Facenote IPO (1)
Meanwhile, there was another company that celebrated the sale of Yuseong Steel nearly as much as Hanyeong Auto.
Seo Seong Securities.
Having come within a breath of writing off two hundred billion won in bonds, Seo Seong Securities had barely clawed its way back from the brink.
Seo Minjae, the man at the center of the recovery, attended the executive meeting.
With the prospect of reclaiming that two-hundred-billion-won exposure finally taking shape, he had been granted a chance to report directly—despite holding only the rank of general manager—by virtue of his role as the creditors’ representative.
“…That concludes my briefing on the recovery outlook for the Yuseong Group bonds. In short, we expect to recover the full two hundred billion won we hold.”
“Full recovery!”
The executives’ faces brightened at once.
With large nonperforming loans, you were lucky to salvage half. They had braced themselves for a trillion-won hole in the financials—and now they were hearing full recovery.
No one looked more elated than the head of Risk Management. And with good reason: the board had raked him over the coals for the original bond assessment. He turned to Minjae with the bright, startled eyes of a man who’d just been spared a death sentence.
“Is that really true? We can recover the entire two hundred billion?”
“Yes. We hold security interests over Yuseong Steel’s core real estate and production facilities. Hanyeong Auto took it over at nine hundred ninety billion won in a public auction, so as senior creditors, we are more than covered.”
“Ah, that’s wonderful news! Who could have guessed our investment in Yuseong Group would turn out like this? Manager Seo, you’ve really outdone yourself.”
He was still clapping, oblivious, when he felt a chill settle over the room. He turned his head—and found Seo Minju staring at him, unblinking.
Ah.
This had been her investment.
He lowered his applauding hands with an awkward little flourish.
Seo Minju spoke.
“This was a decision I made myself. You’ve essentially cleaned up after my failure. Thank you, Manager Seo.”
“I was only doing my job.”
Minju offered her apology; Minjae returned a modest reply. The executives tossed out a few measured compliments. At last President Seo raised a hand and settled the room, the whole sequence as tidy as an awards ceremony.
“Recovering a nonperforming exposure of this scale in full is unprecedented. Outstanding crisis management. Truly well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The words that passed were cold formality—and yet everyone present felt it all the same.
A chaebol heir was usually parked in a safe, prestigious post: a title that looked good on paper, a seat where failure left no scar and success became a personal trophy. Creditors’ work was different. It was the front line, where the company’s life hung on real money, and only people with genuine skill were allowed near it. The executives could tell the difference.
So he actually had talent.
How did we miss it until now?
As if to cut short the shifting mood, President Seo moved straight on to the next item.
“Next is the Facenote IPO. Division Head Seo Minju is handling that, correct?”
At the sound of her name, Seo Minju straightened her spine.
The Facenote listing.
It was the project she had chosen to claw back the damage from the Yuseong Group bonds.
Facenote was a social network with roughly a billion users, yet it had delayed its IPO longer than the other big tech names. That only made the listing a larger event. The company’s valuation already exceeded a hundred billion dollars—a mega-IPO of rare scale. The consensus was that the stock would rocket from day one, and institutional investors were clawing for allocation.
“Seo Seong Securities is the only Korean firm participating in the underwriting syndicate. After discussions with the lead manager, we have secured two percent of the total IPO volume.”
“Is two percent enough?”
“That’s two billion dollars—roughly two point two trillion won. We plan to place seventy percent with domestic institutions and thirty percent with high-net-worth individuals.”
President Seo nodded, satisfied.
“Simply being the only domestic firm in the syndicate speaks to our standing. This will be a stepping stone toward becoming a true global house. See it through.”
The floor returned to Seo Minju—almost as if to rebalance the room after Minjae’s triumph. She glanced toward him. When their eyes met, she offered a faint smile.
“Yes, sir. I’ll see it finished without a single mistake.”
After the meeting, Seo Minju’s steps back to her office were slower than usual.
Something’s off.
Minjae’s results kept circling in her mind. Closing PBS’s first deal. Recovering the full two hundred billion. Presence of an entirely different order from anything he’d shown before.
Both deals tie back to Lee Jaseung. Coincidence?
Watching Minjae climb rankled her. He wasn’t a threat—not yet—but she couldn’t help noticing all the same.
People had their roles. An eldest son had an eldest son’s place. A president had a president’s. An employee had an employee’s. And an illegitimate child had an illegitimate child’s.
Minjae was trying to step outside that frame.
