CHAPTER 2

The Ghost of a Debt

The morning after his first encounter with the "Monster Chief," Shi-woo’s body feels like lead. He’s back at the Glow Ad Agency office, sitting Praise same chair where he swapped his future for a struggle. He stares at the large monitor where Han Sora is currently presenting the "Global Tech" slides, his slides to the Board of Directors. She looks radiant, soaking up the praise that should have been his.

As she exits the boardroom, she flashes him a quick, secretive wink. Most would see it as a sign of affection, but to Shi-woo, it’s a heavy reminder of a debt.

Three years ago, when Shi-woo was a struggling trainee on the verge of being cut, he had accidentally deleted a final pitch deck. He had been a mess shutting down, his anger turning inward until he was paralyzed. It was Sora who stayed until 4:00 AM, re-creating the slides with him. She told the Manager that "they" had worked on it together, securing Shi-woo's permanent position. He didn't know then that Sora had only done it to get on the Manager’s good side, knowing he valued "mentorship" and "teamwork." To Shi-woo, she was his savior. To Sora, he was an investment.

"How did it go at The Elixeria?" she whispers now, leaning over his desk so close he can smell her expensive perfume.

"He’s difficult," Shi-woo says, his jaw tight. "He told me I smelled like a company slave."

Sora pouts, her eyes wide and pleading. "Oh, Shi-woo... I'm so sorry. But you’re so strong. If you can't do it, nobody can. And remember, if this fails, the Director said I'm the one who goes to the branch office. You wouldn't let that happen to me, right? After everything I did to keep you here?"

The guilt hits him like a physical blow. "I'll get it done, Sora. Don't worry."

Night falls, and Shi-woo is back in the Jongno district. He enters Elixeria at exactly 6:00 PM, that cycle continued for few days.

Chief Kang Min-ho is prepping a sea bass, his knife strokes rhythmic and hauntingly beautiful. He doesn't acknowledge Shi-woo’s entrance, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He didn't think the "suit" would actually come back.

Shi-woo walks to the same corner stool. He doesn't say a word. He opens his laptop and begins working.

The silence is heavy, filled only with the tshhh of the sauté pan.

"You’re a nuisance," Min-ho says suddenly, his voice cutting through the steam.

Shi-woo doesn't look up. "I'm sitting in a corner. I'm not speaking. How am I a nuisance?"

"Your energy," Min-ho says, leaning his damp hands on the wooden counter directly in front of Shi-woo. Up close, Min-ho’s eyes are piercing.

"You sit there like a ticking time bomb. You think you’re being a hero for that woman at your office, who came here before you. don't you?

I know the type. They use your talent to build their pedestal, and then they kick you off it. You’re not a hero. You’re a tool."

The sound of Shi-woo’s laptop slamming shut echoes like a gunshot. He stands up, his face dangerously pale, and walks out without a word.

The alleyway outside The Bitter Table is narrow, cold, and shadowed by the towering skyscrapers of central Seoul. As Lee Shi-woo storms out, the bell on the door still jingling from his exit, the air feels too thin for his lungs.

Min-ho’s words“You’re a tool”—echo in his head, vibrating with the painful frequency of a truth he refuses to acknowledge.

His vision blurs with a hot, stinging frustration. He stops at the end of the alley, facing a rough brick wall. The "silent fuse" finally reaches the powder. With a strangled, low growl, Shi-woo swings his right fist.

Thud.

The impact is dull and sickening. He doesn't stop. He swings again, his knuckles splitting against the frozen masonry. The physical pain is a relief; it’s louder than the thoughts of Sora, the debt he owes her, and the icy gaze of the Chief.

He leans his forehead against the cold brick, his breath hitching, his hand throbbing and beginning to drip dark crimson onto the pavement. He stays there until the anger turns into a hollow, aching exhaustion.

Inside the shop, Min-ho looks at the empty stool. For the first time in five years, something other than cold indifference stirs in his chest. He picks up a rag and wipes the counter where Shi-woo sat, his movements slower than before.

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