The fabric hugs my body in all the right places. As I smooth the blouse over my hips, I glance at my reflection. Professional? Sure. But on me, these regular clothes scream corporate vixen. I step out and give him a little twirl, watching his eyes flash dangerously for a split second before he rises from where he's seated.
He walks over, silently selects another set of clothes—a bit oversized this time—and hands them to me without a word.
"Are the ones I'm wearing not good?" I ask, putting on my best wide-eyed, pitiful face. Please. I know I look incredible. Too good, in fact. His expression falters, like he's not sure how to convince me to change without hurting my delicate little feelings.
How cute.
I don't make him suffer too long and take the clothes from his arms. I head back into the changing room and slip them on. Even oversized, they still look great. Honestly, everything looks great on me.
When I step out, I notice several shopping bags stacked next to him. Did he buy clothes for himself too?
Nope. My question is answered when he says, "Take a look at these and see if you like them."
Must be for me. Ah, Villain-sama is so thoughtful. I sift through the bags, trying not to look too impressed. His choices? A bit too much beige and stiff fabrics for my taste, but hey, they're comfy, so whatever.
"We'll leave after this," he says, still sounding all cold and distant, but I catch the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Interesting. Did he actually enjoy shopping with me? He's not nearly as unreadable as he thinks he is.
We head out in his sleek car, and after a bit of driving, we pull up at La Belle Époque, some fancy, high-end restaurant. It's obviously for me, since I haven't eaten anything since, uh, maybe last night? My stomach growls like it's auditioning for a monster movie, and Villain-sama raises an eyebrow, that subtle Are you okay? Look flashing across his face. What a good actor. He's not actually worried about me, right? Right?
Inside, the restaurant is as posh as expected. Rich mahogany accents, a skyline view to die for, and all that jazz. I dig into a decadent meal—truffle pasta with freshly baked bread on the side—while he watches me, his own food barely touched. Honestly, I'm too busy enjoying my carbs to care. I need all the fuel I can get for phase two of my plan.
After dinner, we drive to Next-Gen Pharmaceuticals. The car ride is mostly silent, but it's a comfortable silence, like neither of us needs to talk to fill the space. I gaze out the window as the city blurs by, neon lights streaking like colorful ribbons in the dark. My mind's already turning over what's coming next. Infiltrating labs, sniffing out viruses, you know, the usual world-saving stuff. No big deal.
When we pull up to Next-Gen, a towering glass-and-steel monstrosity of a building, I take a deep breath. Time to mentally rehearse the script. I've done this plenty of times before—know your enemy from the inside, destroy them from the outside—but the adrenaline rush never gets old.
Inside, the lobby is sleek, all polished marble floors and minimalistic décor. Bright white walls stretch out like a sterile, corporate blank canvas. It smells faintly like antiseptic and freshly cut flowers. If a pharmaceutical company could scream "We're evil, but in a clean way!" this would be it.
"Weewee, they should make a movie called The Final Mission Impossible, and I could cruise through it instead of Tom. Wouldn't that be fun?" I mutter to the system, though I'm not expecting a response. It's probably off somewhere on vacation mode.
I approach the front desk, flashing the receptionist my best Hi, I'm friendly but I will absolutely destroy you smile. "Hello, I'm here for the business development internship," I say, showing her my acceptance email like I'm holding up a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Factory. She gives me a nod that barely qualifies as acknowledgment and taps away at her computer. Then she picks up a landline (seriously? A landline?) and calls someone named Eric, asking me to wait in that classic receptionist tone that translates to, "Not my problem until someone else takes over."
It's ridiculous they're making a diva like me wait. If the secretaries in my original world saw this, they'd faint on the spot.
But I make the best of it, casually pretending to relax while discreetly scanning the room. People move briskly, some in white lab coats, others in business attire, like they've got somewhere urgent to be—or something important to ignore. It's not chaotic, more like an office version of a well-rehearsed dance, but with less grace and way more caffeine.
Eric shows up a few minutes later. He looks exactly as expected: college-student tired, with that special brand of exhaustion that comes from juggling too much work and not enough financial aid. His eyes do a quick scan of me, probably wondering if I'm here for the internship or if I'm just some girl looking to steal free coffee. Neither. Interning is beneath me, and coffee? Gross.
"You must be here for the internship," he says, polite but clearly juggling a million things in his head.
"Yep, that's me," I reply, standing up and smoothing out my clothes, ready to put an act for whatever corporate rite of passage is about to come.
Eric leads me to the elevator, and as we ascend, I glance at the panel, noting how many floors there are. Apparently, this place is like the mullet of buildings—science party downstairs, business in the upper decks.
I'll need access to both parts of the building to properly destroy the virus. I can get the intel on how it's built, where materials are coming in, and how they're secretly cooking up a zombie virus under the guise of a pharmaceutical company. All that sneaky business is probably hidden up here in the executive offices. But the real action—the labs and the final destruction of the virus? That's all happening downstairs.
The doors open to reveal the fourth floor, where all the business "magic" happens. Or at least where people pretend it does.
The space is exactly what you'd expect: glass-walled meeting rooms, open-plan desks, and a general vibe of people pretending to be in the middle of something so important. There's a low hum of business chatter mixed with the occasional clack of keyboards and the distant drone of someone giving a PowerPoint presentation that's probably riveting to a grand total of five people.
"This is where the business development team works," Eric says, motioning to the area like he's presenting some rare treasure.
I nod, playing along, taking it all in. Yep, this is where the deals are made, where strategies are crafted—and where I'll likely be buried under an avalanche of spreadsheets. I'll have to get Assistant Uno on those so I can focus on my actual mission: figuring out everything about the virus. I might even need to hire some hackers and muscle for this one. Priorities, people.
"I'll take you to the conference room where you'll meet the rest of the team," he adds, leading me further down the corridor.
I follow, mentally preparing myself. Time to dive into the world of high-stakes meetings, corporate jargon, and, if the universe has a shred of decency, saving this world from total zombie-fueled destruction.