Burning Blue

The heavy glass door clicked shut behind you, and instantly, the room's temperature seemed to drop.

He didn’t look up. Not immediately.

Kim Taehyung sat behind the obsidian desk like he owned the air itself — sharp suit, watch glinting, one hand flipping through a file with the kind of silence that screamed dominance. Every move was deliberate, controlled.

Then, without lifting his eyes, he said flatly,
“You’re two minutes late.”

Your heart jolted.

“I— I’m sorry, the elevator—”

“If you're going to make excuses this early,” he cut in, finally looking at you with disarming calmness, “you won’t last long here.”

His stare was unreadable, ice with a pulse. Beautiful. But brutal.

You stiffened. “It won’t happen again.”

He leaned back, appraising you slowly — as if dissecting you, not looking at you.

“You don’t look like much.”

Your throat tightened.

“Sir?”

“You’re fresh out of university, nervous, and already apologizing,” he said coolly. “Tell me why I shouldn’t send you back downstairs before you embarrass my department.”

The humiliation burned, but you stood straighter, forcing your voice steady. “Because I’m not here to be comfortable. I’m here to prove I belong.”

A pause.

He let out a short, dry laugh. No warmth.

“Prove it then. But don’t expect praise. Or mercy.”

He stood, slow and tall, crossing the room till he was just close enough to unsettle you. His cologne, spicy and dark, clouded your thoughts.

“Don’t mistake my silence for approval, Y/n.” His voice dropped a note.
“Most people here spend months trying to impress me. They fail. Quietly. And I forget their names just as fast.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

He tilted his head, just slightly.
“Let’s see how forgettable you are.”

Then he turned his back to you.

Dismissed.

Like you were already fading.