A new day dawns, but instead of waking up with our quirky yet determined heroine, we begin with the object of her obsession. John stirs in his massive, opulent bed, stretching lazily before his gaze lands on the eccentric room around him. The walls are adorned with framed pictures of himself in every size imaginable, ranging from modest portraits to life-sized images—some even showcasing him in cheeky, suggestive poses.
Kicking off the covers, John slides his feet into plush, lavish slippers and starts to rise. Just as he does, a vision flickers in the corner of his eye. The figure has his face and body but is dressed in a pristine doctor's robe, complete with a surgical mask and oversized rubber gloves. On the chest pocket of the robe, a small emblem of the number 4 is prominently displayed.
"Remember, John," the apparition says in a clinical tone so precise it could put even the strictest doctor to shame. "First things first: head to the bathroom. Ten minutes of brushing—six minutes down, four minutes up."
"Yeah, yeah, Mum," John replies with a groan, waving him off dismissively as he flops onto a cushioned bench nearby. "Give me five more minutes or something."
The figure remains unfazed, its tone unyielding. "I'm sorry, John, but we can't allow that, can we?"
Before John can retort, he collapses to the floor, clutching his chest as searing pain courses through his body. "Number 4, you as—" he grits out before being interrupted.
"Stand up and head to the bathroom," the robed figure commands coldly, "and the pain will cease."
Reluctantly, and with visible strain, John forces himself to his feet. The moment he stands upright, the pain vanishes as if it were never there.
"Fine, fine," John grumbles, shuffling toward the bathroom. "I'll brush, okay?"
"Remember—six minut—" the figure begins, only for John to snap, "Yeah, yeah, I know! Shut up already!"
Satisfied that John has begun his reluctant morning ritual, the vision smirks faintly before fading away, leaving John alone to grumble his way through brushing his teeth.
The scene shifts to John striding into the lobby of his business, each step exuding the commanding confidence his employees have come to expect. Outside these walls, he's known as the charismatic playboy, but here, he's an undisputed king—one whose authority brooks no opposition. His presence fills the room as workers pause to steal nervous glances at him while scurrying to their tasks.
As he walks, his smoldering glare fixed ahead, John seems to speak to himself. To any onlooker, it appears as though he's talking to the wind, but in truth, he's conversing with a figure in his mind—a figure bearing his own face.
This figure is dressed in a suit as sharp and pristine as John's, nearly indistinguishable from him save for the number 3 prominently displayed on the chest of the suit. If visible, one might mistake the two for twins.
"How are our stocks doing?" John asks, his voice cold and authoritative as he carelessly drops his briefcase into the hands of a waiting assistant without breaking stride.
"I-I don't know, sir," the flustered young woman stammers, struggling to keep pace with him.
"I wasn't talking to you, idiot," John snaps, irritation flashing across his face. "Just get that case to marketing. Those documents are overdue."
The assistant lowers her head submissively, her voice trembling. "Y-yes, sir! I won't disappoint you."
John offers a wicked smirk. "Good. Because if I hear those documents didn't make it, you won't have a boss left to disappoint."
Her face pale, she nods quickly and scurries away, clutching the briefcase like her life depends on it.
John exhales sharply, stepping into the elevator. "Back to you, Number 3," he mutters.
The suited figure appears beside him, speaking in a calm, professional tone. "The company is running at peak efficiency. While you slept, I used your body to run diagnostics from the home computer."
"Good to hear," John replies with a satisfied grin.
"However," the figure continues, his voice steady, "one department could use improvement."
John's expression hardens. "Which one?"
"Marketing, sir. They've fallen behind on crowd research."
John pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a tired sigh. "And that's my fault, isn't it? I held onto the documents."
The figure shakes his head slightly. "The blame isn't solely yours. It's partly mine for not reminding you."
"Oh, wait," the figure says, a sly grin spreading across his face. "I did remind you," he adds, his voice laced with sass reminiscent of John's. "But nooo, you didn't listen, did you? When Number 3 talks, it's just dust in the wind, but when Number 4 speaks, it's suddenly the holy word." His tone drips with annoyed sarcasm.
He crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe I should try hitting you with some mental pain like Number 4 does," he mutters. But his voice softens, almost vulnerable, as if teetering on the edge of a tsundere's confession.
John smirks as the elevator doors close. "Oh, you wouldn't do that" John says teasingly. "But no worries. Let's step in and make back millions."
