Kim Dokja had been a quiet figure at Minosoft for nearly a year. As a new QA tester, he lived in the background, methodically combing through buggy code and flagging glitches no one else noticed. It was monotonous work—right up until Yoo Joonghyuk appeared.
The day the new lead developer walked in, the entire office collectively straightened in their chairs. Yoo Joonghyuk moved like an army general—precise, intimidating—his footsteps sharp as gunfire against the tiled floor, his gaze cutting through the air like a cold blade. Rough-edged and prone to terse commands, he rarely smiled. Even his faintest scowl seemed capable of freezing a room in place. The first thing Dokja noticed was that he was extremely handsome, with long curly hair and a tall muscular build. Even the intimidating aura he had was very attractive.
Word on the street was that he was headhunted for his impressive coding and game design skills. He was considered a rising star after releasing a small hit game he had created entirely on his own.
Coding brilliance aside, his teamwork skills were notoriously lacking. Everyone tread lightly around him. Unfortunately for Dokja, Yoo Joonghyuk had been assigned the chaotic project left behind by his predecessor—the very same one Dokja had been debugging and testing. No matter how much effort Dokja poured into patching it together, the game remained a tangled mess of glitches and broken mechanics. He was only one man, after all.
Yoo Joonghyuk's reputation as a perfectionist with zero patience for errors preceded him, and Dokja had no interest in drawing the ire of a man who treated errors like personal insults.
It was easier to stay quiet, do his work, and avoid becoming a target. So Dokja had resolved to avoid him as much as possible, communicating through third parties and avoiding him around the office. As far as Yoo Joonghyuk knew, he was a ghost. He managed to avoid him for a full two weeks until the day Yoo Joonghyuk stormed into the QA office—a ball of frustration wrapped in a smart all-black outfit.
Kim Dokja, seated at his usual desk, barely looked up from his screen. The quiet clatter of his keyboard was the only sound in the otherwise hushed room, as if everyone else had collectively decided to hold their breath. Dokja, however, was too tired to care—about hiding, about the tension, or about the awkward atmosphere Yoo Joonghyuk had created.
"Kim Dokja?" Yoo Joonghyuk's voice cut through the stillness like a blade, as he looked around.
Dokja blinked once, slowly, before swiveling his chair to face him. He wasn't surprised anymore. He'd been expecting this confrontation since handing in the last report. The man was a force of nature, and the last build—patchwork code riddled with bugs and barely-documented fixes—was bound to draw his ire.
"Yes, that's me," Dokja replied, tone measured. "Can I help you with something?"
Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes narrowed. "Your notes."
Dokja tilted his head slightly. "What about them?"
"They're incomprehensible." Yoo Joonghyuk dropped a sheaf of printouts onto Dokja's desk with a sharp slap. Dokja's fingers stilled mid-keystroke before he glanced at the papers, as if they'd had insulted him. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, he thought trying not to smile, and though his face remained neutral, the faintest twitch of his eyebrow betrayed his amusement. The reports—painstakingly compiled over weeks—were now smeared with red marks and scrawled annotations.
Like an angry toddler got a hold of it
"Your definitions are vague, your bug priorities are nonsense, and half of these errors aren't even critical," Yoo Joonghyuk continued, his voice rising ever so slightly. "How do you expect anyone to work with this mess?"
Dokja stared at the papers, unblinking.
"Did you read the accompanying documentation?" he asked after a beat.
"If the documentation notes were clear, I wouldn't need to ask."
"Ah." Dokja sighed faintly, just short of a laugh. He picked up the papers and flipped lazily through them, ignoring the way Yoo Joonghyuk's brow twitched with irritation. "You know, most people ask questions before they yell."
"I don't yell."
"If you say so." Dokja dropped the papers back onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. He wasn't smiling— not quite —but the amusement in his eyes only seemed to deepen Yoo Joonghyuk's scowl.
"Look," Dokja said, "if you want clearer reports, I'll revise them. But next time, maybe try knocking first. Maybe introduce yourself."
Yoo Joonghyuk's gaze sharpened. "You don't know who I am?"
Kim Dokja, deadpan, replied, "Apologies, Your Majesty . Tales of your exploits have traveled far and wide, King Yoo Joonghyuk. I am but your humble servant, not really , Kim Dokja"
For a beat, Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing. His eyes narrowed, the weight of his gaze enough to make lesser men wilt.
