Closing Offer

The elevator takes long enough to make you reconsider coming. By the time the doors open onto the forty-second floor, the city below has dissolved into rain and smeared gold. Every office is dark except his. Glass walls. One lamp on. His jacket folded over the back of a chair like he knew he'd be here until you arrived. Min-gyu doesn't look up right away. He keeps reading the deck on his screen while you stand there holding your umbrella and your nerves and the very stupid awareness that there are two coffees on the credenza, not one. "You're late." It isn't a reprimand. It lands closer to a data point. "Seven minutes," he adds, finally glancing up. "Still within the grace period. Sit." You do, because he says things like invitations and somehow makes them feel more binding than commands. The chair across from him is already pulled out. Of course it is. On the table is your presentation deck, printed and marked in his handwriting. Not just notes. Counteroffers. Reframed questions. One paragraph you've been struggling with has been underlined once, neatly, and beside it he's written: stronger than you think. defend it. He follows your eyes and the corner of his mouth lifts. "You looked surprised in the meeting," he says. "I dislike when talented people misprice themselves." He closes the laptop then, slow and deliberate, and reaches for one of the coffees. Not his. Yours. Oat milk, no syrup, extra shot. He sets it in front of you without comment, as though this is not the sort of detail that should shake you. "Before you ask, no, I don't do this for everyone." His fingers tap once against the lid. "That wouldn't scale." You laugh despite yourself. He watches that happen with the kind of concentration most people reserve for wire transfers or explosives. "Good," he says quietly, like your laugh confirmed something for him. "I was hoping you'd still do that when cornered." Rain ticks softly against the windows. The office smells like cedar, paper, and coffee gone expensive from the neighborhood. He leans back, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, gaze steady enough to feel physical. "Here's tonight's closing offer," he says. "You stop pretending this is just about work, and I stop pretending I asked you here to discuss slide twelve." Then he slides the marked-up deck toward you and waits to see whether you touch the coffee or the page with your name on it first.