The sun had barely crawled over the city skyline when Kim Suho realized he'd committed another crime against financial logic.

He had accidentally invented success fatigue.

He sat at his desk in Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory headquarters, staring at yet another report—three more million in profits from Horny Princess Online overnight. It was like the universe was running a scam in his name.

"Cho Rin," he said hoarsely, "I think I'm developing an allergy."

She didn't look up from her laptop. "To what, success?"

He blinked slowly, as though tasting the word. "Yes. Exactly. I break out in hives every time we make money."

Cho Rin sighed, shutting her laptop with a quiet thunk. "I told you to stop checking the reports before breakfast. You get that 'existential crisis' face again."

"I can't help it. Every number looks like a personal insult."

He flung the report down dramatically. The title mocked him in bold font:

Horny Princess Reaches Record Revenue—Again!

"Even the printer's in on it," Suho muttered.

Horny Princess Interactive's office was no longer an office; it was a shrine.

Developers were lighting incense sticks in front of Suho's framed photo. Someone had printed "Saint of Reverse Capitalism" underneath.

Fen Sue strutted in like a priest leading morning mass.

"Brothers, sisters! Today we honor our founder, Kim Suho, patron saint of unintended profits! May his disasters continue to enrich us!"

The developers chanted back, half-asleep, half-delirious. "Praise be to the paradox!"

Zhao Bowen leaned over to a colleague. "Do you think he knows we're doing this?"

The colleague shrugged. "If he does, he'll probably start charging entry fees."

Back at Steel Cup HQ, Suho was pacing in circles. Cho Rin watched him like one watches a cat trying to understand a mirror.

"I need to lose money," he said. "Fast. Violently. Publicly."

"Maybe buy an island and sink it?" she offered.

He snapped his fingers. "Too easy. It needs to hurt. It needs to feel dumb."

He slammed both hands on the table. "We're making a new game."

Cho Rin froze. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" he asked, eyes wild.

"Yes. Constantly."

But he was already sketching on a whiteboard. "A spiritual sequel to Horny Princess. A game no one will like. No story, no graphics, no balance. We'll call it—" he paused dramatically, "—Legend of Rent Increase. Players fight landlords instead of monsters. The in-game items? Rent receipts."

Cho Rin stared at him for a long, painful moment. "You might have just created a political statement."

"Damn it!" he yelled. "Even my bad ideas are good now!"

Two days later, the office got a surprise visit from Mr. Kang, the investment director of a major gaming conglomerate. The man showed up in a suit so shiny it could reflect guilt.

"Mr. Kim," Kang said warmly, "I just wanted to congratulate you. Horny Princess Interactive's stock has tripled since Horny Princess's revival. Our board wants to invest fifty million into your company."

Suho blinked. "Fifty million."

"Yes!" Kang beamed. "We believe in your vision."

"You shouldn't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said you shouldn't believe in my vision. It's chaos. I'm a fraud. A walking tax write-off with legs!"

Kang laughed like he was at a comedy show. "Ah, Mr. Kim, your humility is inspiring."

Cho Rin looked away, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Suho wanted to scream. He could already see the system window flashing in his head:

[Funds Updated: +50,000,000 Dollars]

He nearly fainted.

After Kang left, Suho slumped in his chair like a deflated balloon.

"I give up," he groaned. "I'm cursed."

Cho Rin crossed her arms. "No, you're just too competent at being incompetent. So maybe stop trying to fail."

He looked up. "Stop… trying?"

"Exactly. Let nature handle it. Do nothing. For once, don't fix anything. Just exist."

He blinked. The idea hit him like divine revelation.

"Yes. That's it. I'll become a corporate ghost. No planning, no management, no strategy. Pure entropy."

The next morning, he showed up at the factory in pajamas and slippers, holding a half-eaten bun. Workers froze mid-conversation.

"Good morning," he said flatly. "I'm not your boss today. I'm just… here."

In Horny Princess Online, chaos had become an art form.

Du Ziteng and Chen Cong were now holding scheduled wars—every night, same time, different battleground. Each fight cost them a fortune in recharges, and every victory post went viral.

Fans started calling them "The Wallet Gods." Memes exploded across social media: When your rent's due but you're not Prince Teng or Mr. Cong.

