Regrets. About everything. Existing? Regrets. Breathing? Regrets. Getting out of bed? Regrets. It’s sad that this is what my life has come to—long nights in the office regretting the fact that I can breathe. Why’s it like this? It shouldn’t be like this. People deserve to wake up without the first feeling to hit them be the desire of wanting to be dead. Which is how (well, at least as of recently) I wake up. Wanting to smash my face into the wall and die. If I knew this is how it would be like, then I would have never signed up. Sign me up to be a cloud, sure. But a person who has to work? No way!

“A little late, isn’t it?”

My eyes have trouble lifting themselves up from the piles of papers scattered all over my desk and onto Suho. For a moment, he’s just a hazy figure leaning against my now open office door, but after that initial second, the view of him focuses. He’s carrying his briefcase with him, and his coat hangs heavily over his shoulders. Ugh, really? Rub it in my face, will he? Can’t I be him on my way home?

“Oh, hey.” I nudge my head upwards as a greeting. There’s no time to talk. The sooner I can finish reviewing this newly revised guest list, the sooner I can be in my bed fast asleep.

“It’s late, Sehun,” Suho repeats himself from the doorway. “Really late. What are you still doing here?”

“Uh.” I look down at my desk, nearly forgetting what I had been doing until the pages greet my eyes. “the guest list for my party.” I wave my hand to disallow Suho from furthering bothering me. “It’s important, and I’m almost done looking at the new additions.”

“Well, as thrilling as that sounds, I’m glad you’re still here. I need to talk to you,” Suho says as his voice nears.

But now is not the time. My body doesn’t want to move anymore, and it really wants sleep. For the next decade. Maybe forever.

“No, it’s 11, and I’m almost done.” As my eyes scan the page, I wave him off again, but he’s now standing by my desk—at the same time I frown at a name.

“What’s wrong?”

“Choi Chaeyoung? Who’s that?” I read the name in my head again and again, hoping to remember who she is, but nothing comes to mind. Next to her name, however, is her “title” which happens to say daughter of Choi Yongguk. The ? “She’s the daughter of Yongguk?” Ew! “Who would want a kid with that ?”

“Oh yes, about that,” Suho mutters before he takes the list from my hands. There’s a frown present upon his handsome features as he reads through the names. “That’s not relevant. This is her: the daughter of Yongguk. He wanted her to be his plus one to your party, so Lay checked her out.” Suho looks down at me with his eyes hooded and disappointed. Again. “You fired your secretary yesterday, and Chaeyoung happens to be the perfect candidate for a new one, so I asked Yongguk to relay the information. I hope she accepts it. She’s got experience in marketing and advertising, worked as an assistant to an editor-in-chief. She sounds exactly like what you need.”

“How do you know what I need?” No offense, but, how does he? It’s not like he ever has time to spend with me. Suho doesn’t say anything as I rummage through the piles of paper on my desk. Maybe Suho’s secretary who gave me the list printed a version with pictures of the guests. Luckily, that’s exactly what she did. After flipping to the back, a pleasant surprise greets me. “She’s cute.”

“Well, that’s not the word I would have used, but yes, she’s cute—I guess.”

“Does she perform well?” In this world, an excellence in looks doesn’t always equate to an excellence of, well, anything. And Chaeyoung’s beautiful. The picture of her is one against a white background.  Her shiny, mahogany brown hair reaches up only a few inches past her shoulders and perched upon her medium-sized lips is a barely-there smile. She doesn’t look forced, however, and there’s a certain whimsicality about her—a sort of quiet charm.

“We’ll find out.” Suho shrugs, looking down at the picture of her too. “Or do you want me to find out for you? I’m sure she’ll let me give her a test run.”

“Really?” That’s just gross! Though it’s not exactly a well-kept secret that Suho has the habit of sleeping around, it’s still always unpleasant to hear it come out of his mouth. “No, I’ll find out myself, thank you very much.” I close the folder and with it, the alluring gaze of Chaeyoung. “So, are you sure she’s the right material? And not like the last girl? You know that secretaries are essentially representations of whoever they work for, right? Representation is a crucial reflection of a brand’s image, and I can’t have my representation being anything like that last girl. She—”

“Who was the last girl again?” Suho narrows his eyes. “I thought she was gorgeous. What was wrong with her?”

“She was a . Literally.” A cold shudder runs down my back as the memories of the days prior return. My secretary had insisted that she had valuable information regarding something “important,” and because I was too busy to question it, I allowed her inside his office. She promptly locked the door and offered her services without shame, stating something along a weekly deal. “I can’t believe you found me a e.”

“You said ‘gorgeous,’ and I delivered.” Suho starts frowning again, and he draws his head backwards. “I’m not even obligated to find secretaries for you, but I do. Be thankful for that.”

“I never said I wasn’t thankful.” I frown back, relaxing in my chair. Suho’s face genuinely looks like he’s mad that I had to fire the e of a “secretary.” As much as I love him—my dear friend, almost-brother, I can’t love how dense he is sometimes. “But really? A hooker? We’re a company with a pharmaceutical sector. Do you know how bad that looks? A hooker? With drugs? God!” The idea tastes repulsive. “I am thankful, don’t get me wrong,” I sigh. “I’d take a hooker over that snake from last year.” Suho doesn’t like my so-called “somber tone” when it comes to speaking of traitors, so I grit my teeth and feign anger that I don’t have much energy to supply with. “She was more like a . A CIA’s .”

“You should have killed her,” Suho reminds me, causing my blood to run cold. Suddenly, an awareness of my heart and how it beats in my chest grows. “But, I mean, you did well. After what you did, she’s practically a vegetable.”

“Yeah, I guess.” The best way to get over something—anything—is to pretend that it never happened. But Suho likes to tell me about my exploits all the time. Maybe that’s redundant, though. How can I ever forget or pretend to forget something like that? “I don’t know. It wasn’t kind. She could have been assaulted in her condition.”

“And we could have all been ed in the if the CIA got the information she had,” Suho counters.

And he’s not wrong. He’s very, tremendously, frighteningly right.

Suho had found my then-secretary rummaging through my office drawers hours past when the work day had ended, and she supposedly had a gun. Pointed at him. A deadly smile painted all over her face. No one smiled like that, he said, unless they had information that could kill. Later, Lay found out that she did have crucial information. She found the hidden message in the American ad for a new painkiller. If the CIA had known about it…

“As sort of tragic her demise was,” Suho shrugs his shoulders like her life is a little less than an ant’s, “ours could have been much, much worse.” He pauses, tilting his head from side to side. You can practically see a train of thought chugging across his face. “Remember that other guy? 2013?”

Please Subscribe to read the full chapter