The office was quiet, but not of the peaceful kind.
Monitors sat dark in neat rows, reflecting the overhead lights like a grid of dead eyes. Chairs were pushed in, desks cleared just enough to pretend people had been productive before disappearing.
Only one screen was still alive.
In its glow, a young man leaned forward, elbows digging into the desk, eyes dulled from hours of work that wasn't supposed to be his.
"I hope every couple in this building breaks up by tomorrow," he said, clicking through another file. "Loudly."
February 14.
Of course.
Deadlines lost meaning the moment someone mentioned dinner plans. People who couldn't finish a basic report suddenly developed incredible efficiency—packing bags, booking tables, vanishing before five.
The work didn't leave with them.
It stacked.
On him.
He leaned back slightly, staring at nothing as the earlier conversation replayed.
"Hey, Junior Park," his team leader had said, smiling like he deserved a bonus for basic decency. "You don't have plans, right? Help us close this. We'll treat you tomorrow."
Treat him.
He let out a dry breath.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Probably treat me to amnesia."
His fingers tapped once against the desk before returning to the mouse.
And those lines—you're reliable, you're capable, you're the only one who can handle this—he'd heard them enough to know what they really meant.
Not appreciation.
Just a polite way of saying you're the easiest target.
He snorted under his breath.
"All that polished nonsense… 'Park, you're dependable,' 'Park, we trust you,'" he muttered, voice low but sharp. "Say it straight—you needed someone dumb enough to stay."
Another click. Another file.
"Bunch of blood-sucking mosquitoes," he added, eyes fixed on the screen. "At least mosquitoes leave after they're done."
The worst part wasn't even the couples.
It was the single ones who still managed to leave early—no dates, no plans, just quick enough to spot a sucker and walk out. And all of it traced back to that team leader.
The man hadn't even tried to hide it. Spent half the day hovering around the new girl, trying to impress her. Letting only her leave early would've been obvious, so he wrapped it up nicely.
"Anyone with plans can head out."
Generous. Thoughtful. Complete nonsense.
Because the work didn't disappear—it shifted. And somehow, none of it went back to the person who made the call.
That same seamless smile lingered in memory. Polished, effortless, and completely hollow. For a moment, there'd been a real urge to raise a hand, show a middle finger, and say it out loud.
Screw yourself.
Didn't happen.
A job like this didn't come easy. A full year of struggling just to land it, and now only a month away from being made permanent. Refuse once, push back at the wrong time, and that team leader wouldn't need much effort to bury the evaluation.
So the response stayed internal.
And the work stayed external.
Now it was an empty office on Valentine's Day, finishing tasks that weren't his, for people who wouldn't remember him tomorrow.
A long look at the screen. A slow exhale.
"…I should've faked a relationship," Park said flatly. "Would've saved me eight hours."
The thought didn't last.
That department had always been a dead end. Not for lack of trying—just different priorities. Games, novels, time spent the way he preferred. Nothing extreme, just not the kind of schedule that revolved around constant calls and messages.
Tried once in college.
Set aside time properly—an hour every day, weekends included. Still wasn't enough. Apparently, not texting throughout the day or staying on calls for hours counted as neglect.
So yes, he gave her the middle finger.
She slapped him for it.
As someone who believed in equal treatment, he returned exactly what he got.
That was the end of it.
From then on, he stopped bothering with relationships, because hobbies were easier to deal with than people and came without expectations or unnecessary arguments.
His phone buzzed against the desk, pulling his attention away from the screen. He picked it up, glanced at the notification, and his posture shifted slightly when he saw what it was.
The final chapter had been released.
"Finally, I was waiting for this," he muttered, already opening the novel.
He had been stacking chapters on purpose, holding back just so he could read everything in one sitting and go straight to the ending without interruptions. The moment it loaded, he scrolled up and began reading at a steady pace, eyes moving quickly across the text.
About thirty minutes later, he reached the end.
His expression didn't improve.
"…Why does the Demon King have to die for half the nonsense those idiots caused?" he said under his breath, irritation creeping in.
He had expected something different—not necessarily a happy ending, but at least something that didn't feel lazy. Maybe the Demon King escaping, maybe a twist that shifted the blame where it actually belonged.
Instead, it followed the most predictable route possible.
The Demon King died, the hero won, and everything wrapped up neatly as if that solved anything.