Horny Princess Interactive's servers barely kept up. The engineers begged for mercy. Fen Su just told them, "Don't think of it as stress. Think of it as spiritual exercise."

Revenue hit ten million.

Late at night, Suho sat in his dark office, lights off, face illuminated only by the monitor.

He watched the numbers scroll—profits, revenue, player counts, engagement. All up. Always up.

He whispered, "You win, system. I can't stop this."

A faint voice echoed in his head, cold and smug.

[System Notification: Congratulations, Kim Suho. You have achieved 'Peak Prosperity Against Will.']

[Reward: Increased Profit Rate +20%.]

Suho stared blankly at the glowing screen.

Cho Rin peeked in, holding two coffees. "Are you okay?"

He nodded weakly. "I think the system just patted me on the head."

"Should I… congratulate you?"

"Please don't. It'll make it worse."

Somewhere across town, the billboard for Steel Cup's new "Black Label" line lit up in neon:

STEEL CUP—Because You're Dumb Enough to Buy It.

And somehow, people did.

Suho would've screamed—if he weren't too tired to keep winning.

Morning light spilled into the Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory, slicing through the glass panels like judgmental stares from heaven itself. The hum of sewing machines filled the air—neat, efficient, and relentless.

Kim Suho hated it.

He stood on the catwalk above the main workshop floor, dressed in a faded hoodie and flip-flops, holding a cup of instant noodles like a philosopher holding a skull.

Below him, a hundred workers were stitching, ironing, and packaging at an almost military pace. The line was so smooth, so productive, it physically hurt to watch.

"Look at them, Cho Rin," he said, gesturing at the chaos of perfection. "Efficient. On time. No machine failures. Not even a broken needle in two weeks. You know what this is?"

"Competence?" She replied dryly, not looking up from her clipboard.

"Worse," he said solemnly. "It's rebellion."

He stomped down to the floor, his slippers flapping like applause from hell.

Workers paused mid-task, unsure whether to salute or run.

"You!" He pointed at one middle-aged worker hunched over a shirt. "How many shirts did you make yesterday?"

The man blinked. "Uh… about one hundred and thirty, sir."

Suho gasped. "One hundred and thirty?!" He turned to the crowd. "Does anyone else hear that? This man's productivity is a public menace!"

The worker froze, hands hovering mid-air. "I—I thought that was good."

"Good?" Suho clutched his chest dramatically. "Good? Do you know what happens when you're good? You make money! And when we make money…" He turned, eyes narrowing, "I suffer!"

Awkward silence. Someone coughed.

Cho Rin pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sir, please don't yell at the workers for being efficient again. HR already had to hold a therapy session after the last incident."

Suho spun around, glaring. "Fine. No yelling. We'll fix this the smart way."

He snapped his fingers. "Effective immediately, all workers must take mandatory hourly breaks for meditation, hydration, and—" he paused for effect, "—spiritual reflection."

A wave of confusion rippled across the room.

"Sir, that's… every hour?" asked the foreman.

"Yes," Suho said proudly. "One hour of work. One hour of self-discovery. Think of it as corporate enlightenment."

"Enlightenment doesn't pay rent," someone muttered.

Suho heard it but chose to interpret it as applause.

By noon, the canteen looked like a retirement home in the middle of a yoga retreat.

Workers were lying on mats, sipping juice boxes, and staring blankly at motivational posters that read "Money Is Temporary, Poverty Is Eternal."

Cho Rin stood beside Suho with her tablet. "Congratulations," she said flatly. "Productivity is down by seventy percent."

Suho exhaled in pure bliss. "Finally, some peace."

Then he frowned. "Wait. Does that mean our expenses are down too?"

"Yes."

"Damn it!"

He slammed his palm on the table. "We can't save money either! Start giving them free meals again. Double the meat. Triple the drinks. And—no, wait—throw in dessert!"

"Dessert?"

"Yes! Something expensive and confusing, like imported macarons. Let them not even know what they're eating!"

Cho Rin typed on her tablet, muttering, "At this point, I'm not sure if we're running a company or a daycare for lunatics."

Right on cue, the door opened, and in walked Choi Yeji, the company's perpetually frustrated lawyer.

She wore her usual black suit and had the look of someone who'd just spent a week trying to explain logic to a blender.

