The boss smiled warmly and patted my head.
“No. You’re not going.”
For a moment, I wondered if we were even talking about the same topic.
Not going? But it’s the broadcast day.
“What do you mean, rest after preparing everything?”
“I’m not approving any weekend work. Stay home and rest. Didn’t the doctor tell you to absolutely focus on recovery this week?”
Now that I think about it, the broadcast does fall on a Saturday.
But so what?
I’ve always worked regardless of weekends.
The team leader from Finance once told me to cut back on work hours unless I wanted him to get dragged down with me.
But I’d just pretend to work from home, write reports as usual, and send them to the boss with the team leader copied in.
Even Seungyeon agreed it was the right thing to do, nodding along.
After all, it’s natural for broadcasters to be busier on weekends, so it’s only fair for us, their support staff, to also work harder during those times.
Grumbling, I folded the blanket I had draped over me and set it on one side of the sofa.
“I mean, resting is fine and all, but taking a week’s worth of preparation and just… resting? That’s such a waste. Can’t I just work for one day?”
The boss didn’t respond. He just stared at me with that stubborn expression that screamed, “I’m not budging.”
Realizing he wasn’t going to let me have my way, I blurted something out and bolted.
“Down with Dictator Momo!”
I half-expected him to chase after me and give me a playful whack on the head, but he didn’t even get up.
I felt like a fool, hurrying back to my desk, out of breath.
Today, of all days, he really has this overwhelming dictator vibe.
Seeing me panting—whether it was from running or fuming—Team Leader Kang asked,
“Jiya, are you okay? Don’t overexert yourself and collapse again.”
“I’m fine now, really.”
“Still…”
I quickly got a progress update from Seungyeon.
Even if I left early because I wasn’t feeling well, it was only proper to understand what was happening on the ground in my absence.
But—
“That’s all?”
“Yes! Over the past few days, each member only had one-hour broadcasts, so there’s not much to report!”
Surprisingly, nothing had happened.
Well, I guess having nothing to report is technically a good thing.
Everyone had been worried about how the first 3D broadcast would go, but the relay showcase I watched from the couch in the boss’s office was smooth and uneventful.
The RP was solid, the kids seemed well-practiced, and the choreography and camera work were flawless.
Post-broadcast reactions on forums and communities were also decent.
Seungyeon is as much of an internet addict as I am, so she would’ve checked everything without me needing to ask.
“I’ll come in tomorrow to monitor the pre-event! I’ve been leaving work on time all week, so I still have plenty of overtime hours left.”
The online concert is being held at a rented large motion studio, and the first-gen trainees are handling most of the event.
In short, there really wasn’t much for us to do—aside from tomorrow’s pre-event.
This strange feeling of bittersweetness…
What even is it?
‘…No, I’m not bitter. Definitely not.’
If they’ve been broadcasting for about a year, it’s time they learned to handle mistakes and crises on their own. Right—our first-generation trainees have grown remarkably.
Their progress was clearly evident in the 3D showcase.
Or maybe I’m just overthinking it.
I started packing my bag and putting on my coat when the team leader asked,
“Are you heading out now? The boss asked me to drive you home today.”
“Oh, thank you. By the way, have you had dinner? What about Seungyeon?”
“We already ate. Are you hungry? Should we grab something on the way?”
The team leader has a family, so I didn’t want to take up too much of his time.
But if I said I’d eat alone, he’d probably insist on staying with me.
I figured I’d grab something simple and either eat more at home or order something later.
“How about something quick, like fish cakes and rice cakes from the street stall near the office?”
When we stepped out of the elevator and pushed through the heavy lobby doors, a biting November wind swept past us. The many buildings nearby only made the chill feel sharper.
But in this cold, the tangy broth spiced with Cheongyang chili peppers and the chewy fish cakes were a perfect match.
Biting into a rice cake soaked in fish cake broth was pure bliss—even with the cold wind cutting through my neck and legs, this felt like heaven.
The warmth eased my body, mind, and tension all at once.
“No matter how much I think about it, asking me not to go through with something we worked so hard on is just too much,” I grumbled.
“You mean the pre-event preparations?”
I couldn’t hold back anymore and spilled everything I’d been keeping inside.
“Yes. We spent an entire week preparing for this. It wasn’t just thrown together—we carved out time we didn’t even have to make it happen. I ignored all the handover tasks I was supposed to do with Seungyeon, and the boss postponed meetings to help. And now they’re saying not to go through with it? Isn’t that such a waste? I don’t understand why the boss would choose the harder path when the good one is already paved.”
I went on for quite a while, and the team leader listened patiently, sipping his fish cake broth and smiling gently.
“Don’t take it too much to heart. Honestly, if I were the boss, I’d probably stop you too. The pre-event is estimated to have around 18,000 viewers, right? You don’t have much experience hosting broadcasts, so it’s only natural they’d worry. Especially since you fainted not too long ago.”
