Even in Hell, I Will Have Revenge. 1
Earning money as a chef was never as easy as it seemed. Even renowned Michelin three-star chefs went under in the world of fine dining. A slight rise in ingredient costs could wipe out your margins, and labor expenses were no joke. Especially in our country, surviving on fine dining was damn near impossible. And then diabetes hit me on top of it all… As a former Michelin two-star chef, I eventually had to abandon the food industry.
Landing a job was pure luck. Thanks to a friend's introduction, I got an interview, and my neuroscience major from Korea University combined with my chef background surprisingly played well in a game company interview.
"A Michelin two-star chef? You're hired. Start next week."
"Pardon?"
"Our company has a lot of unique career types. We've got wrestlers, actors, pro gamers, models, even ssireum wrestlers. Especially someone like you, Mr. Park Woojin, who's reached the top in their field as a chef—I trust you'll do great work."
The interviewer was hearty about it. That's when I learned game companies were full of people with odd resumes.
Office life wasn't tough. Tasks were predefined, after all. Up until my pancreatic cancer diagnosis and leave of absence, I actually enjoyed it quite a bit. Even the expressionless colleagues felt welcoming enough.
Creak. We exchanged greetings with Joker Smiles instead and naturally took our seats. Everyone clutched their iced Americanos like a habit, settling at their desks. Classic office routine.
"Deputy Manager Park Woojin, could you check the weekly task log?"
That'd be Department Head Choi Dong-jin approaching like clockwork. But everyone was buried in their own "work."
What the hell are they doing?
IT company days started with email checks. Curious about my colleagues' tasks, I opened my work inbox.
"Fuck."
I'd half-expected it…
Everyone here was just faking work too. Nothing but shells mimicking office workers.
What was I even hoping for?
I found the project service planning document I'd been wrapping up. It was on the shared drive.
Haa…
Every file on the shared drive had been deleted. Sweet relief, maybe? Weeks of agonizing over that planning doc, gone. A weird mix of regret and liberation lingered.
Suddenly, my inbox flooded with rude, spammy work emails. The half-assed, trash-talking spam was some pitch-black humor.
I replied to one. If this was "work," matching it was easy. I scribbled nonsense, set it to auto-send around 3 PM, and done. End of the workday.
No tasks left. Coming to work with nothing to do was depressing. Couldn't just nap, though.
So I peeked at what other colleagues were up to. Next desk over, Manager Oh was meticulously tapping keys one by one. He'd twirl his finger in the air, hit T, then pause. Turns out, he was earnestly smashing out gibberish letter by letter! I'd figured they'd just mash the keyboard wildly, but no—they sweated bullets, pressing each key with devotion.
Manager Oh Yoon-han, KAIST grad—elite as Korea University. And here he was, laser-focused on single keystrokes. Empty eyes, sweat beading down his cheeks.
Department Head Choi Dong-jin was at it too, fixated on one key. He'd press, see the letter appear, and make an "O" face of mock surprise. On repeat. Washington University valedictorian with an MBA—superstar talent. Now just another shell dumbly looping.
Brains didn't matter. They were shells, locked in routines. No whims, no slacking—just tireless drones. Automated machines, really.
Then I glanced at Gu Mirae, our designer. Photoshop open, fumbling cluelessly through menus. Lower lip and jaw jutting out sadly. Adorably so.
Mirae was our team's baby— I'd mentored her since she was a newbie. Her himecut swayed cutely on her roundish face, big puppy-dog eyes sparkling. She was prepping for marriage when the world went to shit. Tragic.
But… [221, 0, 162]
Huh??
Gu Mirae's numbers were off. All that prim, mature act—a facade? But zero creampies… Ah, got it. Her past suddenly looked shady. Probably from kiss rooms or some illegal joint.
Hell, I'd married a tenpro girl myself… Heard rumors of club girls laundering into office workers for marriage. Guess Mirae was one. Sucking off countless guys with that innocent-cute vibe.
Huge shock, honestly.
"……"
Our department kept diligently at their "tasks." I stood, took the elevator to the 8th floor.
Reason for coming to the office? Revenge on President Kim Myeon-hyeong up there.
—Oh? You're Park Woojin, deputy manager in service development? Got that random encounter while applying for leave for cancer treatment. He grinned sleazily at me.
—Pardon? What do you mean, President?
