The moment Hongjoong stepped into the sleek lobby of his building, his mind switched to autopilot. The hum of activity around him—the shuffle of feet, the hurried conversations—faded into background noise. His gaze swept over the crowd of employees, each one moving frantically, hands busy with papers, fingers tapping away on keyboards. On the surface, they appeared consumed by their work, but Hongjoong saw right through it. He could feel the undercurrent of tension, the way their movements quickened whenever his presence loomed too close. Eyes averted, backs stiffened; they weren't busy—they were simply avoiding him.
That flicker of recognition, the realization that people were keeping their distance, stirred something faint within him. A ghost of the man he once aspired to be. There was a time when the avoidance might have bothered him, tugged at the part of him that once cared about human connection, about fostering trust and camaraderie in the workplace. He had once envisioned himself as a different kind of leader—kind, compassionate, approachable. Back then, when his medications still functioned properly, and the chemicals balanced the war inside his head, he believed in the possibility of being a boss who genuinely cared.
But those days felt distant now, lost to a version of himself that had long since faded away. As he walked past the blurred faces of his employees, that part of him—the compassionate side—shrunk into the shadows, leaving behind only a cold shell. The warmth that had once flickered in his chest was all but extinguished, replaced by an indifference that felt disturbingly natural. Empathy, once an integral piece of his identity, had slowly eroded as the years passed, chipping away with each missed dose, each breakdown, each relapse. What remained was something harder, unfeeling, and empty—a void where human connection once resided.
Hongjoong didn't care that his workers feared him now. The thought barely registered as he moved through the building with mechanical precision. It was easier this way, not having to pretend he cared when the truth was, empathy was slipping from his grasp, leaving behind only an icy detachment. And in those rare moments of self-reflection, he couldn't help but wonder if that loss of empathy—his inability to connect with people anymore—was the very thing that set him apart. Not as a leader, but as something far darker.
Despite everything, Hongjoong couldn't blame them for being afraid. Fear had become an unspoken language between him and the people who worked under him. He was fully aware of the rumors that swirled behind his back—whispers about the dark, malicious side that lurked beneath his charming and enigmatic exterior. No one dared to speak about it openly, and of course, they never pried too deeply. That was their way of staying safe, after all. Ignorance was often the best defense when your employer's wrath could lead to an untimely and mysterious end. Their lack of curiosity was likely the reason they were still breathing.