Even though the team leader’s kind words were reasonable, I still couldn’t fully accept them.
I’d been eating well, sleeping whenever I had a moment, and resting for three days straight. Surely, I’d recovered by now.
I was fully recharged and ready to handle anything they threw at me.
The team leader seemed to sense my frustration from my expression.
“How about I try talking to the boss for you?”
“Really? You would?”
After a short groan, the team leader replied,
“But I think you’ll need to put something on the line.”
“Put something on the line…?”
“Well, you know how the boss is—she’s not someone who can be swayed by emotional arguments, right?”
“Oh.”
I nodded in agreement.
As I’ve said many times before, the boss would never let someone she deemed unfit represent Parallel on a broadcast.
During interviews, plenty of candidates had tried to appeal to her with their personal struggles or challenging circumstances.
But she never wavered.
Her sole focus was on whether they had the necessary talent, mental resilience, and the ability to sustain a long-term broadcasting career. Emotional pleas only earned negative points with her.
In other words, any attempt at persuasion would have to be logical, grounded in reason, and devoid of emotional appeals.
What the team leader was asking for was the evidence necessary to make a rational case.
He wanted me to provide a compelling reason why, despite my recent health issues, the boss should allow me to appear on the broadcast.
‘The pre-event absolutely makes sense as a joint effort.’
The boss had, for the first time ever, suggested that we do a broadcast together.
Even she had rationally concluded that it would be more entertaining that way.
It would undoubtedly help Parallel grow even more.
To give up after preparing everything felt like such a waste.
But a reason? I couldn’t think of one right away.
“Do you have any good ideas, Team Leader? I can’t think of anything right now.”
Kang Jiho raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips.
“If you’re willing to let me handle it, regardless of the method, how about leaving it to me? But I need one thing from you.”
“One thing?”
“Yes, so I can pull out all the stops to convince the boss.”
The team leader then asked me the most obvious question.
“Do you really want to do this pre-event broadcast with the boss?”
It was a no-brainer.
“Yes, absolutely.”
* * *
About an hour later.
I had just saved the final script that Cheon Dohee had reviewed for the last time, getting ready to leave for the day.
“Boss~”
Seeing him, Dohee looked puzzled.
“Weren’t you about to leave? Why are you back?”
“I had something to discuss with you,” Jiho replied, handing her an iced Americano with an extra shot he had just bought.
Cooling her overheated forehead with the cold cup, Dohee muttered, deep in thought.
“Did Jiya get home okay?”
“Yes.”
“And you got convinced by Jiya, didn’t you?”
“Oh my,” Jiho exclaimed, feigning surprise, his eyes widening dramatically while covering his mouth with a hand.
“Don’t act so shocked. The fact that you came back makes it obvious.”
“Well, I can’t deny it,” he chuckled.
“So, what did she say? Is she insistent about being on the broadcast tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Dohee’s response was unyielding—so firm it could’ve been made of steel.
“Then tell her absolutely not. I pulled her into this out of selfishness because I was tempted by the idea of doing a broadcast together, but I regret it now. I shouldn’t have involved her in the first place.”
“Hmm.”
“Everyone has their own strengths. Jiya’s good at so many things that I made the mistake of giving her too much to handle. She’s fine where she is right now.”
That’s how Dohee always was.
It all started with her asking to meet in person because she had something to say.
She proposed that I become a manager to set standards and deal with troublesome issues.
Then came the suggestion to leave the manager position and join the company she was founding.
And after that, asking me to manage the live chat moderators for the first-generation trainees, just like I used to do as a manager.
Then, she entrusted me with monitoring the broadcasts of the first-gen trainees and compiling the broadcast reports.
It was always like this with her—one step at a time, pulling me into roles where she saw potential.
Even when asked to check broadcasting equipment and settings in place of the former team leader who caused nothing but trouble and resigned after just three months.
Even when asked to recommend interesting content.
Even when asked to share insights about the industry because the team was too busy with work and broadcasts to stay updated.
Magia fulfilled every request. Truly, it was as if they couldn’t say no.
It was almost like they had a life-threatening condition where refusal was impossible.
The real issue, however, was that Magia didn’t stick only to the tasks assigned by Dohee.
When the HR manager asked for help with interviews, they helped.
When another team was short-staffed, they stepped in.
This relentless work ethic once led to malnutrition and a collapse that ended with a trip to the ER. That was last year.
After that incident, Dohee personally visited each team leader and told them:
“Stop piling other tasks on Magia and let them focus on their own work.”
While Magia was already a subordinate directly under the company president as part of the operations team, they truly became an isolated island after that day.
In any case, with their tasks confined and their focus redirected to their own work, one would think things would improve. But then…
This time, it was Dohee, the president, who caused Magia to collapse—with her own selfishness.
That’s why Cheon Dohee couldn’t grant Magia’s latest request.