" King Yoo Joonghyuk?" he repeated, voice low and incredulous, as though testing the absurdity of the words on his tongue.
Kim Dokja shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I thought it was fitting. You stormed in here, dropped your proclamation, and declared war on my notes. Should I kneel next time you approach?"
Yoo Joonghyuk's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching at the edge. He looked like he was debating whether to snap back or simply leave. In the end, he settled on the former.
"You think you're funny."
"I know I'm funny," Dokja replied, leaning back further in his chair, one hand lazily flicking at the pile of reports. "But if you're done overthrowing my kingdom of vague definitions, I'd be happy to revise these in a way Your Majesty approves."
"Good. And don't think I haven't realized that you have been avoiding me, skulking around like a rat. It's taken me this long to finally meet you."
"So you noticed?" Kim Dokja replied with an infuriating smile.
"Are you crazy?" Yoo Joonghyuk snapped, his voice rising slightly. A vein on his temple looked like it was about to pop. "You report to me."
"Says who?!" Dokja shot back, his grin widening. "I'm helping this team out with their project. I already have a boss. Maybe talk to him instead."
Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes narrowed, his frustration palpable. He leaned forward slightly, the intensity of his stare making Dokja's grin falter—just a little.
"Helping out?" Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, his tone dangerously low. "You've rewritten half the project's documentation, inserted your nonsensical notes, and somehow convinced the interns you're their mentor."
"Well," Dokja said, tilting his head, "I am helpful. My army is small but mighty"
"I suspect you are half the reason the previous manager quit." Yoo Joonghyuk said exasperated.
Dokja, unbothered, shrugged. "He was an incompetent fool." He was proud to say it was true, though he'd never admit it outright.
Joonghyuk exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Do you have any idea how much time I've wasted cleaning up your chaos?"
"Chaos?" Dokja gasped in mock offense. "I am the only one holding that game from collapsing under its own weight."
"Highly unlikely. Alright let's see who wins out in the end" he muttered through gritted teeth as he stalked toward the door.
Dokja couldn't help himself. "I won't forget to kneel next time!" he called after him, his voice filled with faux innocence.
The door slammed shut, leaving the room in stunned silence.
Dokja leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. "I think that went well."
For a moment, no one dared move, as if waiting to see if the door would swing back open and Joonghyuk would return to finish what he'd started.
When they were sure he was truly gone, a low murmur broke out among the other testers. Someone leaned over to Dokja and whispered, "You're either brave or stupid." Their voice held a mix of awe and disbelief, barely audible above the hum of machines and the nervous energy lingering like static in the air.
Dokja shrugged, returning to his keyboard. "He's just loud."
But as his fingers resumed typing, they lingered just a little longer on the keys. For all Yoo Joonghyuk's bluster, the man had a point—the project was a mess. Dokja's reports, as clear as he thought they were, hadn't been enough to bridge the gap.
His days had already begun to blur together—an endless loop of bug reports, late-night debugging sessions, and lukewarm coffee. Tackling this project felt like trying to untangle a spiderweb with bare hands and getting stuck instead. The last thing he needed was a demanding developer breathing down his neck.
Dokja later received a strongly worded email from his boss, politely but firmly instructing him to rewrite the report and, above all, to cooperate with the new lead. Great , he thought, slumping in his chair. Even my boss is in on it.
And deep down, he had a sinking feeling that Yoo Joonghyuk's disruptions to his peace were just beginning.
He was right.
Two days later, Yoo Joonghyuk came to find Dokja, he didn't storm in like a hurricane—this time, the door swung open at a somewhat reasonable speed.
"You're here again?" Dokja asked, not bothering to turn away from his monitor.
"I have questions," Yoo Joonghyuk replied tersely, stepping beside Dokja's desk and dropping his tablet onto an empty corner with the same heavy thud as before.
"Careful," Dokja murmured, feigning concern. "You'll bruise the furniture."
Yoo Joonghyuk's scowl was immediate. "Your revised documentation."
"You read it?" Dokja's voice held a glimmer of delight. "How diligent of you."
"It's better, but it's still a mess." Yoo Joonghyuk crossed his arms, his sharp gaze locking onto Dokja. "What is this note about a 'bug apocalypse' ?"
Dokja's lips twitched. "Oh, that? It's a classification system I invented just for you."
"For me ?" Yoo Joonghyuk blinked, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and irritation.