What made it worse was the setup throughout the story. The Demon King hadn't even been actively causing problems, spending most of the time sitting in his own territory and not interfering unless provoked. Meanwhile, the real damage came from everywhere else.
Corrupt nobles abusing power.
That first prince causing problems for his own gain.
The so-called prodigy mage making decisions that led to disasters.
Yet somehow, none of that mattered in the end.
"And what happens to them?" he scoffed, scrolling back slightly as if expecting the text to fix itself. "They get redemption arcs, clean reputations, and suddenly everything is 'misunderstood' or 'forced by circumstances.'"
The words lingered on the screen, but they only made it worse.
"Absolute garbage," he added, tightening his grip around the phone as the irritation settled into something sharper.
"But the Demon King," he continued, voice lower now, "just stays in his own territory, minds his own business, and still gets labeled the final villain like it's automatic."
He stared at the last line for a moment longer before locking the screen.
"…What a joke."
"Then the hero shows up, swings his sword, and that's it. End of story. Justice served."
He shook his head.
"I mean, what the hell was the author thinking?" he muttered, irritation still fresh. "If the Demon King was going to be killed off anyway, at least make him do something genuinely cruel. This just makes him look like a scapegoat."
The screen lit up again before the thought settled.
Another notification.
He frowned slightly and tapped it open, expecting something minor, but the page took a second longer than usual to load. When it refreshed, a new line appeared at the top.
"Second part released."
His eyebrows rose, the irritation giving way to surprise.
"…Seriously? There's more?"
For a moment, he just stared at it, processing. Then curiosity started to push the annoyance aside, slow but steady. If there was a continuation, then it could go anywhere.
Maybe the Demon King wasn't actually gone.
Maybe it was a return.
Or maybe, for once, those idiots would finally face consequences instead of walking away clean.
The thought was enough.
He straightened in his chair, thumb already moving as he opened the update, focus snapping back onto the screen with renewed interest.
A synopsis appeared first, and he skimmed it out of habit before slowing down and reading it properly.
After the death of the Demon King, the hero did not return to the kingdom as everyone expected. Instead, something descended from the sky. And this time… the hero and his companions didn't win.
A short breath left him, sharp with satisfaction.
"Yeah, serves them right," he muttered. "Finally did something right."
Without wasting another second, he tapped into the chapter.
The text loaded, lines forming across the screen as his eyes moved quickly at first,. Gradually, his pace slowed, a faint crease forming between his brows as something about the opening didn't sit right.
The tone felt different.
He read the first lines again, more carefully this time.
The fate of a world is not something easily changed. If one seeks to alter it, one must transcend the bindings of fate that chain its people… and break the world itself.
His expression shifted slightly.
This wasn't how the novel usually sounded. The writing had changed—less dramatic, more deliberate, almost like it was speaking to someone instead of narrating events.
His eyes dropped to the next line.
So please, Park Jin, change the story.
His thumb stopped mid-scroll.
For a moment, nothing moved.
"…Huh?"
The word came out quiet, more reflex than reaction, as he stared at the screen like it might correct itself if given enough time.
A faint, confused laugh slipped out.
"Why the hell is my name in here?"
He scrolled down quickly, expecting context—an author's note, a joke, anything that would explain it.
There was nothing.
No continuation, no clarification, no extra lines tucked below.
Just empty space.
"…What kind of cliffhanger is this?"
He exhaled and let the irritation fade, deciding it wasn't worth the effort. It was just a poorly handled novel, and the name meant nothing—Park Jin wasn't exactly rare, so it could easily refer to someone else.
Shaking it off, he placed his fingers back on the keyboard, ready to get through the remaining work.
Something landed on his hand.
A small drop.
He paused, frowning slightly, then lifted his hand to look.
Red.
Dark red.
"…Blood?"
The word came out slower this time, uncertainty creeping in as he processed what he was seeing. Before he could think further, something warm slid from his nose, followed by another drop hitting the desk. He reached up instinctively, but his fingers came away wet.
More followed.
A slow, steady trickle from his nose, then something thicker at the corner of his mouth. The metallic taste hit a second later, sharp and unmistakable, as pressure built behind his eyes like something was pushing outward from inside his skull.
"Shit…"
The chair scraped as he pushed himself up too quickly, his balance already off.
"It's just overtime," he muttered, forcing the thought into place. "Too much screen time. That's all."
The words didn't sound convincing, even to him.
