Seoseong Securities — Seo Minjae (3)
The CEO’s office at Seoseong Securities.
Father, daughter, and the illegitimate son, all gathered in one room.
A truly familial atmosphere.
Seo Minju spoke.
“Congratulations, Minjae.”
“Excuse me?”
Seo Minjae blinked at his half-sister’s sudden praise.
“I hear your PBS division closed its first deal. A twenty-billion-won one.”
“Yes. I got lucky.”
“You really do have the luck, don’t you? Though that client’s strategy was unusual. Claiming the U.S. credit rating is going to be downgraded.”
“So you already knew.”
“It’s my division’s business.”
Seo Minju headed the Global Business Division, and Minjae’s PBS desk sat beneath it. Whatever Minjae did, Minju could see it all with perfect clarity.
She asked, “What do you think? Do you really believe the rating will be cut?”
Minjae glanced at their father. The older man offered no intervention; if anything, he seemed to be watching the exchange with interest.
Minjae chose his words carefully.
“I believe the market data matters. S&P has already placed the United States on negative watch, and the debt-ceiling talks are deadlocked. The possibility is real enough. And—”
His tone sharpened.
“It would be wise to clean up the Yuseong corporate bonds. If the rating is downgraded, there will be a fire sale. Companies with leverage as high as the Yuseong Group’s will take an even harder hit.”
“Because I led that investment?”
“You know that’s not what I mean. Yuseong’s debt ratios are not normal. I rate the default risk as high.”
“But it isn’t that simple. That bond purchase was a group-level decision, and you know it.”
Seoseong Securities was a financial affiliate under the influence of the Seoseong Group. Politics entered the picture.
“It was a partnership between Seoseong Group affiliates and Yuseong Group affiliates. We underwrote those bonds as part of that arrangement. Suppose we dump them on the market, as you suggest. Then what? How do we repair the relationship with Yuseong afterward?”
“…….”
“Don’t just say it can’t be done. You should have brought a plan with you.”
Minju gave her half-brother a light scolding, then turned to their father.
“Father, I heard from a contact in Washington that both party leaderships are negotiating behind the scenes. If we liquidate our positions too hastily, we could end up taking the loss instead—especially once you factor in the Yuseong relationship.”
Deep lines of thought cut across the CEO’s face. On one hand, his daughter was right. The Yuseong bonds were an alliance between groups. On the other, he could not simply ignore his son’s warning. In a situation like this, conservative portfolio management was the baseline.
His decision was a compromise.
“Liquidate only the holdings rated BBB and below. We still can’t sever ties with Yuseong completely. That’s a partnership built over a long time.”
BBB and below made up less than ten percent of the whole. In practical terms, almost nothing would change.
Minju’s face brightened. Minjae smiled the way he always did—only this time, he meant it.
Just as expected.
He recalled Lee Jaseung’s words.
They won’t accept it. But that’s actually better for you. When the rating is cut and the market collapses—you’ll be the prophet.
For several days, Seoseong Securities was in an uproar.
A U.S. credit rating downgrade.
Every conversation of the day began with that subject and ended with it. It could not be helped. U.S. Treasury yields were the reference point of the entire financial market. When that benchmark shook, the prices of every instrument in the system shuddered with it.
On the trading floor, fierce debates broke out every day.
“What if it really gets cut? The debt-ceiling talks keep getting messier. Republicans and Democrats refuse to give an inch, and the clock keeps running down…”
“They always compromise at the last second. You really think they’d just sit there and let a default happen?”
“But the volatility is insane. I’ve already started adjusting my portfolio…”
“Come on, this is political theater. It’s not the first time. Aren’t you all overreacting?”
As the rumors spread, people began gravitating toward one particular place: the newly established PBS division. Seo Minjae’s office.
Staff made a point of walking past the glass door, glancing in as they went.
What about that client? Is he still sitting on twenty billion?
Someone from a neighboring desk knocked on the glass with coffee in hand.
“Manager Seo. The U.S. rating’s getting cut for sure, right?”
The tenth time he’d heard that question today. The tenth free coffee. The tenth automatic answer rolled off his tongue.
“It isn’t me who’s certain—it’s the client. You seem to have forgotten that I’m just a broker. And please, drink the coffee yourself.”
“Should I? Still, the client put twenty billion on the line. So I can join the pool, right?”
Minjae’s stomach tightened.
“Pool? What pool?”
“You didn’t know? The trading desk’s running a bet. Right now the no-downgrade side is three-to-one favorites. Figured I’d take the other side.”
