Open Beta (9) What is a Technical Audit?
A technical audit—in the strict dictionary sense—was an internal check to verify whether a specific company possessed specific technology.
Theoretically, it sounded fine. But that's where the problems cropped up. First issue: Every company has its own unique tech stack. Code is like a cipher. No matter how experienced a programmer is, could they scan through tens of thousands of lines written by someone else and instantly validate the technical merit? Impossible.
Second issue: Every company had its own security protocols. Angel Ventures might be a big player, but they only held about 10% stake in Railroad Software. Was it okay to leak internal docs to an investor like that? In other words, beyond the feasibility of a technical audit, was it even necessary? And if so, how deep should it go? That was the real procedure in question.
So typical audits happened by mutual agreement, with auditors giving a cursory once-over. Things like, "We'll expose this much info. Oh, you've got a master's holder on staff. Patents too. Looks like you've got enough to run a service. Just put that in the report."
But Angel Ventures hadn't said a word about limits.
Big companies are always like this.
When doing business with small firms or sole proprietors, you could clearly see who you were dealing with. Realizations like, "Ah, this guy's raking in billions a month," or "This person's feeding and housing all these employees." That kind of tangible sense.
But with a mega-corp, it was different. A corporation was like a colossal giant—you never knew if you were talking to its toe or its eye. And sometimes, there was no communication between the eye and the toe. Utter madness.
One thing was crystal clear from the vibes, though.
"It's less about auditing the tech and more about checking if we've actually been developing properly," Han Yu-ra said.
I didn't respond. Not because her words rubbed me wrong or weren't worth answering—I agreed wholeheartedly.
They're gonna tear everything apart.
How the report came out would decide just how sweet a deal I'd suck as a director.
Bring it on...
There was no fear. What I'd done in a year wasn't the work of one programmer. Most coders forgot their own code months later, but I had affection for mine. I never forgot. Love was obsession, after all.
A gleaming bald head under black horn-rimmed glasses. Stubborn eyes. A Lacoste green-check shirt. Lee Seung-cheol, dispatched by Angel Ventures for the audit, had the face of someone no one wanted to meet as a drill sergeant.
Glint! Glint-glint!
Sunlight licked his scalp clean, tiny veins bulging faintly.
Young... punks!
Late 50s. Retirement age for most, but he was a vigorous programmer. After overhearing juniors call him a "boomer who only knows Spring and Java," he'd buckled down. Learned trendy languages, even dipped into game server programming. Now he consulted for Angel Ventures. His career finally shining.
What he hated most? Fraudsters.
You lot are the worst.
Honesty was paramount in a programmer's life. Build what clients asked sincerely, don't nitpick contract clauses, work hard for the pay without bruising feelings. Too many outsourcers ignored that, ruining the market. It was his ironclad rule.
But... how dare they...!
Some ditched ethics, brazenly sucking investor funds dry. Run an outsourcing firm like that? Deliver buggy homepages and ghost maintenance post-deadline. Spit out half-assed prototypes for dev fees. Pocket advances and dodge calls thrice daily. Pure societal parasites, barely better than con artists.
And the CEO was a woman.
...No prejudice here, but come on.
Intentions were obvious. A few years back, government pushed women entrepreneurs—didn't pan out. Probably hopped on that, wasted resources on crap. Lee Seung-cheol had zero intention of forgiving them.
"What's the goal of this tech verification?"
"Less about what tech you have, more whether they've actually developed, if they've used our money right. We don't know from our end."
"Got it."
Investor work was like handing cash to random kids and demanding art. Kids run off or slack—then you wield the rod. That was his role.
I swear here.
No magic pact activated. But it fired up the bald man's resolve.
Today, I judge Railroad Software.
He arrived at Railroad Software.
And five minutes later.
The office door opened to a CEO with dazzling beauty that hurt the eyes.
What the hell...!
Striking red ponytail. Breasts cinched tight enough to furrow brows. Crisp business suit. Her polished, stunning look screamed professionalism.
