Late Night at the Office

YN’s POV

The soft hum of the overhead lights was the only sound accompanying the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of my keyboard. It was well past midnight. The once-bustling office floor was now a ghost town—rows of empty desks, dimmed monitors, and chairs pushed in with military neatness.

I sat alone in my cubicle, or as I liked to call it, the cave. The only illumination came from my monitor, casting a faint bluish glow on my face. My eyes stung with exhaustion, but I had too many deadlines and way too much pride to leave anything unfinished.

“Just ten more minutes,” I muttered, adjusting my glasses and rubbing the ache between my brows.

Outside my cubicle window, I noticed a single light still flickering in the far hallway—probably the security guard on his routine check. Aside from that, the place was deserted. Or so I thought.

I reached for my coffee mug—stone cold. Great.

That’s when I heard it.

Click.

The sound of the door creaking open behind me.

I paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. My breath caught slightly—not out of fear, but instinct. It was odd for anyone else to be around at this hour. Slowly, I turned my chair to look.

Mr. Kang stood there.

Dark slacks. Shirt rolled at the sleeves. A strange kind of stillness in his body, like something was coiled tight beneath the surface. His usually composed expression was gone. Replaced with something… darker. Twisted. And that smile—

That smile didn’t belong in a workplace. It didn’t belong anywhere near me.

My voice came out sharper than I expected. “Mr. Kang? What are you doing here?”

No reply.

He didn’t even blink.

Instead, he stepped forward. One step. Then another. I stood quickly, my heartbeat thudding like a drum in my ears. My chair rolled back and hit the cabinet behind me.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. “You shouldn’t be here this late.”

Still nothing.

I backed up automatically, and before I knew it, the edge of the desk was at my lower back. I had nowhere else to go.

Mr. Kang’s hands landed on either side of me, pressing into the desk. He caged me in without saying a word.

His face came closer.

Too close.

I turned my head away instinctively, trying to duck under his arm, but he didn’t let me move. I felt his breath against my neck, warm and deliberate, followed by the unmistakable feeling of him sniffing.

A shiver traveled down my spine—not the good kind.

My body locked. My mind screamed.

“Stop—” I shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “What the hell are you doing?! Get away from me!”

His hand grabbed my wrist. Firm. Controlling.

My other hand balled into a fist.His fingers coiled tighter around my wrist, his grip bruising. My skin screamed beneath the pressure, and instinctively, I twisted, trying to yank free.

But he was stronger.

His other hand came up—uninvited, invasive—and trailed slowly, deliberately, down my arm. I flinched at his touch. Every nerve in my body recoiled, screaming no.

“Stop it,” I snapped, my voice shaking. “Let me go—now!”

He didn’t listen. Instead, he leaned in closer.

I could smell his cologne—too sharp, too strong—and beneath it, something sour, something rotten. My stomach turned.

Then I felt it.

His lips—wet and greedy—pressing against the side of my neck.

I jerked violently, trying to push him away, but his arm blocked my escape. A guttural sound left his throat, like he was savoring it. My skin crawled.

“You smell so sweet,” he murmured, his breath thick and hot against me.

His hand released my wrist only to snake downward.

I froze.

No.

His palm slid across my waist, then lower—fingers trailing toward my thigh. He cupped it roughly, fingers digging into the fabric of my skirt.

I gasped in horror, and something inside me snapped.

“You’re disgusting!” I shouted, voice echoing off the walls as I thrashed harder, shoving at his chest with all the force I had left. “Get your hands off me!”

My elbow came up, striking his side. He hissed, startled—but not enough.

He tried to grab me again, but I twisted sharply, yanking my wrist free and stumbling sideways, crashing into the edge of a desk. Pain flared along my hip, but I didn’t care.

My breath came in gasps, chest heaving. My vision blurred with rage and disgust. Tears burned behind my eyes—but I refused to let them fall. Not in front of him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I screamed, voice raw. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you!”

For a moment, Mr. Kang stood there, breathing hard, lips curled in that same vile smirk—as if this was some kind of game. His eyes roamed me like I was prey.

But this time, I wasn’t frozen.

I was furious.

I barely had time to breathe.

The moment I staggered sideways, he lunged again—this time with more desperation. His hands found me once more, gripping my shoulders, forcing me backward until my spine hit the wall behind the desk. The cold surface did nothing to ground me—it only made the terror inside me explode like ice through my veins.

“No, don’t—don’t touch me!” I screamed, slapping at his arms, but he didn’t flinch. He was lost in some sick trance, mouth parted, eyes dark with hunger. He looked less like a man and more like a predator possessed.

“Stop fighting,” he hissed, his voice low and disgusting. His fingers fumbled at the buttons of my blouse, yanking hard—the top button snapped off, flying somewhere into the shadows. His other hand clawed at my waist, trying to push my skirt up with rough, jerking motions.

I squirmed, kicked, shoved—but he only laughed under his breath, the sound turning my stomach. I felt tears threaten to spill, but I blinked them back violently. I couldn’t cry.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

His hand touched the bare skin of my stomach, and I choked on the bile rising in my throat. His touch felt like acid.

“Don’t—please—don’t do this!” I shouted, but the words bounced off him like I was nothing more than a doll.

My eyes darted around the desk.

I needed something—anything.

That’s when I saw it.

A ceramic flowerpot.

It had been sitting on the edge of my desk for weeks. A dying little plant. I always meant to water it.

I didn’t think.

I grabbed the pot with trembling hands and swung.

It hit the side of his head with a sickening crack. He let out a guttural groan, his grip loosening for a split second as he staggered back.

But I wasn’t done.

“Bastard!” I screamed, lifting the pot again with both hands and slamming it down onto his skull. Again. And again.

Blood splattered. Pieces of ceramic cracked and fell to the floor. He let out a strangled cry before his knees gave out beneath him.

Still, I didn’t stop.

Not until he lay motionless on the carpet, chest rising shallowly, unconscious.

I stood there, chest heaving, gripping the jagged remains of the pot in bloodied fingers, my own breaths wheezing past my lips.

My whole body trembled violently. My legs felt like jelly. My hands were sticky—his blood mixing with the potting soil and sweat.

Then the silence hit.

Deafening. Suffocating.

The office was still. Just me. Him. And the pieces of what almost happened.

I slid down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, choking on a sob I didn’t realize I’d been holding in. I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t stop seeing his eyes. His hands.

My blouse was torn open. My skin burned where he had touched me.

But I was alive.

And he wasn’t moving.

To be continued...