"I should call an ambulance…"
He reached for his phone again, but his fingers weren't cooperating anymore. They trembled, missing the screen twice before finally brushing against it—and even then, there was no control left in the motion.
His grip slipped.
The phone hit the floor with a dull crack.
For a moment, he just stared at it, his mind lagging behind the obvious. Then the room tilted sharply, the edges of his vision warping as if the space itself had shifted.
His knees gave out.
The chair dragged loudly against the floor as he fell sideways, his shoulder taking the first impact before the rest of his body followed without resistance.
"W–wait…"
The word broke halfway, breath catching as his chest tightened.
The ceiling lights blurred into streaks, stretching unnaturally as his vision lost focus.
"No… I can't—"
His fingers twitched weakly against the cold floor, trying to move, trying to reach, but refusing to respond the way he wanted. Strength drained faster than he could process, leaving behind a heavy, uncooperative weight.
"I can't die… not like this…"
The taste of iron thickened, filling his mouth with something dense and metallic as each breath became shallow, uneven, harder to draw in.
Thoughts began to slip.
The office, the screen, the unfinished work, the novel—all of it started to drift apart, losing shape like fragments sinking into something deeper than memory.
Darkness closed in from the edges.
Then everything shifted.
The weight disappeared first.
The cold floor followed, dissolving into nothing, replaced by something vast and undefined. There was no ground, no ceiling—only an endless expanse stretching in all directions, resembling an ocean yet lacking depth, like waves suspended in open sky.
He felt himself drifting.
Not falling, not rising—just suspended, caught between directions that no longer made sense.
Seconds didn't pass—they stretched, folded, and dissolved.
From somewhere far away, a voice reached him.
Faint.
Distant.
As if it had crossed something immeasurable just to be heard.
"Demon King… Demon King, wake up…"
The voice came again, closer this time, carrying weight.
"Demon King… wake up."
Something stirred in him, slow and reluctant, like consciousness being pulled up from deep water.
"…Hmmm…"
His eyes opened.
At first, nothing made sense. Light bled into shape, color followed, and then the world settled into something solid enough to recognize.
A room—but far too large to be called that.
Stone walls stretched upward into a high ceiling, the space dimly lit by filtered light slipping through tall, heavy curtains. The air felt dense, carrying a faint trace of incense layered over something older, something that didn't belong anywhere near a modern office.
He blinked once, then again, trying to steady his vision.
Someone stood in front of him.
An old man.
Brown hair touched with gray, face lined with age but held in place by a posture that refused to bend. His red eyes were sharp—too sharp—and fixed directly on him with open concern. The formal black attire, precise and unwrinkled, left little room for interpretation.
A butler.
"Huh… who are you?" he asked, voice rough, unfamiliar even to himself.
The reaction was immediate.
The old man's expression tightened, concern shifting into something more controlled, more urgent.
"Demon King, this is not the time for jest," he said, tone firm, measured. "The Succubus Queen, Lilith, is on her way. This time, she does not seem willing to accept refusal."
The words didn't land properly.
They hovered, disconnected, waiting for meaning that refused to come together.
Lilith?
Why is she coming?
Then something else caught up.
Demon King.
A pause settled in his mind, sharp and sudden.
Did he just call me Demon King?
"Tell me—who am I?" he asked, voice firm.
Outwardly, he looked calm. Inside, his thoughts were anything but.
What is this? A dream?
It didn't feel like one. Everything was too clear, too consistent.
Then… did I die?
The thought stuck. He didn't like it, but it didn't go away.
He waited for the answer. For a brief moment, the old man hesitated, as if measuring the question.
Then he answered.
"You are Demon King Cassian Valerius."
The words landed clean.
Something in his mind clicked into place—and then immediately broke apart again.
"Holy fuck."
The words slipped out under his breath, but he didn't dwell on it. His focus snapped back to the old man, expression tightening as he forced control into his voice.
"I order you to leave me alone."
It came out sharper than intended.
The old man stiffened immediately.
"…But, Your Majesty—"
"Leave me alone," Cassian repeated, quieter this time, but with a clear edge that left no room for argument.
The old man hesitated, his expression tightening, caught between speaking and obeying.
Then he lowered his head.
"As you command… Your Majesty."
He stepped back carefully, turned, and walked to the door. It opened with a soft creak and closed just as quietly behind him, leaving the room in silence.
Cassian stayed where he was.
Only after the door closed did the tension in his shoulders finally ease.