The figure mirrors his confident smile before fading away, leaving John alone as the elevator ascends.
The elevator stops at the 10th floor, where his office lies. Stepping out, John is met with a striking scene—workers scatter, either fleeing at the sight of him or bowing as if he were royalty. As he walks into his office, he's immediately hit by a completely new atmosphere. The air smells faintly of a light orange air freshener, and the harsh orange lighting has been replaced with a warm, inviting white glow.
He surveys the room. Most things remain unchanged, but a few details are different—like a small stuffed panda sitting on the desk. With a mix of curiosity and hesitation, he walks over and picks it up, holding the tiny stuffed animal in his hand.
"Oh, boss! You're here!" a cheerful voice interrupts his thoughts. He turns to see Jane, now standing behind him. She's dressed in a form-fitting suit, her braids replaced with free-flowing shoulder-length hair. "How do you like what I did with the place?" She asks, trying to maintain a formal air but shifting on the balls of her feet like a child awaiting praise.
For a moment, John is unusually silent. His gaze drifts from her hair down to the way her shirt clings to her moderate chest. Unlike his usual calculated, almost clinical observations, this time his stare lingers—a rare moment of vulnerability.
Jane, ever the whirlwind of energy, begins to panic internally. Oh no, did I do too much? Does he know I snooped around? I'm so dead...
Suddenly, a new figure materializes in John's vision. This one is far more laid-back than the others he's seen. Dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that's half-buttoned, exposing a sculpted chest, the figure looks nothing like the others. His number is tattooed on his right cheek—5.
"Number 5 in the house!" he announces with flair, his voice booming. "The best, the favorite, the fans' superstar, here to fix this lady problem!" As he dances around Jane and John, shaking his hands as if conducting an orchestra, it's clear he's in his element. Of course, Jane doesn't see any of this.
The figure turns to John, grinning. "Listen, 1, my boy. Just tap out and let me handle this. I'll fix it, I've got this," he says, his tone filled with playful confidence.
Annoyed, John sighs mentally, his gaze cold as he responds silently. Don't call me that. I'm John, not 1. We've been through this.
The figure shrugs nonchalantly. "Sorry, man. But yeah, tap out."
John sighs again, a tired resignation settling in his mind. Fine. Get in here.
John's demeanor shifts almost instantly, slipping into the charming, playboy mask he's known for. "Well, well, Jane. Look at you—looking all corporate and yet still fine as ever." He grins smugly.
Jane, caught off guard, exhales in relief, recognizing the familiar shift. He's not going to kill me after all. "T-thank you, sir," she stammers. "I-I hope you like what I did with the place…"
"Oh, I love it," John responds, his voice smooth. "Especially this little guy." He shakes the stuffed panda with a little more force than necessary.
Jane's eyes widen in panic, and before she can stop herself, she snaps, "Don't shake it!" Her hand flies to her mouth in embarrassment.
John blinks, momentarily dumbfounded. "It's… fragile, I don't want it to get ruined," Jane mumbles, trying to salvage the situation.
A voice in John's head cuts through the silence. Something's not right. It's probably one of the other personalities, but Number 5, the one in charge, quickly shuts it down.
"Well, sorry, ma'am." John smirks playfully, setting the stuffed panda down gently on the table. "Seems like you still have a bit of cop in you. What's next? You gonna shoot me and frame me for a crime I didn't commit?"
His morbid joke hangs in the air, but Jane shifts uncomfortably. "N-no, no police brutality here," she says, suddenly uneasy in her shoes.
A ding from the kitchen pulls her from her thoughts. "Oh, that's the coffee!" She hurries over to grab it, pouring it into a cup before handing it to John. "I asked around about how you like it, and they told me you always take it with three cubes of sugar and strawberry-flavored creamer."
John takes a sip, studying the cup before looking back at her. "This is actually pretty good. Did you spit in it?"
Jane freezes, horrified, her face flushing. "No! Of course not!" she protests, panicking.
John just smirks and shrugs, his face unreadable. "Well, too bad. Would've been nice," he says, draining the cup in one go.
Jane watches, disgusted, her confusion palpable.
"Alright, let's get to work," John declares, his tone suddenly colder, more commanding.
"Y-yes, sir." Jane snaps into a salute, instinctively following the routine.
John watches her for a beat, then quirks an eyebrow. "You didn't need to do that, but I like it."
With that, he turns his attention to the system, his sharp focus returning as Jane takes her place beside him, ready to assist.