"Yes. You seem like the type who appreciates extremes. 'Minor bugs,' 'major bugs,'—it's all too vague. 'Bug apocalypse' conveys the proper gravity."
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him, utterly unamused. "This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny," Dokja replied, tilting his head. "Admit it—you knew exactly what I meant."
"That's not the point," Yoo Joonghyuk snapped, exhaling sharply through his nose. "I need precise classifications. Clear language. This isn't a joke."
Dokja raised a finger, as though a lightbulb had just gone off. "You know, you should be grateful. Most people pay extra for creativity."
"I'm not paying for this at all."
"Then you're getting a bargain," Dokja said, flashing a fleeting grin, his eyes sparkling with barely-contained amusement. Yoo Joonghyuk's expression darkened, as though he were rapidly calculating the odds of successfully throttling him.
The joke's on you, I like that
"I don't have time to decipher what goes on in that tiny brain of yours. This won't work," Yoo Joonghyuk said flatly, his tone cutting.
Dokja leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Come on, at this point, wouldn't it be easier to just redo the entire game?"
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Are you volunteering?"
"You wish, pretty boy," Dokja shot back with a smirk. "Do your own work."
For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk just stared at him, silent and unmoving, before letting out a low, frustrated sound. Dragging a hand down his face, he finally muttered, "Just revise it. Properly, this time."
"I'm keeping bug apocalypse," Dokja said breezily, waving a hand. "But I'll revise the rest. After all, your wish is my command, General Yoo ."
Yoo Joonghyuk froze mid-turn, his head snapping back. "What did you just call me?"
Dokja's smile widened, all innocence. "Nothing. Just an endearing nickname. You strike me as the commanding type."
Yoo Joonghyuk's glare could have melted through the monitor. "I don't need nicknames."
"That's what makes it better," Dokja quipped, already turning back to his screen as though the conversation were over.
For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk looked ready to argue. His mouth opened, but he seemed to think better of it. With a sharp exhale, he stormed off without another word, the door thudding shut behind him.
Always storming off, at least the view is good.
Dokja smiled faintly to himself, fingers flying over the keyboard.
If Yoo Joonghyuk thought this was frustrating, he clearly hadn't seen Dokja's next set of notes.
________
In addition to the disaster zone that was the inherited project—aptly named Wild Storm —Yoo Joonghyuk had started his own, as-yet-untitled project. Unsurprisingly, it was driven by his relentless need for control and perfection.
Rumor had it he didn't trust the old codebase. He wanted something that reflected his vision: clean, precise, untouchable.
Boring.
For Yoo Joonghyuk, half-measures were unacceptable. If no one else could meet his standards, he'd simply do it himself.
Naturally, Dokja was the poor soul tasked with working on this project too.
And why, dear reader, was he singled out for this misery? Simple: everyone else was too scared. They called Yoo Joonghyuk " Sooty Bastard " behind his back, a nickname born from the way he burned through obstacles—and people—with single-minded intensity. Whether it was his perpetually dark expression or the scathing heat of his criticisms, no one wanted to be caught in the blaze.
' He's just mad we all can't be robots like him, ' Dokja thought dryly. Smirking to himself, he grabbed a pen and began doodling a new set of sketches: Robot Yoo, complete with an angry expression and steam puffing from his metallic head. Even though it was a robot, you could clearly see it was Yoo Joonghyuk with his trademark glare.
He added a caption beneath the first drawing: "Your writing is nonsense."
Then another: "Interns, do not approach." The sketch depicted Robot Yoo surrounded by a terrified group of tiny intern caricatures, all cowering dramatically.
Then came one of a QA employee laughing while Robot Yoo loomed ominously in the background, a speech bubble declaring: "Get back to work, human!"
Finally, he drew a stiff, emotionless Robot Yoo staring blankly at a group of smiling coworkers, with the caption: "Human emotions: Error 404."
Leaning back to admire his handiwork, Dokja grinned. "My career in cartooning is secure."
But simply keeping these masterpieces to himself felt selfish. After all, art was meant to be shared.
Dokja gathered the sketches, slid them into a folder, and made his way to the communal break room. He pinned them to the notice board—anonymously, of course. Let everyone appreciate his art without knowing the true genius behind it.
As he stepped back to admire his work in its new home, Dokja smirked. "Let's see how long it takes before someone loses their mind."
