The smell of garlic shrimp still hung in the cafeteria air when Lee Wonho waddled into the kitchen with his usual smug grin, rubbing his hands like a man about to discover gold in his backyard.
"Uncle Wang," he said, eyeing the stacks of trays, "how’s my little experiment?"
Chef Wu Yi sighed, wiping his hands on his apron, and pointed at two giant cardboard boxes stacked in the corner.
"Thirty-two lunch boxes of dishes. Two meat dishes in each. Thirty-eight boxes of rice. Just like you asked."
Lee Wonho crouched, popped open a box, and steam billowed out—braised pork and shrimp practically shining like a food commercial. He cracked open the rice, white and fluffy, stuffed to the lid.
He smacked his lips. "Quality inspection: perfect. Tonight, we turn leftovers into profit."
Wu Yi frowned. "Profit? These are scraps."
Lee Wonho puffed out his chest dramatically. "Scraps? Uncle Wang, you’re thinking too small. These are eco-friendly, pre-marinated meal solutions. The outside world calls it leftovers. I call it "cuisine with character!"
Wu Yi gave him the look of a man resisting the urge to hit someone with a wok. "...If you say so."
Ten minutes later, Lee Wonho was parked at the factory gate with a handcart piled with cardboard boxes like he was running an underground food syndicate.
A wave of tired workers from neighboring factories drifted out, their stomachs growling. The smell of soy sauce and pork belly wafted into the night.
"What’s that smell?" one muttered.
"Looks like boxed lunches," another said, nose twitching.
Lee Wonho pounced. "Correct! Premium boxed dinners, cooked by hotel-trained chefs. Two dishes plus rice, only fifteen dollars!"
He whipped open a box with magician flair, revealing glossy pork slices and garlic shrimp. The workers leaned closer, mesmerized.
"Fifteen? The food truck sells three dishes for thirteen," someone challenged.
Lee Wonho snapped the lid shut. "Ah, my friend, you’re paying thirteen bucks for three spoonfuls of sadness in a divided plastic tray. Look here—two real dishes, a whole mountain of rice, and flavor you’d slap your grandma for. Fifteen dollars isn’t expensive—it’s charity."
The man hesitated, then caved. "Alright, I’ll take one."
And just like that, the line formed.
Within minutes, all thirty-two lunch boxes were gone. Workers walked away chewing happily, while Lee Wonho leaned against his cart, chest out like he’d just pulled off Wall Street’s greatest heist.
"Mr. Kim Suho is going to think I’m a genius," he muttered, eyes gleaming.
Meanwhile, over at Horny Princess Interactive, rookie salesman Wu Yu arrived with two fresh colleagues, all clutching gift boxes like schoolboys carrying homework.
They stopped nervously at the reception desk, eyes darting at the giant poster of Horny Princess Online.
"We’re from Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory," Wu Yu explained politely. "We’d like to see Director Jin."
The receptionist perked up. Everyone knew the T-Shirt Factory was Kim Suho’s original company. She rushed to fetch Jin Wu, who was scribbling notes in the employee studio.
When he walked out, Wu Yu hurried forward. Director Jin! We, uh, brought some tea for you."
The three shoved their boxes forward like tributes to an emperor.
Jin Wu raised an eyebrow, smirked, and tapped one box. "Oh? Been in sales five minutes and already learning how to bribe me?"
"Not bribing, Master," Wu Yu laughed nervously. "Just... filial piety."
Jin Wu chuckled and waved them to sit. "Alright, apprentices. Here’s the truth: sales isn’t about clever words—it’s about having skin thicker than leather and legs that can walk ten thousand miles. But since you dragged yourselves here, I’ll give you a shortcut."
The rookies leaned forward eagerly.
"Customers," Jin Wu said simply. "Old salesmen have stacks of contacts. You don’t. So I’ll give you some of mine. Don’t embarrass me."
Wu Yu’s jaw dropped. "Master, really?!"
"Yeah, yeah. I’ll sort them out and text you. But if you land nothing, don’t come back crying. And these tea boxes?" Jin Wu patted them. "Payment received."
The three scrambled out, bowing like disciples leaving a temple.
Jin Wu smirked, grabbed a box, and sauntered into Fen Su’s office.
Director Fen brought you some tea. Courtesy of my apprentices."
Fen Su blinked, then laughed. "Director Jin, you’re too generous."
Before they could continue, Zhao Bowen burst in with backend reports, face pale.
"Director Fen, Director Jin—something’s wrong! Horny Princess Online’s player numbers are climbing! Revenue too, but ninety percent is from memberships. And here’s the weird part: they all stop at Member Three. Just for a silly +1 luck ring. No real rewards."
Fen Su frowned, confused. "+1 luck is basically worthless in gameplay terms. Why would they all buy that?"
Jin Wu muttered, "Because people gamble on hope. Even if it’s just a little number, it feels like a lottery ticket."
The three fell silent. A game they thought was half-dead was twitching back to life.
Back at Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory, Kim Suho leaned back after logging off Horny Princess Online. In the game, he’d just been massacring rivals with his new equipment, leaving corpses scattered like confetti.
He opened his system panel: 4 million dollars left. Once Choi Yeji’s contract went through, that number would drop to just over 3 million.
One million reserved for salaries. A chunk for taxes. The sports meet would eat another portion. That left about 2 million to "burn."
Suho smirked, tapping his desk.
"Two million dollars, forty days. Plenty of time to lose money. Plenty of time to play."
At the gate of the industrial park, Lee Wonho proudly parked his little cart like a street hawker who had just discovered capitalism. Two giant cardboard boxes of lunchboxes sat neatly stacked, and taped to the front was a crooked A4 sheet that read in thick black marker: Follow current novels on noᴠelfire.net
"Cafeteria Meal Box – $15"
It looked more like a ransom note than a price list, but Lee Wonho still stood behind it with his hands behind his back, chest puffed, as if he were running a Michelin-star franchise.
Naturally, the security guard was the first customer. After all, Lee Wonho had greased his palm earlier with a pack of cigarettes and a quiet promise: "Only a few days, Uncle. I’ll behave."
The guard wandered over, frowning. "Fifteen bucks? Kid, what are you selling, gold-plated pork?"
Lee Wonho grinned, whipped open a box, and shoved it into the man’s hands before he could resist. "Uncle, don’t talk about money with me. You eat, you advertise, we’re family."
The guard wanted to protest, but the aroma hit him like a sucker punch—braised pork belly stacked high and sauced chicken glistening under the light. Not those sad, oily scraps you find outside in a styrofoam tray, but real chunks, fat and lean balanced perfectly.
"Holy..." The guard blinked. Ten pieces of pork belly, minimum. Outside vendors gave you four pieces of fat and three pieces of gristle and called it a day.
He plopped down on the stone step, tore open the rice box, and began to feast. By the time the first waves of workers poured out of nearby factories, he was already chewing happily.
The workers slowed when they saw the cart. One asked, "Brother, what dishes do you have?"
Before Lee Wonho could open his mouth, the guard raised his chopsticks like a salesman reborn. "Braised pork! Sauced chicken! Look at this portion, look at this shine—fifteen bucks and worth every cent!"