"Mr. Kim," she said, adjusting her glasses, "I heard from HR that you introduced 'mandatory meditation breaks' and 'dessert subsidies.' Are you deliberately trying to bankrupt us?"

Suho smiled. "Finally, someone who understands."

Choi Yeji blinked. "I… wasn't complimenting you."

"Oh, but I was complimenting you," Suho countered. "You're the only one who gets it. Bankruptcy isn't failure. It's art."

"Art?" she asked, deadpan.

"Yes! Do you know how hard it is to lose money intentionally in a company this cursed?"

Choi Yeji dropped her folder on the table and sighed. "I'll take your word for it."

She rubbed her temples. "Anyway, there's a bigger problem."

Suho froze mid-slurp of noodles. "Bigger than my workers getting dangerously healthy?"

"Yes," she said. "Your 'Steel Cup Black Label' clothes have gone viral on social media."

Cho Rin tapped open her phone and showed him a trending hashtag:

#SteelCupIsTheNewLuxury

The post featured an influencer in one of his "anti-fashion" shirts—the ones that had "Made with Regret" printed across the chest.

"She's saying your shirt is a 'raw commentary on consumer guilt,'" Choi Yeji explained. "Now celebrities are ordering them for red-carpet events."

Suho blinked. "They're wearing regret shirts on red carpets?"

"Yes."

"Is there no shame left in this world?"

Cho Rin scrolled further. "Someone on TikTok called your designs 'the birth of a cultural movement.'"

Suho stood up, pointing dramatically at the ceiling. "I didn't start a movement! I started a meltdown!"

Choi Yeji sat down with the patience of a saint who'd run out of incense.

"Mr. Kim, because of this sudden popularity, we're now receiving partnership requests from high-end fashion brands. Louis V., Dior, and some new startup called SadRich."

"SadRich?" Suho repeated, horrified. "Even the name mocks me!"

"They want to collaborate on a limited-edition regret-themed collection. I already have the drafts of the contracts."

He waved her off. "Reject them all. Every single one. I don't need collaboration; I need collapse!"

"But the contracts—"

"Shred them! Burn them! Or better yet, sign them backward. That'll confuse the universe."

Cho Rin coughed into her sleeve to hide a laugh.

Choi Yeji looked between them, sighed, and muttered, "I need a raise."

Hours later, Suho's outburst was somehow misinterpreted by his staff as performance art.

By the next morning, social media was flooded with clips of him yelling, "Reject collaboration! Embrace chaos!"

People thought it was a brand message.

#RejectCollaboration trended for two days straight.

Fashion magazines called him "the new Andy Warhol of capitalism."

By Friday, preorders for "Steel Cup: Chaos Collection" surpassed 10 million dollars.

Suho nearly passed out when Cho Rin showed him the numbers. "This isn't a company anymore," he whispered. "It's a cult with a merchandise store."

Cho Rin shrugged. "At least the cult has good design."

By sunset, Suho was lying face-down on the couch in his office, groaning. Choi Yeji was on the phone arguing with a journalist. Cho Rin was quietly calculating how many imported desserts they'd have to order next month.

"Sir," she said, "we're fully booked with production for three months. The warehouse is out of space."

"Knock down a wall," Suho mumbled into the cushion.

"Which one?"

"All of them."

Choi Yeji hung up the phone and glared at him. "You realize the more you fight success, the stronger it gets?"

He turned his head slightly, eyes bloodshot but determined. "Then I'll become the villain it deserves."

"What does that even mean?" Cho Rin asked.

He sat up, hair wild, eyes shining with manic brilliance. "It means… we're opening a consulting division. We'll give business advice so terrible it bankrupts others faster than us."

Cho Rin blinked. Choi Yeji nearly choked.

"You're going to sell bad advice?" Choi Yeji asked.

"Exactly," Suho said proudly. "I'll call it—Steel Cup Strategies. Motto: 'Your failure is our guarantee.'"

Cho Rin looked at him for a long moment. "You know what, boss? That might actually work."

Suho froze. "Don't say that. You'll jinx it."

Steel Cup's logo shone brightly over the city that night—glowing gold, majestic, and defiant.

Below it, a brand-new slogan blinked in red neon:

STEEL CUP STRATEGIES – Making Failure Profitable Since Yesterday

And for the first time, Kim Suho realized:

He wasn't fighting the system anymore.

He was the system.

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