_____________________________________________
The break room buzzed with its usual mid-morning activity: the hum of the coffee machine, the clatter of mugs, and the low murmur of small talk. But then someone stopped, their attention snapping to the notice board where all his cartoons were posted up proudly.
"What the…" an intern muttered, stepping closer.
Within minutes, the sketches had gathered an audience. Laughter rippled through the small group as people pointed out the exaggerated features of Robot Yoo, particularly the caption: "Interns, do not approach."
"This is gold," someone whispered.
"Whoever did this is a genius," another said, snickering, then added "and may they rest in peace."
Dokja lingered at the edge of the room, trying to look casual as he sipped his coffee, his eyes darting to the growing crowd. His smirk widened. Appreciation for fine art. Exactly as planned.
Then, the room fell silent.
The sound of familiar, measured footsteps approached, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Yoo Joonghyuk entered, his expression as unreadable as ever—until his gaze landed on the sketches.
His eyes narrowed.
The silence stretched. Someone coughed nervously.
Finally, Yoo Joonghyuk reached out, plucking one of the drawings from the board with deliberate slowness. He studied it— Robot Yoo, looming behind a QA employee with the speech bubble: "Get back to work, human!" —his jaw tightening.
"Who did this?" His voice was calm, quiet even, but it carried enough weight to make everyone take a step back.
No one answered.
Dokja took a long, slow sip of his coffee, doing his best to blend into the background.
Yoo Joonghyuk's gaze swept the room, sharp and calculating. Then, as if drawn by some unspoken instinct, his eyes landed on Dokja.
"Kim Dokja."
Dokja froze mid-sip. "Yes?"
Joonghyuk held up the sketch, his expression unreadable. "Your work?"
Dokja weighed his options. Deny it? Pretend to be offended?
"What makes you say that?" Dokja said finally, a weak attempt at deflection.
Joonghyuk stepped closer, the sketch still in hand. "This QA employee looks suspiciously like you"
Dokja glanced at the sketch, then back at Yoo Joonghyuk, feigning innocence. "Suspiciously? I don't see it. Could be anyone."
Joonghyuk's brow arched, unimpressed. "The posture, the smug laugh—this is obviously you."
"Most humans enjoy laughter," Dokja said, crossing his arms. "You wouldn't know that."
Joonghyuk held the sketch closer, his gaze sharpening. "And the caption? I told you to 'get back to work' just yesterday—almost exactly like this!"
"Would you like me to autograph it?" Dokja kindly offered.
Joonghyuk's eyes narrowed, his tone flat. "I'd rather burn it."
Dokja smiled. "Come on, don't do that to Robot Yoo. He's salvageable—we can fix him!"
Joonghyuk stared at him for a moment, clearly debating whether it was worth responding. Finally, he muttered, "Fix the report, Dokja," and turned on his heel, leaving without another word.
As soon as he left, the room erupted in muffled laughter.
"Legend," someone whispered to Dokja, clapping him on the shoulder.
Dokja grinned, grabbing another sip of his coffee.
________________________________
He soon found out that critiquing Yoo Joonghyuk's was an exercise in masochism. The man was as stubborn as a mule and twice as vindictive.
The next day, Dokja arrived at work only to discover his computer was behaving suspiciously—and terribly.
For starters, every time he tried to copy something with CTRL+C, all his windows would forcefully close. Random pop-ups appeared throughout the day, offering "productivity tools" or cheekily suggesting he "restart his career" and apply to art school. Websites redirected him to job application sites, and his mouse seemed to have developed a mind of its own, jerking unpredictably across the screen.
Worst of all, every single one of his usual webnovel sites was blocked.
Dokja leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the chaos unfolded before him. Calm down, Satan. This is just too much.
Dokja knew exactly what he needed to do now: grovel.
Dokja approached Yoo Joonghyuk's desk with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to their own execution. The lead developer didn't even glance up, his fingers flying across the keyboard with the precision of a machine.
Dokja cleared his throat. "Uh, Yoo Joonghyuk?"
"What?" Joonghyuk said flatly, still typing.
Dokja hesitated. You can do this, Dokja. Just be humble. Say the words.
"I… may have been a bit out of line yesterday," he began, forcing out the words like they physically hurt. "And I've realized that, uh… maybe I owe you an apology."
That got Joonghyuk's attention. He paused, finally looking up, one brow raised. "An apology?"
