledgement. “I’m sure you’ve seen that first-hand.”
Like wood snapping, Tae-young finally flat-out inquires, “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Ms. Lee?”
Yun-Jin lowers her chin and smiles. “Of course not.”
The break room door is pushed open, the sudden noise invasive and loud. A meek-looking medic makes her way into the room, a first-aid kit clutched in her hand. Yun-Jin uncrosses her arms and takes a step back.
“Hello,” Tae-young greets the medic, feeling the air return to his lungs the moment Yun-Jin’s further. “I’m fine, really. Just a simple burn.”
The medic takes his hand in her own and shuts the sink off. She’s saying things, asking more questions. He’s not looking at her. He’s looking at Yun-Jin. She’s backing up toward the door.
“Good luck, Mr. Kwon,” Yun-Jin tells him.
For once, he doesn’t know what she’s referring to.