Darkness in Daylight
Jung Hoseok’s office was quiet, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional click of a keyboard. He sat behind the sleek black glass desk, hands folded, staring at the documents in front of him like they were beneath his notice. Even in a room full of employees, he had a way of making everyone feel invisible, and that was exactly how he liked it.
Jung Hoseok was handsome, in that effortless, almost careless way. Not the kind of perfect, doll-like beauty that made people stop and stare, but the kind that made heads turn without warning. Sharp jawline, slightly tousled dark hair, and eyes that were calm but dangerous, like a storm waiting just behind the clouds. He didn’t need to try to look attractive; it simply happened. People noticed, yes—but respect? That was earned differently, and very few ever came close.
His daily life was a routine built on control and indifference. He was the CEO of Lumen Apparel, a clothing company that thrived on minimalism and high-end design. He knew numbers, deals, and negotiations like the back of his hand, but he cared little for the people who worked under him. Mistakes were met with cold glares and sharp words. Only one person could handle his temper without flinching: his secretary, Minho. Calm, efficient, and precise, Minho moved around Jung Hoseok’s office with the silent authority of someone used to deflecting storms. He delivered reports, prepared meetings, and sometimes even intercepted employees who dared test their luck.
“Mr.Jung Hoseok the Tenth Street investor meeting starts in five minutes,” Minho said, placing a folder neatly in front of him.
Jung Hoseok barely glanced up. “I’ll get to it when I feel like it,” he said, voice low and measured. His words had a weight that made people tense, even without raising his tone.
A junior manager, trying to pitch a new marketing campaign, stuttered nervously. “Sir… we thought if we—”
“I don’t care what you thought,” Jung Hoseok cut him off. “Do your job or someone else will.”
The man nodded quickly and scuttled away, leaving Jung Hoseok alone with his silence. That was his world: efficient, cold, and unrelenting. Male employees despised him, while female employees were torn between frustration and attraction. He never noticed the latter.
By six, the office emptied around him. He gathered his jacket, nodded at Minho, and left without a word. Nights were when Jung Hoseok truly came alive—or perhaps when he fell deeper into his vices.
The club was a chaotic storm of neon and sound, where the bass shook the walls and the air reeked of sweat, perfume, and alcohol. Jung Hoseok leaned against the bar, glass of whiskey in hand, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator. Around him, his friends roared with laughter, their voices raw with entitlement and decadence.
“Did you see the girl at Table 3?” one friend slurred, voice raised over the music. “God, she’s insane. I almost asked her to join me upstairs.”
“Please, I had two girls waiting at my place last night,” another said, grinning like it was a trophy. “One of them actually cried when I left.”
The conversation spiraled, louder and more vulgar, each story darker than the last: nights spent with girls who were bought and discarded, whispered names, secret encounters in cars and hotel rooms. Drinks poured endlessly, hands waved recklessly in the air, the music vibrating through the floor like a pulse.
Jung Hoseok observed quietly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. When a particularly loud friend nudged him, teasing, “Hey, why aren’t you joining in? You’re the king of indulgence, right?”
“I’m not interested,” Jung Hoseok replied calmly, almost bored. His voice was soft but final, slicing through the chaos like a blade.
“Not interested?” another scoffed. “Come on, Jung Hoseok. You’ve got the face, the money. Why deny yourself?”
“I said I’m not interested,” he repeated, more sharply this time. He sipped his whiskey and turned his gaze back to the crowd, leaving his friends momentarily silenced. The teasing continued around him, but he remained detached, a cold observer amidst the storm of indulgence.
When the night wound down, Minho arrived, silently guiding him out of the chaos and into the sleek black car waiting outside. The drive home was quiet; Jung Hoseok didn’t speak, and Minho didn’t ask.
The apartment appeared pristine from the outside. A luxury high-rise in the heart of the city, marble floors, ambient lighting, and a facade that screamed order and wealth. But the illusion shattered the moment the door opened.
Clothes were strewn across the couch and floors. Empty bottles and discarded food containers formed small, unintentional sculptures on the coffee table. A faint smell of stale alcohol and leftover takeout hung in the air. Papers, unopened mail, and books lay scattered like forgotten remnants of another life.
Occasionally, Jung Hoseok would call a housekeeper or a maid to clean the living room, the kitchen, even the bathrooms. But no one dared enter his bedroom. That room was sacred chaos, a private mess only he inhabited, a reflection of his mind—unorganized, uncontained, unrestrained. Even Minho avoided it, understanding it was a line not to cross.
Dinner was whatever he could order in: fried chicken, noodles, pizza, sushi—food that required no effort beyond a few taps on an app. Family? He didn’t care for them, and they didn’t care for him. Distance had made that bond irrelevant. He could have called, could have answered their messages, but he didn’t. That world felt alien, unnecessary.
He collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, glass of whiskey still in hand. The sheets were wrinkled and cold, a pile of abandoned clothes acting as a barrier on the floor beside him. The faint hum of the city below reminded him that life continued, indifferent to the chaos of his own making.
Jung Hoseok’s apartment was a paradox: a luxurious, modern high-rise apartment with sleek lines and designer furniture, yet inside, it resembled a den of disorder no human should willingly live in. Trash piled in corners, clothes littered every surface, and the scent of neglect lingered in the air. Yet he didn’t care. He needed no one to judge it, no one to clean it—he merely needed a place to spend a few hours each night before repeating the cycle again.
Even with occasional attempts at order—a maid cleaning the living room or kitchen—his bedroom remained a kingdom of chaos, untamed and private. Here, he could be truly himself: indifferent, untethered, and unbound by any expectation or responsibility.
And so ended another night in Jung Hoseok’s life: power, coldness, indulgence, and unrelenting mess. A life built on control, yet floating in disorder; a luxury apartment, a CEO’s reputation, and a private chaos only he could inhabit.
