The Truth of This World

We make another round of the neighborhood.

"This is a bakery. Most people labor under the delusion that selling bread is their main business."

"Then what do they sell?"

"Market prices."

"?"

The same bakery we had visited earlier.

The franchise that thrives all over Korea yet is nowhere to be found in Paris itself.

I heard they've opened branches in Paris these days, though.

What mattered was the way this company actually made its money.

Where did the real revenue come from?

"I use them sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"I never go in person. Only when Yogiyo or Baemin has a sale."

Classic franchise move.

They ran sales constantly.

Absurdly deep ones, at that.

Cheaper than walking into the store and buying it yourself.

Was there even any profit left after selling like that?

Plenty of consumers fretted over that for them, as if it were their problem.

"So why do you think they do it?"

"Because they're a franchise? They move volume, so thin margins still leave them something, right?"

"Haa… that's what ordinary people think."

"??!"

She was an economics major, after all.

Suhyun's reasoning wasn't entirely baseless.

That kind of 'reason' belongs in an Illy coffee shop.

Reality was never that simple.

There were always the sly calculations of adults lurking underneath.

Market share was the real objective.

The cheaper Paris Baguette sold, the more competitors quietly vanished from the market one by one.

A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠company that bloated itself through pure bloodletting competition.

They held 61 percent of the bakery market.

That was why you could find a Paris Baguette anywhere in the Republic of Korea.

"And that's not all. The steamed buns, hotteok, full-moon cakes, cream pies, even Rocketmon bread sold in every supermarket—pretty much every bread product you can name belongs to subsidiaries of the same parent company."

"It's a much bigger operation than I thought."

"What's the common thread among all those products?"

"They're all bread…? Ah!"

Understanding finally dawned on her.

Paris Baguette and its affiliates had effectively monopolized the entire baking industry.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say they hold the power to set the price of bread in Korea.

Other industries at least had competitors.

But when you owned everything yourself, you could raise prices without a second thought.

The result.

Korea had become the country with the most expensive bread on Earth.

It slapped the faces of those Nordic welfare states that skimmed 50 percent off every paycheck in taxes.

"This is a chicken place. They sing the same song about how there's no margin left, yet their operating profit margin climbs every year and smacks high-value-added semiconductors right across the cheek."

"They're raking it in."

Chicken shops were running a similar con.

If you actually broke it down, there was absolutely no reason for the food to be that expensive.

"But."

"Hm?"

"Chicken isn't a monopoly, right? Just the big franchises alone—Kyochon, BBQ, BHC, and more. Shouldn't market forces normalize the prices?"

"Haa…"

"?"

"What an innocent thought."

It was a sharp observation.

Unlike the bakery industry, where regulations blocked new big players and preserved the monopoly, the chicken industry had plenty of famous franchises, with new ones popping up every year.

So on the surface it looks like free competition is happening.

But the way the world actually turned was never that straightforward.

Collusion happened in places consumers never saw.

"There are lots of chicken franchises, but only a handful of companies distribute the birds."

"Ah!"

"Exactly. Their interests line up perfectly."

The distributors.

Harim, Maniker, Cherrybro—only a few names.

They could sit down together and jack up the price of chicken whenever they felt like it.

"Then don't the chicken shops take a loss?"

"They sell cheap to the shops. Then they raise the retail price. What happens next? You've probably heard the nonsense the BBQ Chicken chairman spouts every now and then."

That's why chicken prices have no choice but to go up!

Compared to the retail price, it almost sounded plausible.

Perfect material for whipping up public opinion.

A structure where the consuming companies and the selling companies lock down the industry and split the spoils between them.

What people called "eating well."

Corporations calling each other big brother and little brother and looking out for one another.

"For the record, Paris Baguette is even more vicious. They have a flour-milling subsidiary, so they eat the whole pie themselves."

"……."

"The company sells flour at a premium and makes a killing, then dumps the burden on the franchisees. Why so many sales? Because the margins are insane."

Shareholders got burned the same way.

You walked in thinking, "Wow, the cost of goods must leave a ton of profit," and got wrecked for your trouble.

Korea is crawling with companies like this.

Just walking down the street, you tripped over one after another.

This was the commonplace truth of the world we lived in.

"There might be some exaggeration mixed in…"

"It's just another way of looking at things. Once you start trading stocks, you start seeing this stuff. The world literally looks different."

Really?

Anyone hearing it for the first time might not believe it.

This wasn't the 1980s. Did that kind of thing still happen?

It was the twenty-first century.

A top-ten economy.

A military power jostling for sixth or seventh place globally.

By any international standard, not a country you could call a failure.

But its economic system still had a long way to go.

"Doesn't the government crack down? There must be legal grounds."

"They do."

"Then why…"

"Because they make more than the fines cost them."

In theory, there were no gaps.

Unethical corporate profit-seeking was perfectly policed by the rule of law.