Without even a scrap of gratitude.
Irritated, she shoved open the door to her office. The slam cracked against the wall.
“Ah! You scared me!”
A bright, lively woman’s voice filled the room.
A guest sat on the sofa. Light brown waves spilled over her shoulders; her late-twenties face still held a touch of youth. She scolded Minju with a playful pout.
“Unnie, open the door gently. My heart nearly stopped.”
“Chae Eunchae?”
The Loan Shark King’s granddaughter. Head of the private equity firm Chae Partners.
“What are you doing here all of a sudden? No call, nothing.”
“I was in the neighborhood. Still sulking over the failed acquisition, telling myself I’d better nail the Facenote IPO—and then I just really wanted to see you.”
Minju sat across from her and smiled.
“So the second reason is the real one.”
“I’m not joking. I have to make this back with Facenote. We lost the Yuseong Steel auction by a hundred billion won—a hundred billion. Do you know what Grandfather said?”
“He asked where the bid price leaked from.”
Minju recalled the articles from a few days earlier. An auction decided by a mere hundred billion. That wasn’t luck or chance—it was a gap in intelligence.
“Exactly! If I’d taken Yuseong Steel and flipped it, the spread alone would have been hundreds of billions. And Hanyeong Heavy Industries—really—can’t even keep a lid on one bid number and just throws it away?”
“You’re sure it leaked from Hanyeong Heavy Industries?”
“What, you think I went around broadcasting it myself?”
Minju laughed. Who knew where it had actually leaked from—but you had to play along.
“Han Juhyeong’s better than I thought. Pulling even Hanyeong Heavy Industries’ bid number.”
“Is it really Han Juhyeong, though?”
Minju’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?”
“I think Lee Jaseung is behind it.”
“Lee Jaseung?”
Chae Eunchae rose from the sofa and crossed to Minju’s side, dropping her voice as if confiding something important.
“I haven’t told this anywhere else, but about half a year ago, Lee Jaseung called us up to a hotel suite.”
“‘Us’ meaning?”
“Me and Han Juhyeong… Ah! Seo Minjae was there too.”
At the mention of her half-brother, Minju’s brow tightened.
“That’s where Jaseung first brought it up. Yuseong Steel was going to be sold—who would take the opportunity, and what could each of us put on the table. I let it slide at the time. Look at it now. Juhyeong got Yuseong Steel, and Minjae cleaned up the Yuseong bonds.”
“Lee Jaseung, Han Juhyeong, Seo Minjae. The three of them joined hands? Based on what?”
“You remember when Jaseung blew up the slush fund?”
“How could I forget. I thought he’d finally lost his mind.”
Even watching the news that day had left her speechless. A boy who wouldn’t bleed if you stabbed him, pouring out that raw, heartfelt performance. Minju rubbed her arms without thinking. Goosebumps, even now.
Eunchae went on.
“The second he made the exposé, Juhyeong announced the Yuseong Steel acquisition. Like he’d been waiting for the cue. Publicly.”
“The timing was uncanny. So he knew in advance.”
At the time everything had come in a blur; only after it ended did it feel as if she’d been under a spell. Every piece had locked into place as if someone had assembled the board in advance.
Lee Jaseung the broker. Seo Minjae the seller. Han Juhyeong the buyer.
Seen that way, the joints fitted perfectly.
“So Jaseung planned all of it…”
“Doesn’t it sound plausible to you too, unnie? Honestly, Juhyeong had already wrecked two businesses and was quietly taking management lessons. Suddenly he’s running a board this complicated? It doesn’t make sense.”
There was logic to it. Minju tapped the armrest, thinking.
Same goes for Minjae. No base of support, no network—he couldn’t have pulled off moves like this alone. Not unless someone was helping him.
There was a hidden commander. By that logic, only one person fit the role: the one who had started the game.
Lee Jaseung.
But why?
“Jaseung didn’t just wake up one morning feeling charitable. What is he after, building a board like this?”
Eunchae’s eyes lit up as she leaned in.
“Want me to find out?”
“Find out what?”
“What Jaseung wants. It’d be awkward for you to ask Minjae yourself—you two don’t exactly get along. I’ll ask Juhyeong for you.”
Minju’s gaze sharpened.
Eunchae never made offers like this for free. The next line was the one that mattered.
“How much Facenote IPO allocation can you give me?”
Of course.
Minju smiled inwardly.
“How much do you want?”
“How about three hundred million dollars?”