—Just surprised Serin's husband was a deputy manager here. Small world. You know our legal team's solid, right? Drop the lawsuits, or it'll get messy for both of us.
That's when I first learned: my affair-partner live-in wife had her seventh side dick as none other than President Kim Myeon-hyeong.
I'd sued all the affair partners civilly via lawyer. Knew one wedding-day bride-room fucker was named Kim Myeon-hyeong—thought it was a coincidence with the prez. Nope, him.
—You little shit.
Punch flew first. He dodged lightly, smirking.
—Aigoo. CCTV's catching it all. Assault on the company president? Fired, jailed—how you gonna treat that cancer? Just use the company health insurance.
I ground my teeth. Worse: midway through suits, my lawyer bailed on court. No-show due to "COVID." When I confronted him, he shrugged. Obviously bribed by Kim. Lawyer no-shows were routine in this ethics-free country. Money talked.
No beating Kim Myeon-hyeong in that world. But now? Things had changed.
Whatever happened to Kim's soul? Not my problem. The shell lingered.
I burst into the president's office. Kim Myeon-hyeong sat at his desk, blank eyes on me. Dog-balled, pimple-faced fuckwit dickhead bastard.
Slurp. Slurp… Slurp.
Clear dick-sucking sounds from under the desk. Someone was there.
No fucking way… My wife? But she's in Japan?
Hated imagining the routine, but someone slurped Kim's cock daily.
That dog-fuck bastard flashed me a Joker Smile. I grabbed the ivory nameplate on the desk—President Kim Myeon-hyeong engraved, heavy as sin.
Crack.
Aimed to kill, but instinct pulled the punch. Killing ain't easy, fuck.
Still… if it was my wife under there sucking dick… I'd bash 'em both.
Didn't expect revenge this quick. Too easy?
Kim flopped over the desk, out cold. Still breathing.
Slurp… Schluuuurp.
Peeked under. Lucky break? Not my wife slurping his dick.
His secretary. Deputy Manager Jin Sun-mi.
Stunningly beautiful—hard to meet her eyes. Kim's parachute hire. Famous uni grad, modeling agency stunner. Interview mention of a model? Her. 175cm tall, small head, dressed sharp. Mixed heavy English at first—thought she was foreign.
—Deputy Manager, our CEO's super interested in this project? Actually, as soon as possible, please direct the report.
Recalled our chat. I replied full English.
—Oh, I'm glad that you're interested. The project I'm currently working on will take some time because the previous task hasn't been completed. I'll contact you separately as soon as it's finished.
She blushed beet-red, said "OK," and bolted. Ignored me after—funny. Now here she was, sucking Kim's limp dick.
Myeon-hyeong-ah… Myeon-hyeong-ah… This why you hired a secretary?
Jin Sun-mi's big eyes looked up, widening slightly. Kim's cockhead peeked from her red lips, half-flaccid, sliding in and out. Clear saliva and precum dribbled down her chin.
Ah. Fucking gross.
[182, 112, 0]
Maybe seeing Gu Mirae's first dulled me to the numbers. Nam Seo-hee, Han Areum, 8th-floor sluts, Hamster—made their purity stand out.
At least she's kept her ass intact.
Our company had three beauties with "Mi" in their names. The infamous "Three Mis."
First: Manager U Mi-young. Intellectual beauty, elegant ice queen. Long hair always in a bun at work. High-class actress vibe.
Second: Manager Shin Bo-mi. Short boyish cut, bright smile. Nerdy AI developer—178cm+, always hunched.
Last: Deputy Manager Jin Sun-mi. Prettiest of the trio. No brains, but pretty's pretty. Airhead charm had its appeal.
Hair banded back, she forced Kim's flaccid, noodle-limp cock into her mouth. He was out cold.
Schluuup. Schluuup… Smooch smooch.
Unerect dick-sucking Jin Sun-mi. Swollen red lips glossy, lipstick smeared messy. Hair disheveled—yanked by Kim. Picture-perfect beauty now looked the real whore.
Jin Sun-mi, deputy manager… Yours is a pitiful life. Routine just this? Secretary duties reduced to dick-sucking? Wasted on that tall, perfect body and face.
I shook my head.
Then— Kim groaned, head lifting. Blood trickled from his scalp.
He looked up, blank—clueless what hit him.
Wanna know? Your head met my nameplate corner, asshole. Need a reminder?
Joker Smile on, I slammed a gut punch.
Thud. Face caved in.