The office of Kang Mirae, Korea's acclaimed "Queen of Tearjerkers," was small—too small for all the chaos it generated on a normal day. Ten desks jostled together, a tiny conference table barely holding a teetering pile of scripts, and a narrow hallway that creaked under the weight of frantic assistants. Fluorescent lights flickered lazily overhead, and a stubborn fan in the corner whirred in protest at the humidity.
Most of Korea's famous scriptwriters preferred working from home, tucked into cozy apartments with laptops balanced on pillows. They thrived in solitude, quietly crafting heartbreaks and happy endings in private.
Kang Mirae did not.
She needed space. Not vast space—but her space, a controlled chaos where she could see everything at once: awards, scripts, research files, even sticky notes with her own scribbles like "scene too boring" or "must add crying dog." Here, assistants could run around fetching coffee, printing scripts, or arguing with the ancient printer, and she could monitor it all like a general on a tiny battlefield.
It was messy. Loud. Slightly stressful for anyone with nerves of steel.
But for her? It was perfect.
And today, the office buzzed louder than usual.
Han Jiwoon was coming.
The staff straightened papers, dusted off coffee mugs, and adjusted chairs with obsessive care. The interns whispered in low voices, passing rumors like a relay race. One of them even checked the office intercom three times in a row, making sure the announcement tone worked perfectly.
Meanwhile, in the corner by a window that rattled with the city wind, Yoon Seori wrestled with the office printer.
"Please… just one page. ONE page," she muttered as the ancient machine coughed, ground, and spat out half a sheet before jamming completely.
Seori groaned, tugging the sheet free like she was performing a delicate rescue mission. "Of course. Of course it had to be today. Why would it ever be easy?"
Her desk was buried under a mountain of papers, sticky notes, empty coffee cups, and pens that had long since lost their ink. A small fan rotated lazily in the corner, sending only faint gusts of warm air. Seori grabbed the half-printed sheet and shoved it into her binder with a triumphant, if slightly desperate, grin.
Down the narrow hallway, Jiwoon stepped off the elevator, sunglasses in place.
The office didn't look like the kind of place where a celebrated director would feel at home. The walls were crowded with mismatched awards and fan letters, the smell a mixture of coffee, paper, and old electronics. The hum of frantic assistants made the small space feel even tighter.
Jiwoon tilted his head slightly, smirking to himself. "Charming."
"Don't let it fool you," his producer whispered. "Kang Mirae is a genius. She thrives in this chaos—and she has the kind of confidence you don't argue with."
Jiwoon raised a brow. "Noted."
He knocked lightly on the office door.
"Director Han!" Kang Mirae's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. She opened the door and gestured him inside with a confident wave.
"Come in. I've heard about you, Director Han. Let's see if you live up to the hype—I don't waste time on people who can't deliver."
Inside, the office was a cozy disaster. Desks pushed together to make room for a tiny table; scripts piled high enough to risk a small avalanche. But Kang Mirae thrived in this environment. She waved Jiwoon to the meeting area and immediately began speaking.
"I want you to direct my next drama," she said, slapping a thick script binder onto the table. It nudged a coffee cup dangerously close to the edge. "A rom-com. A rivalry romance. And you? You're… promising, but don't get too cocky. I've worked in this industry for over fifteen years, Director Han. I know talent when I see it, and I also know potential when it still needs… polishing."
Jiwoon raised an eyebrow. "Rivalry romance?"
"Yes! Two people constantly bicker and try to outdo each other—but secretly…" Kang Mirae paused, smirking. "Well, the 'secret' is up to you. Just… eventually. They'll annoy each other for almost the entire series."
Jiwoon's lips twitched. "Sounds chaotic."
"Exactly!" Kang Mirae leaned forward, tapping the top of the binder with a sharp finger. "That's why you need me. Experience, connections, judgment… all of it. You bring the camera. I bring the story. Together? Maybe we don't fail miserably. Maybe."
Meanwhile, Seori crouched near a filing cabinet, desperately trying to recover another runaway sheet of paper that had slipped from her grasp.
"Got it… finally!" she whispered, triumphantly hooking the paper with her pinky. But in her excitement, she bumped into a small trash bin, sending a pile of discarded sticky notes flying across the floor.
Jiwoon paused mid-sentence, frowning slightly. "Did you hear that?"
Kang Mirae waved a hand without looking up, her voice sharp but amused. "Assistant chaos. Ignore it. It's part of the office ambiance. If you survive a day here, Director Han, you can survive anything."
Seori scrambled back to her desk, juggling her binder and the loose papers like a circus performer. She didn't see the director sitting only a few meters away, and Jiwoon had no idea that an assistant had nearly collided with him moments ago.
The small office had put them under the same roof—but the universe ensured they remained perfectly out of each other's paths.
Kang Mirae leaned forward across the tiny table. "So… are you in?"
Jiwoon tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the binder. Rom-com? Rivalry? Not his usual genre. But challenges were his specialty. He nodded.
"Let's do it."
"Excellent!" Kang Mirae clapped, barely missing a coffee cup. "I'll introduce you to the writing team soon. Small, chaotic, but brilliant. You'll love them. And Director Han? Don't get too full of yourself. In this room, experience still matters more than awards."
Seori sneezed behind her desk, scattering a few sticky notes onto the floor.
Jiwoon raised a brow. "Really?"
"Assistant allergies," Kang Mirae said with a wave. "Ignore it. And survive your day—most of them don't."
Seori muttered under her breath as she gathered her papers. "Why is it always me?"
Jiwoon, still seated at the tiny table, remained unaware of the flustered assistant who had been juggling papers and near-collisions mere meters from him.
And so, under the same roof, two worlds briefly intersected without even noticing each other.
Two lives, two paths, moving toward the same story—but still completely separate.
For now.