Damn...!
But this super-devoted husband of 50+ years saw no allure in young women. How dare he call anyone but his wife pretty? He'd slap an idol's cheek five times chanting "My wife is prettier," then face down hundreds of fans.
From that angle, Han Yu-ra's first impression was the worst. She looked more focused on makeup than coding.
A developer in full makeup, padding her tits!
He didn't know skin could glow without foundation, lashes thicken sans mascara, breasts be naturally that full.
But that didn't matter now. He'd sworn an oath. To judge Railroad Software.
"Hello."
"Ah, from Angel Ventures?"
"Yes. Lee Seung-cheol."
He scanned the other employees. Clicked his tongue.
How is this a dev company!
Hired "devs" all looked idol-pretty. Proof the CEO was either a lesbian or a looks-obsessed thug.
He judged instantly: No real dev power here.
Programming was surely outsourced. Slapped together crap for investment cash. He ground his teeth.
"Coffee?"
"No."
Short answer. Serious eyes sparked against Han Yu-ra's.
"Let's get started."
"Understood."
Forty years of dev eyes could read a programmer's status window from their face alone. He eyed Han Yu-ra.
Though no gates had opened in the world and the fact that Kim A-ram was a regressor hadn't been proven, so no game-like interface was visible... anyway, that was the feeling.
Dev level low and CEO level low. But she's the type with big potential.
And what his scanner picked up was...
You.
Clean two-block. Broad shoulders and back. A man standing ramrod straight called the 'development director'... Im Seong-u.
That's the real one.
He frowned.
Your eyes are a developer's eyes.
Dark blue eyes. Eyes that no dev could have without surviving the asura field unless chugging five Americanos at dawn. But for such a person, the physique was too good.
But no scars on the body.
No turtle neck, no carpal tunnel syndrome, no excessive stiffness in the rigidly straight waist.
Like someone who put more effort into body management than programming. The feeling of a veteran with not a single scar on his face.
He pegged Im Seong-u as the fraud.
Time to strip you bare.
The kind of thought readers might mistake for BL drift, sending him to apply at Coupang unloading.
"Im Seong-u, right?"
"Yes."
"Mind if I sit here?"
"Sure."
Tension thickened the office air. Only chair creaks broke the silence.
"First, brief docs on the server code?"
"Sure."
Short answers, nothing to say, huh.
He smirked, scanning Im Seong-u. Talent showed.
Judging programming skill by face? Maybe, after his mileage. Kid got the director hat here, playing bigshot. Should join a real firm... tsk.
No mercy for promising pups—they needed bitter lessons to grow.
He took the system diagram. Scoffed.
"...Huh."
"Problem?"
"No, just... a lot."
Over thirty boxes in the complex diagram. One guy making that in a year? Impossible. Unless a senior stitched old work. At that age? Fraud chills ran up his spine.
Brazen liar.
Like a middle-schooler claiming a full 3D physics engine in a month. Sepiros Online was obviously cheap Chinese outsourcing.
He glared, applying light pressure.
"Uh, Angel Ventures requires... mind if I record?"
To cow Im Seong-u. But the kid, fraud in his veins, said coolly,
"Fine."
Hoh...
Lee Seung-cheol couldn't stand it. He pressed.
One chance. Confess.
"Director Im Seong-u. This diagram—all developed in-house at Railroad Software?"
Fierce glare. But Im Seong-u didn't flinch.
"Yes."
Look at this punk.
Records showed Im Seong-u quit mid-way, rejoined. Pre-quit: one year. No other hires, so solo coding otherwise.
This shit... all you alone?
Unbearable lie. He snapped.
"Director... Seong-u."
"...Yes?"
"From what I know of Railroad Software, real programming last year-plus was just you and Shin Na-young. She's new, months in—so practically just you, right?"
"That's right."
"Seong-u, dev to dev—be honest."
"...Yes."
"You did all this alone?"