If Magia were to collapse again, Dohee was sure she wouldn’t be able to focus on work or broadcasting anymore.
“Anyway, that’s the end of the discussion. Let’s call it a day.”
“Wait a moment.”
But Team Leader Kang had come to this meeting to persuade Cheon Dohee.
“What does Magia mean to you, President?”
“The dedicated handler of the gray zones and a living alarm clock for our VTubers.”
Team Leader Kang burst into laughter.
“Pfft, I think I get what you mean.”
Ideally, all work within the company would be distributed evenly, with everyone getting along and finishing on time.
But in reality, even large corporations find this challenging.
Every company has its gray areas—tasks that pile up when busy employees inevitably overlook them but still need to be handled by someone.
It’s fortunate if someone proactively takes on these tasks, but if not, they can snowball into a crisis.
Magia was the person who eliminated those gray areas.
If someone quit suddenly, Magia temporarily filled their position.
Many of these stopgap tasks ended up becoming their permanent responsibilities simply because they were good at them.
And that’s not all.
After the debut of their VTubers, Magia acted almost like a literal alarm clock, constantly buzzing in Dohee’s ear:
“Are the outfits for the talent being prepared?”
“Do we have plans for New Year’s events? Valentine’s Day? April Fool’s?”
“What about birthday events and merchandise? Have you got those ready?”
“Are we preparing large-scale content for vacation periods? What about collaborations? The server?”
“Komari’s been streaming Naore way too much lately; don’t you think it’s time to scale it back?”
Of course, about half of these concerns were unnecessary.
If all of these were being neglected, the planning team would have been fired on the spot.
But even the planning team, busy as they were, sometimes missed things.
And every time, Magia’s reminders proved invaluable.
Thanks to them, Parallel’s reputation rarely included complaints like “The content feels lackluster” or “The merchandise is uninspired.”
While there were occasional comments about broadcast issues, criticisms of their products or creativity were practically unheard of.
Even if everyone else was too busy to notice, the Parallel operations team’s monitoring lead and a perpetually grumpy viewer would lodge complaints months in advance.
That’s the kind of presence Magia has at Parallel.
If they were to leave, it wouldn’t bring the company to a standstill, but Parallel’s smooth and swift progress would likely grind to a temporary halt.
Without docking at a safe harbor to thoroughly check for gaps in the workflow, the company risks snapping a sail, breaking a keel, or discovering a gaping hole in the hull before long.
“But even Magia is human, and they have ambitions.”
“…Go on.”
“What I’m saying is, Magia has aspirations too. Even though they seem satisfied with just doing what others ask and supporting the team from behind the scenes, they clearly have something they want to achieve at Parallel.”
“And that’s this pre-festival event?”
“Yes. I think Magia really wants to show people what they’ve prepared with you, President.”
“Well, that may be true, but…”
The weight of Magia’s need for rest tipped Dohee’s mental scale so heavily that it didn’t seem it would ever balance again.
But Team Leader Kang wasn’t just here to add weight to the opposite side. She was here to snap the scale’s axis entirely.
After all, she was a seasoned professional who had survived countless rounds of gaslighting in the entertainment industry. Convincing someone by exploiting logical flaws? That was second nature to her.
“If Magia told you to stop broadcasting because you fainted once and she was worried about you, how would you feel?”
“…That’s not like Magia at all.”
Team Leader Kang grinned. Caught you.
“That’s exactly what you’re doing to her right now, President.”
“What?”
“Think about it. If Magia fainted once and the president who always relied on her suddenly stopped giving her work, wouldn’t Magia feel like you had changed?”
“Uh. Um… huh?”
Cheon Dohee was utterly confused!
Team Leader Kang, as if waiting for this moment, sighed in mock exasperation.
“And let’s not forget, if you scrap a project someone poured their heart into, the sense of loss is enormous. Plus, look at the facts.
You’ve found her a replacement, reduced her workload, and told her not to participate in the pre-festival event. Doesn’t that sound like you’re isolating her from work entirely and setting her up for a polite resignation?”
“No, no! Wait, what? Where’s that coming from? I’m doing this because I’m genuinely worried about Magia’s health! Besides, I even raised her salary recently, so why would anyone think that?”
“Well, if you frame it like this: ‘I feel bad, so I’m giving you some extra severance before you leave,’ isn’t that how it might come across to a typical employee?”
“Wha—?! Oh, come on, this is driving me nuts!”
* * *
After arriving home, I quickly washed my face and flopped onto my bed, giggling as I watched highlight clips.
It didn’t take long before my phone started buzzing like crazy.
It was the team leader.
[Team Leader: The president gave in.]
[Team Leader: If the president calls, answer with a tired-sounding voice, okay? Got it?]
[Team Leader: And if she suggests working on the pre-festival event together, respond enthusiastically.]
[Team Leader: Got it?]
It seemed like things had worked out well, but the tone made the situation feel oddly urgent.
What is this? What on earth is going on?