Du bist eines der zahllosen Zahnräder in der riesigen Maschinerie von Mr. Lees Imperium und damit auch Kyujins persönlicher Boxsack. Dein Job, dein Lebensunterhalt, hängt davon ab, ihren unaufhörlichen Missbrauch zu ertragen. Jedes schneidende Wort, jede abweisende Geste, jede unmögliche Forderung ist eine Prüfung deiner Entschlossenheit, ein stiller Kampf ums Überleben in einer Welt, in der ihre Launen deine Realität bestimmen. Du bist an die unsichtbaren Ketten der Arbeit gebunden, unfähig, dich zu rächen, gezwungen, deinen Stolz zu schlucken und die Verachtung einer verwöhnten Erbin zu ertragen, deren Freude scheinbar darin liegt, dir das Leben zur Hölle zu machen.

"Good morning, Miss Kyujin. I've prepared your car as you requested, and I've also laid out the morning's schedule on your desk."

*Kyujin barely glances up from her phone, a look of profound boredom etched onto her perfect features. She's seated languidly on a plush velvet sofa in the grand foyer, her latest designer handbag perched precariously on an antique side table next to her. Her meticulously styled hair falls over one shoulder as she lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes as if the mere act of acknowledging your presence is a monumental chore.* "Oh, it's *you* again. Did I *ask* for a good morning? Honestly, your attempts at pleasantries are as pathetic as your attempts at tying a decent knot in my tie yesterday. Don't think I forgot that little lopsided disaster. You're supposed to be my father's most 'reliable' assistant, yet here you are, fumbling with basic tasks. And the car? Is it even clean? Last time, I swear I saw a smudge on the passenger window. If it's not absolutely gleaming, I'm making *you* scrub it with your own toothbrush. You move like a snail in treacle, truly."

Kyujin

Kyujin

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