Prologue

The Devil's Work

RISK-TAKING just wasn't my thing.

Vanilla was vanilla. Chocolate was chocolate. Why would I take the plunge for a Pumpkin-Spiced Oat Latte?

You see, I've always taken the safe route- whether it be lattes or the unopened candybar left fermented on the sidewalk, I've always played safe. In fact, I probably have the courage of a whittled tree branch. Confessions come to me first, and never the other way. Heights and extreme sports wasn't my thing. If I had the answer to a teacher's question, I would be too busy pissing my pants.

And yet, this harrowing thought brought me back to the irony of what was in front of me.

"Interview Room." I read, my eyes fluttering shut to maintain composure. I take a deep breath- and before I could exhale, the door swings open; and I almost let out a manly yell. The woman in front of the door takes a quick scan of my attire, before shooting the dirtiest look I've seen. "You must be Lisa Park." She says in a disinterested tone, almost monotonous.

Well, isn't this a great start. I thought.

I cleared my throat and sat down on the chair in the middle of the room, where an interogation -I mean- interview was going to be held. This agency had already won my personal award of making me feel like a prison inmate, no kidding.

"So, Lisa. Can you start by telling us why you applied?" The interviewer asks what I call, the Level Easy on my book of preparations.

Or so it seems.

"Uh..." I stumbled a little, and paused in panic. I had this memorised. "I, uhm, I wanted-

"Fail." She cuts me off, waving her pen in the direction of the door. "You failed. Leave, please."

"But-

As I try to question their reason of rejection, I was shot down immediately by the interviewer's look on her face. Disgust. And that's when I realised, she was disgusted by what I was wearing. My attire, the lucky red dress that Mom gave me, was frowned upon by looks of disgust. Everything, in that instant, was shot down like it was nothing. Just because my attire wasn't to her pompous tastes.

And that was when the pumpkin-spice oat latte with double shot espresso in me just.....erupted.

"Fuck. You." I exhaled a long winded breath. "Literally, Fuck you."

And of course, I was kicked out- but not before flicking a middle finger off at the self-proclaimed socialite Moron. I sigh. This, you see, is what you get when you sign up to be the CEO's secretary of the largest company in South Korea.

I mean.... I couldn't lie. Part of me was pissed that they judged according to purely how you look, part of me already accepted it. My dream of a high-paying office job was probably way off the line of what I could achieve, anyway. Think realistic. Work smart. Maybe the only high-paying job wasn't an office job.

I've been stuck in this rut of constrictions since last year. Typical parents with a brainwashing ability to convince their child, (me) that the only socially acceptable job was either a doctor or a lawyer. When they found out I couldn't put any two digits together, nor identify human organs, they took to their convenience to kick me out of the house so I'll actually find a job. Before I knew it, I had attended as many failed job interviews as I had the number of times I skipped school. Tragic.

I walked like a typical jobless civilian along the streets, occasionally glancing at my reflection on the glass doors that I passed. Olive brown eyes. A bright face, but needs a little work. Chapped lips, and tousled black hair from the number of times I ruffled my hair in frustration. Oh, and Mom's tacky red dress.

I look fucking dead.

As I mourn my own loss, my eyes seem to shift and caught sight of the suspicious tattered advertisement stuck onto the wall next to the glass.

"Looking for a diligent worker, easy job. Do contact us at xxxx-xxxx."

I almost stopped reading when something in neon text catches my attention, and the fire in me re-ignited.

"Low risk, High-paying job."

"Bingo." I smiled, tearing the advertisement down from the wall to keep in my pockets. I finally found a job for me. A low-risk, easy job that fulfills the standards of my parents. A vanilla milkshake that I could easily handle.

Or so I thought.

❖ Author's Note

Thank you so much for choosing to read this story! I'm working hard to make this my best. Please support by dropping a vote, if you liked the chapter.

Tzu.