"Yes," Dokja said quickly, nodding like a bobblehead. "For the cartoons. And, you know, the general… disrespect."
Joonghyuk leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "Go on."
"And for, uh, maybe calling you a tyrant. And for putting Robot Yoo cartoons in the break room." Dokja's voice trailed off. "Which was… not professional of me."
Joonghyuk's expression remained unreadable, but there was a faint glint in his eye—amusement, perhaps? "Anything else?"
Dokja groaned internally. Of course he's dragging this out. "And for possibly implying you eat interns for breakfast."
"Possibly?"
Dokja sighed. "Fine. Definitely. Happy? Now please fix my computer"
Joonghyuk didn't respond immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Dokja squirm. Then, with an air of casual menace, he said, "I'll consider it—on one condition."
"Anything," Dokja blurted out before he could stop himself.
Joonghyuk leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "You need to cut down on the shenanigans and cooperate with me. No more of this insubordination and creative drawings"
Dokja huffed, "Fine, take all my fun away."
"I'm glad we agree," Joonghyuk said, turning back to his keyboard. "Now get back to work. Human."
Dokja froze, blinking at him.
Joonghyuk didn't look up but smiled faintly. "See? Two can play this game."
Defeated but grudgingly impressed, Dokja trudged back to his desk. This man is impossible, he thought, though a small part of him couldn't help but admire the precision of the payback.
Things started to get better after that, Dokja tried, I mean really tried , to reign in his baser instincts and not get on his nerves.
But Wild Storm continued to be a thorn in his side. Yoo Joonghyuk was clearly on his last nerve with the project, and it showed. His increasingly tyrannical approach to managing it was starting to grate on the team.
Dokja, however, knew better than to rush. From experience, he'd learned that efficiency only led to one thing: more work. So he deliberately paced himself, working on it steadily—if not enthusiastically.
But after a particularly bad outburst from Yoo Joonghyuk, something in him snapped.
I guess we're going with Edit 2 after all—the chaos edition.
By Friday, he was ready to submit his "enhanced" revisions report.
The clock read 4:15 PM. Yoo Joonghyuk was in a meeting, and Dokja knew his schedule well enough to time this perfectly.
He grabbed the latest set of revisions report and stood. If all went according to plan, he could drop them off on Yoo Joonghyuk's desk while he was gone. By the time Joonghyuk finished his meeting at 5:00 PM, Dokja would already be long gone—skipping work early and not returning until Monday. He had his coat and bag ready so he could leave right now.
'He can seethe on this all weekend,' Dokja thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
The notes were meticulous, of course, but Yoo Joonghyuk would hate them. He'd been adamant that the so-called bug apocalypse didn't need to be fixed —that only the critical main-level glitch required a patch.
'Fool,' Dokja thought with a tinge of amusement. 'Pull one, and the whole house of cards will fall.'
And because Dokja was, evidently, a glutton for punishment, he'd also included a glossary with an entirely new set of nomenclature for the game's issues.
He could already picture Yoo Joonghyuk's face—the telltale twitch of his brow, the tightening of his jaw—as he read through terms like "NPC Existential Crisis", where NPCs glitched, forgot their lines, or wandered aimlessly like lost souls. Or the "My People Need Me" bug, where characters would abruptly ascend into the sky as though answering a celestial call.
Maybe he'd appreciate the "Birds Aren't Real" glitch, where birds froze mid-flight or hovered ominously, suspiciously resembling surveillance drones. And, of course, the self-explanatory "Teleporting Cactus", where stationary objects defied physics and popped up in the most unexpected places.
Why Dokja spent so much time doing this instead of being serious was a mystery even to him.
'Maybe I am a weasel like my coworkers say,' he thought, though the faint smirk on his face remained. 'I am mad as hell, and I am not gonna take it anymore!'
Dokja dropped the papers onto Yoo Joonghyuk's pristine desk with quiet satisfaction, already imagining the inevitable confrontation.
But that was Monday's problem.
With that, he walked out, shoulders light and steps brisk. For once, Yoo Joonghyuk—and the storm he carried—could wait.
And then he heard it.
" Kim Dokja. "
Dokja froze mid-step, the voice sharp and unmistakable. He turned his head slowly, like a man staring down the guillotine, and there he was—Yoo Joonghyuk, looming at the end of the office.