“…….”
Minjae exhaled a long sigh. The situation was slipping further out of control. The rumor he had seeded had swollen into a company-wide wager.
I’m losing my mind.
How had things drifted this far?
A PBS desk lived on commissions. Whether a client made money or lost it was none of their concern—clients paid fees either way.
And if the downgrade never happens, we already agreed not to put the trade on at all!
But now? Lee Jaseung’s bet had become the PBS division’s first deal—no, it had become inseparable from Seo Minjae’s personal credibility. Without even realizing it, he had been bound to Jaseung as a community of fate.
If the downgrade doesn’t happen, it’ll look like I failed. That bastard Jaseung… don’t tell me he planned this too.
There was no choice. Now that he was thoroughly entangled, the only remaining play was pure prayer meta.
Please just get downgraded!
And then—
A merciless flash of breaking news lit up the Bloomberg terminal.
“Agreement?”
A dramatic deal had been struck. The threat of a credit downgrade had vanished.
A small cheer rose from outside. They were already settling the bets.
“What’s the pot? …Whoa, three-point-eight million won? Then if we split it among the people who bet no downgrade…”
The manager still hovering by Minjae’s side read the room, then quietly stood.
“Uh… I’ll sit this one out. Hang in there, Manager Seo.”
The color drained from Minjae’s face.
“This can’t be.”
The central premise—a U.S. credit downgrade—had collapsed. For Jaseung, simply not executing the trade would be enough. For Minjae, his credibility would hit rock bottom.
I have to see Jaseung in person.
He stood in a hurry, snatched up his phone, and headed for the door—
“Minjae.”
A soft voice stopped him. Seo Minju.
“Is your client all right? I saw the news. He’s going to take a serious loss.”
“He’s fine. We haven’t executed the order yet. We’ll adjust with a new strategy.”
“That’s a relief. So you only lose the deal, then.”
Her gentle eyes carried a look of concern. Minjae managed a thin smile.
“Thank you for worrying. I’ll be going first.”
“Mm. Go ahead.”
They nodded and started to part ways. Then Minju stopped and looked back.
“Oh—by the way. I still haven’t liquidated the Yuseong bonds.”
“What?”
“I had a feeling something like this would happen. Call it a bad hunch. I figured they’d reach an agreement and the market would stabilize, so I held the position as is.”
“That was the CEO’s directive—”
“And in the end, nothing happened. Compared to how you alone made such a fuss.”
That was when it happened.
The trading room erupted into sudden chaos. People shot up from their seats all over the floor; some grabbed phones and dialed in a panic. The two of them looked around, bewildered—and then Minjae’s hand vibrated.
A text. From Lee Jaseung.
Only two words.
Start?
Beside him, Seo Minju drew a sharp breath.
“They reached an agreement—so why…?”
Confusion in her voice. Minjae followed her gaze.
A second breaking bulletin was flooding the giant wall screen.
“Whoa…”
Something between a gasp and a laugh slipped from Minjae’s mouth.
Despite the dramatic agreement—S&P had still cut the U.S. rating.
Lee Jaseung’s prediction had been exact.
“Ha… unreal…”
It felt like riding a roller coaster. Plunged to the bottom, then rocketed to the sky. Yes—it was exhilarating.
Minjae forced down the urge to laugh out loud and turned to Minju.
“Division Head, will you be all right?”
“…….”
The look she gave him was sharp. Which only made him want to needle her further.
“Shouldn’t we liquidate the Yuseong bonds even n— pfft—ah, sorry. Shouldn’t we liquidate them now?”
Minju’s eyes turned venomous.
Ah. Failed to hold the laugh.
The giant wall screens installed throughout Seoseong Securities.
Today every number was blood-red, as if the market itself had suffered a hemorrhage. Major indices fell in lockstep. The bond market displayed volatility without precedent.
Seoseong Securities went to emergency footing. Traders stared at their monitors with bloodshot eyes. Analysts sprinted down the corridors with hastily written reports in hand.
“VIX just broke 55! KOSPI is down seven percent! Circuit breaker imminent!”
“Institutions are cashing out across the board! They’re dumping high-yield bonds first!”
“Liquidity in the corporate bond market is collapsing. Trading in BB-rated paper has completely frozen.”
In the middle of the crisis, fortunes diverged.
“We’re finished. Completely finished…”
“Whoa… thank god I cut my exposure just in case.”
