I didn't remember anything except finding a chicken perched majestically on top of Mr. Jeon's designer suit which was now tragically scrambled across my bed like last night's omelette.
Oh right.
The chicken is Mr. Jeon.
Just as I connected the dots, the said vengeful poultry began pecking me like I owed him money.
"OUCH!!!" I shrieked, swatting at him like he was a flying cockroach instead of a cursed CEO.
He clucked back, offended.
Suddenly— Ding dong.
We both froze mid-chaos and turned to stare at the door like two criminals caught in the act.
The chicken side-eyed me. I side-eyed the door. We were in a western standoff.
My heart pounded as I tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the peephole.
It was my neighbor's kid.
Well—not really a kid. He's a teenager. Probably 17 or 18. But still a "little one" compared to my fully adult tax-paying self.
What on earth was he doing here at this ungodly hour?