For a proposal delivered with that cute face, the number was substantial. Three hundred million dollars—roughly three hundred thirty billion won. The market cap of a mid-sized company.
But if Jaseung really was backing Minjae from the shadows, learning why mattered.
“Fine. But bring me solid information. Not guesses. Not rumors.”
“Mm-hmm! Of course!”
Makers.
A company that had existed as a name alone finally had walls and floors. The interiors were finished at last.
Lee Jaseung walked the office on the top floor of the building, taking it in with care.
The art consultant who had overseen the design kept up a running explanation.
“The concept for this space is ‘latent silence.’ At a glance it reads as simple minimalism, but every element is the product of meticulous calculation. This Richter abstraction in particular is from the same series as a piece that sold for ten million dollars at Sotheby’s three years ago—only people who know will recognize its value.”
Jaseung nodded, satisfied.
He had poured a hundred billion won into the interiors alone. Half of that was art, of course—but it was worth every won. He had wanted the same dignity as his penthouse, and the finished office hit that standard exactly.
Then his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Jaseung gave a slight nod to the art consultant, whose face was hollow with fatigue.
“I like it. Thank you for your work. You may go.”
“Thank you! Please call anytime if you need anything further.”
He watched the consultant head for the elevator, then answered the phone.
“What is it.”
!@#$%^&*!
“….”
Judging by the noise, they were at a celebration dinner. The excited voice tangled with the racket until it was closer to a howl than speech. Jaseung pulled the phone from his ear, then put it back, and spoke with perfect calm.
“Speak properly.”
Where! Are! You!
Dinner! Just! Ended! If! You’re! Nearby! Come! Hang! Out!
Jaseung lifted his wrist and checked his watch.
Two in the morning.
Late finish. He must have really run himself ragged with the acquisition team.
In the background, a familiar woman’s voice floated through: “Jaseung oppa’s coming too?” Jaseung’s brow creased, just slightly.
“Who’s with you?”
Chae Eunchae! She came to congratulate us!
As if.
Jaseung snorted.
So Eunchae’s there too.
Why would she show up at Juhyeong’s dinner?
Trying to dig something up again, no doubt.
Which was exactly what he wanted.
He had remade Han Juhyeong from a failure into a promising heir—a dramatic success story that closed an M&A by a hundred-billion-won margin. A living advertisement: You could become this too. Perfect reference material when recruiting the next chaebol client.
And Eunchae makes an excellent witness.
On the day he’d first floated the Yuseong Steel sale, she had been in the room. If the woman who had watched this dramatic success from first act to last started talking, the rumor would run through every chaebol household.
But today was Friday. He would be entering the future soon enough. Jaseung declined.
“Come to the office tomorrow.”
…ffice? Finally… can see… the office…
Deciding further conversation was pointless, Jaseung simply hung up. He sent the office address in a brief text instead.
“That closes the first project.”
Seo Minjae and Han Juhyeong. Two clients who had used Yuseong Group as a springboard. More than enough to ornament Makers’ opening portfolio.
Time to start collecting new futures.
He picked up one of the balls from the display case and let the first future surface in his mind.
The future in which he’d been branded a financial criminal and lost everything. Because of his uncle—because of that one man alone—his world had nearly collapsed.
But it’s also a future that never happened.
The memory was still vivid. He chose not to pour feeling into it. The moment you invested emotion, it became real.
Jaseung bounced the ball lightly. Thud—it struck the floor and returned to his palm. The sound of reality.
His world was safe. All he had to do was keep it that way—guard it, fortify it.
He checked his watch.
2:59.
One minute to entry.
For once, he wanted to enter alone. Having someone nearby made them an anchor—but it also constrained his options. For a while, he planned to roam the futures freely, without company. Investment strategy going forward, shifts in the financial markets, new clients to secure. He would explore whatever futures the system threw at him at random.
Tick.
The second hand struck the hour.
Lee Jaseung stepped into the future.
He opened his eyes in the Makers CEO’s office.
As always, the display case was gone. The glass cabinet that had held the balls had vanished entirely; in its place sat a shallow bonsai tray.
“…Bonsai.”
Had his tastes gone classic somewhere along the way?
He took out his phone and checked the date. Four months ahead.
And one more thing.
Hundreds of messages were stacked and waiting.
“Something interesting must have blown up today.”
He opened the group chat sitting at the top of the stack—a room full of third-generation chaebol heirs, usually nothing but noise. Today the tone was entirely different.
“Facenote’s stock is crashing?”