And yet, amid all the chaos, one space was oddly lively: the PBS division.
A trader borrowed from the bond desk shouted in excitement.
“Ten-year yields are climbing! From three percent to three-point-one-five—a fifteen-basis-point spike. Panic selling has started!”
“Treasury futures?”
“Crashing. From one-twenty-six and sixteen thirty-seconds down to one-twenty-four and eight—more than two full points! Should we buy?”
Minjae’s fingers twitched of their own accord. He crushed the impulse.
Not yet. Follow Jaseung’s strategy exactly.
He recalled the investment playbook he had drilled into himself for two straight days. First entry at 3.3 percent. Full position on a break above 3.6 percent.
“Not yet. Wait.”
Jaseung’s twenty billion was already deposited. Per instructions, Minjae had prepared threefold leverage. After margin requirements, the actual notional under management was on the order of fifty billion won. It looked like a lot—but in the U.S. Treasury market, it was a drop of water. The moment an order hit, it would find a counterparty. Which meant he had to wait for the absolute bottom—the precise instant price hit its floor.
Minjae watched the chart with total concentration. The trader shouted again.
“Three-point-three percent breached!”
It matches!
The number Jaseung had predicted a month earlier was printing live on the Bloomberg terminal in front of him. The moment he had been waiting for.
“First order. Buy eight billion in TMF ETF; the rest in ten-year Treasury futures.”
The moment the order was entered, it flowed from the PBS terminals to the clearinghouse and finally into the market.
“First order filled!”
“Three-point-three-five… three-point-three-seven… three-point-four-one breached!”
“Second order. Same size, same instruments. Add it.”
The trader’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Second order filled. Total position: twenty billion won.
Outside the trading room, the chaos continued. Footsteps hammered past in the corridor; now and then someone shouted. Inside PBS, the air was tense and yet strangely calm.
An analyst read the live yield.
Three-point-four-five… three-point-four-three… three-point-five-one.
Almost there.
Minjae drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting for the final break. And at last the chart punched through the 3.6 percent line.
“Final order! Everything left!”
For a single heartbeat, everyone in the division stopped breathing. The order ticket opened. The trader entered the final quantity. The remaining thirty billion poured into the market in one surge.
Minjae could not sit still. He rose and began pacing.
“Filled!”
A collective sigh of relief rolled through the trading room.
And in that exact instant—as if on a signal—the chart began to reverse.
The ten-year yield, which had been chopping sideways at the 3.6 percent line, suddenly turned down.
“It’s coming back…”
The entire division fell into a silence as if bound by some invisible force. Everyone held their breath and stared at the screen. Yields kept falling—which meant Treasury prices were rising. The value of Jaseung’s position was climbing in real time.
“Three-point-five… three-point-three… three-point-zero…”
A chill ran up Minjae’s spine.
How can anyone be this precise?
As if the spike had never happened, yields slid back into the three-percent range. In that brief window, they had captured a full sixty-basis-point move.
Excited voices broke out around him.
“Including the roughly ten-year duration, the portfolio is up more than three percent!”
“You have to count the leverage. That’s a nine percent gain.”
“So how much is that? Four and a half billion?”
Four and a half billion won in profit. A record return achieved in a matter of minutes. But this was only the beginning.
Minjae recalled an instruction that had not been written in the playbook—and yet was burned into his memory with perfect clarity.
Liquidate at 1.8 percent.
“If it really falls all the way to one-point-eight…”
His teammates reacted with startled yelps.
“What? One-point-eight? Then the return would be—”
Someone already had a spreadsheet open and was punching in numbers.
“A one-point-two-percentage-point drop… with an eight-and-a-half-year duration and three-times leverage… one hundred ten percent?”
Another breathless silence.
The calculation said twenty billion would swell past forty-two billion. A trade generating more than twenty-two billion won in net profit in a matter of weeks was without precedent in Seoseong Securities history.
“Whoa… that would make the first deal an absolute jackpot.”
At those words, Minjae suddenly understood. Because of the rumor he himself had spread, he and Jaseung had become a community of fate. A few hours earlier they had nearly gone to hell together—and conversely, Jaseung’s success had elevated the reputation of the PBS division.
Succession consulting…
He remembered the phrase Jaseung had used at the beginning. At the time it had sounded vague. Now its meaning was a little clearer.
A succession consultant.
Someone who, in the middle of chaos, tells you exactly which direction you must go.
A smile spread across Minjae’s lips.
Somehow… that doesn’t sound half bad.