My Devil Is Yours

The morning air in Seoul was crisp and unforgiving, much like the glass-and-steel skyscraper that loomed before Park Shi-woo. He stood at the entrance of QuickStep, a prestigious technology company he had dreamed of joining for years. His heart pounded beneath his neatly pressed shirt, and his fingers nervously adjusted the strap of his new leather bag. At twenty-six years old, this internship was his golden ticket. His family had sacrificed so much for his education, and now, standing at the threshold of success, he felt both exhilaration and paralyzing fear.

You can do this, he told himself, taking a deep breath. You've worked too hard to fail now.

The revolving doors swallowed him into a lobby that screamed power and perfection. Minimalist chandeliers hung from impossibly high ceilings, and the soft sound of a water wall filled the air with artificial tranquility. Everything was white, gray, and polished black. Even the receptionists looked like they had stepped out of a luxury magazine.

After receiving his temporary access card, Shi-woo was led to a large conference room where other new interns had gathered. There were about fifteen of them, all young, all eager, all trying to hide their anxiety behind professional smiles. Shi-woo found a seat near the middle and took out his notebook, ready to absorb everything.

Then the door opened again, and the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees.

A man entered. Not walked—entered, as if the very air parted to make way for him. He was tall, easily over 185 centimeters, with broad shoulders that filled out his charcoal-black suit perfectly. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles: prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jawline that could cut glass. His dark hair was swept back without a single strand out of place. But it was his eyes that stopped Shi-woo's breath—deep, almond-shaped, and colder than winter in the mountains. Those eyes swept across the room like searchlights, and wherever they landed, people flinched.

This was Lee Sung-joon, the 34-year-old Vice President of Digital Marketing. And according to every rumor Shi-woo had heard, he was a living nightmare.

"Welcome to QuickStep," Sung-joon said, his voice quiet but each word crystal clear. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He simply stood at the podium like a general addressing his troops before battle. "This is not a place for dreams. This is a place for results. Emotions are inefficient. They cloud judgment, they waste time, and they pollute the valuable space of this company. Leave your feelings at the door."

Shi-woo swallowed hard. He had worked in tough environments before, but this man radiated something different—a controlled, almost surgical cruelty.

The presentation began. A senior manager, a man in his forties with gray hair and a confident demeanor, stepped up to present his team's quarterly report. For the first few slides, everything seemed fine. Then Sung-joon raised one finger.

"Stop."

The manager froze.

"This data is two weeks old," Sung-joon said, still in that quiet, deadly tone. "You're presenting yesterday's news as today's strategy. And this graph"—he pointed at a colorful chart—"is not just wrong. It's insulting. Did you assume no one would check your sources?"

The manager's face turned red. He tried to explain, to defend himself, but Sung-joon cut him off again. And again. Each word was a surgical strike, dissecting every flaw, every oversight, every lazy assumption. Within ten minutes, the man's confidence had crumbled into dust. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. And then, despite his best efforts, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Sung-joon watched it fall. His expression didn't change. "Emotions pollute this space," he repeated. "Leave. Compose yourself. And submit a corrected report by noon tomorrow, or don't bother coming back."

The manager walked out with his head down, and the room was so silent Shi-woo could hear his own heartbeat.

After the meeting, as the interns were being shown to their shared workspace, Shi-woo caught fragments of whispered conversations.

"That's the Handsome Devil," one junior employee murmured, glancing over her shoulder. "Lee Sung-joon. Perfect face, frozen heart."

"They say he personally delivers termination letters," another added, voice trembling. "Wrapped in promotion envelopes. So people open them smiling, and then…"

Shi-woo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. He had heard the nickname before, but seeing the reality was different. This man wasn't just strict. He was a force of nature, beautiful and terrible, like a storm you couldn't look away from even as it destroyed you.

And I have to work for him, Shi-woo thought. For six months. Minimum.

His desk was small, wedged between a printer and a window that faced a brick wall. Not that he minded. He wasn't here for the view. He was here to prove himself, to learn, to climb. He opened his laptop and began reviewing the onboarding materials, determined to stay under Sung-joon's radar for as long as possible.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Around four in the afternoon, Shi-woo went to the break room to get a coffee. He was stirring in a packet of sugar when he felt it—a presence behind him, heavy and cold. He turned.

Sung-joon was standing in the doorway, holding his own empty cup. Their eyes met. For a moment, neither moved. Shi-woo's breath caught in his throat. Up close, Sung-joon was even more striking. His skin was flawless, his lips full but pressed into a thin, unreadable line. And his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—seemed to look right through Shi-woo, as if measuring his worth and finding it lacking.

"Intern Park," Sung-joon said. He didn't ask. He stated.

"Y-yes, Vice President." Shi-woo's voice came out higher than he intended. He mentally cursed himself.

Sung-joon walked past him to the coffee machine, moving with the grace of a predator. As he waited for his coffee to brew, he spoke without looking at Shi-woo. "I've reviewed your file. Top of your class. Multiple recommendations. Impressive on paper."

Shi-woo didn't know if he should thank him or brace for impact. He chose silence.

"But paper means nothing here." Sung-joon finally turned, coffee in hand. His gaze pinned Shi-woo in place. "I expect a full market analysis report on my desk by eight tomorrow morning. Every data point. Every projection. Complete."

Shi-woo's blood ran cold. A full market analysis report typically took a team of three at least a week to complete. One night. Alone. It was impossible.

But the way Sung-joon was looking at him—like a cat watching a mouse twitch—made it clear that "impossible" wasn't an acceptable answer.

"Understood, Vice President," Shi-woo heard himself say.

Sung-joon nodded once, then walked away without another word. The scent of his cologne—woody and amber, dark and expensive—lingered in the air after him.

Shi-woo stood frozen in the break room, his coffee growing cold in his hand. His heart was racing, but not entirely from fear. There was something else there, something he didn't want to name. A spark. A pull. The way Sung-joon's eyes had held his, the way his voice had dropped when he said "complete"—it was terrifying, yes, but also... intoxicating.

What is wrong with me? Shi-woo thought, shaking his head. He's a monster. A beautiful, terrifying monster.

He returned to his desk and opened a blank document. He would stay up all night if he had to. He would prove to Lee Sung-joon that he wasn't just impressive on paper. He would show the Handsome Devil that Park Shi-woo could survive anything.

But as the hours passed and the office emptied around him, Shi-woo couldn't stop thinking about those eyes. That voice. That cold, perfect face.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a dangerous little voice whispered: You don't just want to survive him. You want him to see you. To really see you.

Shi-woo shook off the thought and dove back into the data. He had a report to write. And maybe, just maybe, a devil to impress.

End of Chapter 1