CHAPTER 84: “...PATHETIC.”

Kim Suho sat at his desk, staring into space like a man on the verge of inventing something revolutionary.

"Race walking," he whispered.

Not running. Not weightlifting. Just... walking. With rules. It was like the perfect sport invented for lazy geniuses.

"Fifty meters," he added, nodding to himself. "That’s... what? Two dramatic strides and some hip action? Done. Gold medal. Thank you very much."

He pictured it: employees wobbling across the floor like penguins with a bad attitude, while he collected rewards for "innovation." For once, the system wasn’t trying to break his back—it was practically holding the door open for him.

Suho leaned back, smiling like a man who had just outsmarted capitalism. The eight million was already waving at him, seductive and smug, like a game show prize model.

Cut to: the workshop courtyard. Suho stood by the gate with a mug of coffee, pretending to be a coach but clearly just enjoying the show. Employees jogged around the building in varying stages of collapse.

Wu Yi staggered by, drenched in sweat, breathing like a broken accordion.

"Wonho... gasp... What lap... gasp... is this?"

"Eleven!" Lee Wonho barked without breaking stride, still running like sheer stubbornness powered his legs.

Wu Yi stopped dead, eyes widening like someone had told him there was no Wi-Fi.

"Eleven?! You mean I still have four left?! Oh God, bury me under the vending machine! No, wait—burn me. Scatter my ashes in front of a fan so it looks dramatic!"

Suho sipped his coffee, smirking. And this guy thought he could run a lunchbox empire? You can’t even outrun a sandwich, buddy.

The camera (if there was one) would’ve zoomed in on Suho’s face as he whispered to himself:

"...pathetic."

Back in his office, Suho had just put his feet up when Cho Rin entered, clutching a folder like it contained nuclear codes.

"Boss," she said, dropping it on his desk, "the sports festival plan. Freshly printed. Smells like anxiety."

Suho blinked. "Already? I mentioned it literally yesterday."

"Yeah, well, some of us don’t have magical cheat systems. We have coffee and unpaid overtime."

He opened the folder, scanned the first page... and immediately frowned.

Cho Rin froze. "Oh no. That’s your ’I’m disappointed but trying to hide it with fake calm’ face. Am I about to get fired in slow motion?"

"Yes," Suho said gravely, "you screwed up."

Her mouth dropped. "Fine! I’ll delete the file, smash the printer, and live under an assumed name in Canada!"

"Relax, drama queen. It’s not that bad. The problem is—your plan screams one word: cheap."

"Cheap?!" She stared at him. "This is a company sports day, not the Olympics opening ceremony!"

Suho jabbed a finger at the paper. "You rented a stadium for 2000 dollars a day. That’s not a sports arena—that’s a bowling alley with delusions of grandeur."

"Excuse you," she snapped, "I went there myself last night. Spacious, functional, and not one rat in sight. That’s a win."

"’Functional’ isn’t good enough. What if the scoreboard dies mid-game? What if the sprinklers go off during tug-of-war? What if—" he leaned forward, deadly serious—"somebody sprains an ankle during the potato sack race?"

Cho Rin blinked. "... You’re budgeting for potato sack injuries now?"

"Yes. Contingency planning. You should try it."

She groaned. "Fine, Mr. Moneybags, what’s your brilliant alternative?"

"Yunfan Stadium."

Her pen dropped. "Do you even know how much that costs? Fifty. Thousand. Dollars. A day."

"Perfect."

"...Perfect?!"

"Yes. Perfect. Nothing screams ’we take race walking seriously’ like fifty thousand dollars in overhead."

Cho Rin turned to the imaginary camera in the corner of the office. "...Is this real life?"

Unbothered, Suho kept going like he was narrating a luxury catalog.

"Venue settled. Next: food and drinks. Stock up on bottled water, sports drinks, maybe champagne—"

"Champagne? For a three-legged race?"

"Morale, Cho Rin. Morale. Nobody wants to relay race sober."

She scribbled notes furiously, muttering, "We’re all going to jail."

"And lunch will come from a famous restaurant. None of that instant noodle nonsense. I want people full, hydrated, and possibly tipsy."

"Finally, a plan I can get behind," she muttered.

"Then—cleaning staff."

"They already have janitors!"

"Not enough. We’ve got eighty people. That’s eighty sweat towels, eighty empty bottles, and at least three people crying in the bathroom stalls. We need reinforcements."

Cho Rin pinched her nose. "...You’re actually budgeting for meltdowns?"

"Yes. Hygiene is dignity, Rin. Dignity."

"And security!" Suho declared, warming up like he was announcing a concert. "We’ll need guards to keep out random spectators."

"Yeah, because nothing draws a crowd like Gary from finance trying to hula hoop," she muttered.

"Exactly. And referees. Professional ones. Not Steve from accounting blowing a whistle he bought at Walmart."

"God forbid Steve ruins the integrity of dodgeball."

"And photographers!" Suho shouted. "Lots of them. I want drone shots, slo-mo footage, and inspirational background music. People will look back and think, Wow, were we in a Rocky montage?"

Finally, he flipped to the back page with her proposed slogans. His face twisted like he’d just smelled spoiled milk.

"’Work Together to Create Brilliance’? Ew. Sounds like a tax seminar. Trash. I’ll write the slogans myself."

"...Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?"

"Because I’m a genius. Anyway—you have a budget of 220,000 dollars. Spend it all. Every cent. Otherwise it doesn’t count."

Her pen froze. "220,000... dollars? For a company sports day? Are we laundering money through tug-of-war?"

"Nope. Just investing in greatness."

She slumped back to her desk, mumbling, "This man is really dropping a quarter million on people falling during sack races."

Minutes later, her computer pinged. New email. From Suho.

Banner slogans.

She clicked, praying for something profound.

She read the first line.

And then she just stared at the screen, motionless, like she was waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out and yell ’Punk’d!’

The email landed in everyone’s inbox with the subtlety of a fart in church.

Banner Slogans from CEO Kim:

"Work is precious, but health is more important."

"Effective work is about combining work and rest."

"..."

The employees sat in silence.

Cho Rin blinked at the screen, then leaned over to whisper to herself, "Is this... Is he telling us to quit?"

She read them again. No, no, maybe he’s just worried we’ll die of exhaustion. Right? He’s... he’s looking out for us. Yeah. That’s it.

She scribbled them down dutifully, nodding like she’d just been handed a new constitution.

Meanwhile, Kim Suho leaned back in his chair with the kind of smug grin you’d only see on a man who thought he’d just changed the world with inspirational posters.

"They’ll get it," he muttered. "Work hard, rest harder. They’ll love it."

Then, with the confidence of someone who had just solved corporate culture forever, he launched his MMORPG.

It had been days since he’d played. He was thirsty. Not water-thirsty. Gamer-thirsty.

His character popped onto the screen wielding a dragon-slaying sword so shiny it looked like it came with its own insurance plan. Suho cracked his knuckles. "Daddy’s home."

Spotting another player nearby, Suho did not hesitate. One swing—dead. Sent them straight back to respawn like a delivery service.

Seconds later, another victim. Then another. It was like speed dating, except everyone left crying.

"God, this feels good," Suho chuckled darkly. "No wonder rich guys do this. I am... becoming the jerk I hate."

Cue dramatic sigh. Then another slash.

Today was different, though. Normally, he’d get one or two unlucky souls. But now? Five bodies and counting.