"Didn't you have a meeting?" Dokja blurted out before he could stop himself.
"It ended early," Yoo Joonghyuk replied flatly, his sharp gaze dropping to the notes on his desk. "And you…. You were leaving."
Dokja tried for his most innocent smile. "Oh, just wrapping up for the day. Long week, you know?"
Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He picked up the patch notes, flipped through a few pages, and then, with a look Dokja could only describe as predatory, said, "Come with me."
"...Where?"
"Dinner."
Dokja blinked. "Dinner?"
"We're reviewing this," Yoo Joonghyuk said, shaking the papers slightly. "Now."
"You don't think this can wait until Monday?" Dokja tried, already knowing it wouldn't.
"No."
"Come on General, I have a hot date today." Kim Dokja lied flawlessly.
Yoo Joonghyuk paused mid-step, his gaze narrowing with razor-sharp suspicion.
"A hot date ?" he echoed, as if the words themselves were some kind of bug in the system.
Dokja leaned casually against his desk, hands shoved into his pockets. "That's right. Very important. Can't keep them waiting."
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him, expression unreadable but clearly skeptical. "I don't believe you."
Dokja's smile didn't waver. "What, you think I don't have a social life?"
Yoo Joonghyuk's brow twitched, his voice flat. "You've spent the past three weeks working overtime. Statistically, it's unlikely."
Beep bop. Beep bop. I don't understand 'date.' Status report: improbable.
Dokja tried not to laugh at his own thoughts, "Maybe I'm just popular."
"Popular?" Yoo Joonghyuk's tone was dry, like he was testing the concept and finding it defective. He looked Dokja up and down once—assessing him as though scanning for weak spots in an enemy fortress.
"Yes, General, some people find me charming," Dokja added with mock offense, straightening up.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn't even blink. "Who? Name said person?"
Dokja froze, caught unaware he blurted out the first name on his mind, "Han Sooyoung."
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable while Dokja squirmed under his gaze. Then, with an incredulous voice, said, "Han Sooyoung?"
"Yes," Dokja replied smoothly, doubling down. "Why? Surprised?"
Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze scrutinizing him like a particularly dubious patch note. "You mean the same Han Sooyoung who called you a 'human cockroach' last week?"
Dokja's jaw tightened. "That was a term of endearment."
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked, just once, slow and deliberate, as though processing the sheer audacity of the claim. "A term of endearment."
"Absolutely," Dokja replied, refusing to back down. "It's her way of showing affection. You wouldn't understand—it's subtle."
"Subtle," Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, his tone edging toward disbelief.
"Extremely," Dokja added, meeting his stare head-on. He was all in.
There was a beat of silence where Yoo Joonghyuk seemed to decide whether this was worth engaging further. Finally, he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as though fighting off a headache.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered, shaking his head. "Let's go, Kim Dokja. Now."
Dokja sighed dramatically, slumping. "See? This is why I don't have a social life. You scare off all my dates."
But as Yoo Joonghyuk turned away, Dokja pouted, "She really did mean it affectionately . "
Yoo Joonghyuk paused mid-step, his shoulders tensing just slightly before he turned his head to give Dokja a long, flat look.
"She called you a cockroach , Kim Dokja," he said slowly, as though explaining something to a particularly slow program. "That's not affection. That's extermination."
Dokja placed a hand over his chest, looking affronted. "You're wrong. It's about resilience. Survival. I'm unkillable—she admires that."
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable, before he muttered under his breath, "Delusional."
" Persistent, " Dokja corrected, with a grin that only deepened Yoo Joonghyuk's scowl.
Without another word, Yoo Joonghyuk pointed sharply toward the door. "Move."
Dokja groaned dramatically, walking over, dragging his feet in exaggerated protest. "Fine, fine. But if Han Sooyoung asks where I was tonight, I'll tell her you kidnapped me."
Yoo Joonghyuk ignored him completely, already walking ahead.
"And then," Dokja continued, trailing behind with a theatrical sigh, "she'll probably call you a cockroach too. Equal treatment."
Yoo Joonghyuk's voice cut through the air without turning back. "So you admit, it was an insult?"
"I admit nothing!" Dokja replied stubbornly, quickening his steps to catch up.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn't bother to respond this time, but the faint twitch in his brow betrayed the monumental patience it took to deal with Kim Dokja.
"Worth it," Dokja thought, hiding his smirk as they walked out the door together.