Title: The Coldest Stare
I was on my knees, paralyzed, watching the small, heavy package finally stop its slide. My heart hammered against my ribs, convinced the loud noise was the police sirens already arriving.
Then I looked up.
The man who had stepped out of the bright studio was a wall of tailored black fabric and sheer, intimidating height. He was not just handsome; he was unreal. He was Kang Bok Soo, the model, the actor, the face plastered on every billboard I had ever walked past in Seoul. He was every girl's dream, and right now, he was staring down at my nightmare.
His face was flawless—sharp jawline, dark, perfect hair—but his eyes were pure ice. They didn't see me as a person; they saw me as an obstacle, a mistake. He was looking at the small, dark scuff mark my cheap shoe had left on the polished marble near his pristine, white sneaker.
He started walking slowly toward me. Each step was measured, silent, and felt like a death sentence.
Get up. Get out. My mind screamed, but my body wouldn't obey. I was trapped by his sheer presence and my own paralyzing fear.
He stopped right in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. The silence was deafening, filled only by the distant hum of the studio lights.
I found my voice, a weak, trembling whisper. "M-Mr. Kang, what do you think you are doing? Mr. Kang—"
He didn't let me finish. His voice was low, smooth, and dangerously calm. It cut through my panic like a sharp blade.
"I think," he said, his eyes never leaving mine, "I am about to report a trespasser who just ruined my schedule. I suggest you pick up whatever garbage you dropped and disappear before security is forced to deal with you."
He bent down, but not to help. He picked up the heavy package, holding it delicately between two fingers as if it might infect him.
"This is not garbage," I stammered, scrambling to stand. "It's an important delivery. I'm leaving, I just need—"
"You need to be gone," he interrupted, dropping the package back onto the floor with a soft thud. "You think my time is worth so little that you can disrupt a multi-million-won shoot because you can't walk straight?"
His words hit me harder than any physical shove. They confirmed every negative thought I had about myself—that I was worthless, clumsy, and only capable of making things worse.
A fierce, desperate surge of anger, fueled by my financial guilt, finally broke through my depression.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice shaking, but now louder. "I was following bad directions. I came here to earn money, Mr. Kang, not to ruin your perfect life. But don't worry, I won't waste any more of your precious time."
I grabbed the package and stumbled back, nearly tripping again in my haste. I didn't wait for his reply. I just ran, humiliation burning my cheeks.
I failed the errand. The high pay was gone. The security alarms blared behind me as I sprinted out the exit. My loan problem was now ten times worse, and the first person I truly desired had just looked at me like I was dirt on his immaculate shoe.
I had to find a way to fix this, or I might as well buy a one-way ticket home.