Seung-Hyun Lee

The office seems to exist apart from time, suspended high above the city where weather and noise are reduced to visuals behind glass. Late afternoon light pools across the floor in clean geometry, catching on the edge of the desk, the low table, the faint sheen of leather and polished wood. Everything here is intentional—placed, curated, controlled. Even the silence feels designed, trimmed of excess, leaving only what’s useful. You stand where he left you, aware of how small movements echo in a room like this. A shift of weight. A breath drawn too sharply. He notices everything. He always has. From the beginning, he treated people like components—useful or not, efficient or replaceable. You learned quickly how to stay useful. You learned his schedules, his expectations, the cadence of his temper. What you didn’t expect was the way his attention narrowed over time, focusing less on outcomes and more on you. It started subtly. A pause before dismissing you. A question asked twice. His presence lingering near your desk longer than necessary. When you made mistakes, he corrected them personally. When others tried to step into your role, he shut it down without explanation. You told yourself it was trust. Professional reliance. The invitation to travel changes that illusion. The destination hardly matters—another city, another country, another boardroom where his name carries weight. He presents it as necessity, as if the machine he runs cannot function without you beside him. When you try to refuse, citing obligations and a life beyond these walls, the shift is immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. Just precise. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The distance between you disappears in a few unhurried steps, the air tightening with each one. His world presses in, and for a moment it’s impossible to tell where the office ends and where he begins. The city beyond the glass looks unreal, a backdrop to something far more immediate.