The way the real world actually turned was a different story.

Those who had more grew richer.

"And those who had nothing grew poorer…"

"The rich get richer, the poor get poorer. You've heard it a lot, right? If politics is so rotten that no one can rein these companies in, then who should do it?"

"Who…?"

"Investors."

What good was the law if it didn't work?

Workarounds were everywhere.

In the worst cases they just bribed politicians and rewrote the law itself.

That was called collusion between politics and business.

And when the powerful were busy twisting the world however they pleased—

an investor could pass judgment under the name of "stock price."

That's why short selling exists, too.

Why is this stock tanking?

You dig in and discover it's a hollow shell of a company. Plenty of cases like that in the past, and plenty more to come.

That was why investors—who at a glance looked like nothing more than gamblers—had to exist in this world.

They judged corporate value more coldly than anyone else.

"I think I'm starting to get it a little."

"Get what?"

"Why you said stocks are fun."

"Right?"

Her speech.

She no longer used that tongue-tied, half-hearted way of talking that came from indifference.

The stiffness had melted; a spark of life had returned.

Her eyes were shining.

"If you'd explained it like this from the start, I wouldn't have misunderstood."

"If I'd said it from the start, it wouldn't have been any fun."

"Mm~ yeah, that tracks."

Living as an investor.

Looking at the world through a different lens from everyone else was never going to be easy.

Everyone else says you're wrong.

Why do only you think that way?

Just keeping your reason intact under that kind of pressure was already a battle.

And that's exactly what makes it more fun.

You saw what others couldn't.

You realized that psychics weren't anything special.

You could find the extraordinary inside the ordinary.

And with that, you made money and earned a name for yourself.

"Convinced?"

"Yes."

"There's nothing in the world as fun as stocks. I guarantee it."

"Yes."

She was listening carefully.

For whatever reason, she seemed to have decided to take my words seriously.

Good. Unlike a certain someone, she actually gets the point the first time. Nice.

No need to say the same thing twice.

I had given her the understanding she wanted, so I was about to head back when—

"What are you doing?"

"Huh?"

"Your place ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠isn't this way."

"Ah, well… there's more I wanted to ask."

She gently caught the edge of my sleeve.

Fiddling with the hair by her ear, she watched my reaction.

A certain possibility flickered through my mind.

Wait. Is this a green light?

She had a boyfriend.

But that didn't mean the possibility was zero.

Highly educated women tended to have strong desires for self-realization.

If you could fulfill that for them—

"What did you want to ask?"

"A lot of things."

"Ah, a lot of things… yeah, there's plenty to learn at this stage. Ahem."

Women fell easily.

Poets didn't have a reputation for seducing women for nothing.

Well, she's still only twenty.

An age that hadn't been stained yet.

Having a boyfriend was a bit of a shame, but that also had its advantages.

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Did you wash your hair?"

"Of course I did. You think I wouldn't?"

She was used to physical contact.

Nothing like a certain someone who had a meltdown if you so much as glanced at her chest.

Silky.

My hand slid through her long, straight hair.

An addictive texture.

Having a secretary like this at the office and using her whenever you felt like it—that's every CEO's fantasy.

Pretty face, good body, and competent at the job on top of it—that was the jackpot.

Talent like that was rare, though.

"Stocks. I still don't really get them, but it seems like something worth trying."

"Yeah?"

"You're messing up my hair."

"Because it's cute."

If I raised her myself, that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be enough.

If she was interested in stocks, that was my specialty.

I just have to make her fall for me.

This was the age when people easily confused love with respect.

I could talk her into it smoothly.

Creak—!

We headed back to my studio apartment.

When a college guy and girl were alone together, there was only one thing to do.

"You know how to drink?"

"Drink? I can keep up with my classmates."

"Wine, maybe."

"Wine?"

Drinking.

Fucking.

Once the bottles started flowing, it happened naturally.

Pop!

If the mood was right, even more so.

I opened the white wine I'd used earlier for the risotto.

Women fall if you just set the atmosphere.

That was why people paid ten times the cost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of ingredients for pasta.

It was all atmosphere tax.

My hobby was drinking.

I had plenty of high-end bottles on hand.

There was just one problem.

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"When I first came over I was too flustered to notice."

"Notice what?"

"Your place is kind of a disaster."

"……."

I hadn't cleaned much, true.

From a normal person's perspective, it probably did look that way.

From an investor's perspective, it was an efficient space.

There was nowhere cozier.

"You smoke, too?"

"It's not a cigarette. It's a cigar."

"I really hate people who smoke."

"……."

A studio of about seven pyeong.

She started inspecting it as thoroughly as if her own mother had walked in.

Every corner of the walls, meticulously.

She looked at me with an expression that said she couldn't trust me.

"Are you a shut-in? Why do you live like this?"

"……A human being can never lower their Engel coefficient."

"What?"

There was a reason for that.