A Billion for Two Hours

Britain. McLaren headquarters.

The Duke of Grosvenor looked quietly down at the acquisition contract.

McLaren was rewriting the history of Formula One, turning in the finest performance the team had ever known. Set against those overwhelming results, the purchase price was not particularly high. They had nothing like Ferrari's history, and the present form itself had been bought with Grosvenor's enormous investment. The moment the ducal house took its hand away, the results would plainly fall off a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cliff. In this deal, Grosvenor could only be the party holding every advantage.

"Since the acquisition price is modest, I will double the operating budget."

"I—pardon?"

No wonder the team principal's eyes went round. They were already receiving investment at the very top of the industry, and the Duke meant to double even that.

"A machine bearing the Grosvenor crest will be taking its place on the track. Naturally it ought to run at least half a lap ahead of everyone else, wouldn't you say?"

"Ah—yes. Of course. It... it absolutely should..."

"You will set a new record in every race you enter."

"In every... race?"

"If double is not enough, I can raise the operating budget as high as triple."

Which was to say that salaries and prize money would leap as well. Perhaps that was why.

"A new record in every race. I'll see it done!"

The McLaren team principal's eyes were blazing.

Meanwhile, Song Suhee spent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a very busy day, because guests she had never expected kept arriving at the door.

"This is CEO Park Jihoon's residence, I trust?"

The man was from the British embassy. He was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠white, yet his Korean was remarkably fluent.

"The deputy mayor of Liverpool asked to meet him, so—shameless as it is—I have come in person."

A tall, long-limbed man stood behind him. By the introduction, that would be the deputy mayor.

"A pleasure to meet you."

As the deputy mayor bowed, the embassy man added an explanation.

"Regarding CEO Park Jihoon, it seems a number of facilities are to be built in Manchester. On that account, I believe Liverpool would like to make a request of its own."

"But he'll be in Britain soon. Why come all the way to Korea?"

The staffer had no proper answer. Was the matter simply that urgent? Or did they think that the sincerity of flying all the way to Korea would make a refusal harder?

Well. Told that they had come from so far, even Song Suhee had little choice but to ask them in.

"You may have to wait quite a while..."

"That's quite all right."

"Then let me show you to a private room."

That was not the end of it.

"We... meet again."

The same embassy man smiled awkwardly and went on.

"The Italian designer house, Persace... have you heard of it?"

"Of course I have."

A dazzling brand, with the head of Medusa for a logo.

"The designer himself... is here."

Song Suhee's eyes flew wide. Gianni Persace. The most watched designer in Italy had come in person to see Jihoon?

Perhaps it was because she worked in the arts. This felt nothing at all like the deputy mayor of Liverpool. For the first time, her son's fame seemed entirely real.

"Buongiorno."

When she offered the greeting in Italian, he threw both arms wide and gave her a brilliant smile—a long, satisfied grin, as if that single word had been payment enough for the flight.

"You must be tired, coming all this way. Would you like to come in and wait?"

She stumbled through the Italian, and his face turned moved all over again.

"I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced. To be welcomed like this... it is the greatest honor."

After that the doorbell kept ringing. Needless to say, every one of them had come looking for Park Jihoon.

In her own room, while she waited for her son, she sat at the desk over the work of the cultural foundation. The report was written densely with the affairs of their first artist, Yoo Seonho. The support was more than sufficient, and yet the results refused to appear. The reason, they said, was that he was looking after a child. It was difficult to reproach him for that. She had seen the mural the child was said to have painted, and the words had stuck in her throat. If a small photograph carried an aura like this, what would the thing itself be like, seen in person?

She picked up the receiver at once.

When the call ended, Song Suhee turned to the portfolios stacked thick upon the desk.

Was it because her son had kicked up such a storm in the world of fashion, Ultimate among the rest? These days even artists from overseas were bringing the Hyeon-gang Cultural Foundation proposals to collaborate. In fashion design especially, the applicants had swelled by five hundred percent. The papers crowding the desk were the proof.

Even if I read through all of these, another pile just like them will turn up, won't it?

For the foundation it was a happy thing. For the director who had to get through the work, it was enough to stop the breath in her chest.

Don't go complaining about too much good fortune.

Remember the days when they had been dismissed as nothing but a domestic concern, and a strength she had not known she possessed came back of its own accord.

She had just reached for a file when a knock sounded, and a welcome voice came from beyond the door.

"The Chairman has returned."

"Father's home—oh my?"

Mom stared at me, startled. No wonder.

"Wh-what happened?"

I had come in with my brother on my back, so of course she was surprised. Grandfather, though, waved a hand as if to tell them not to make a fuss.

"He's full of soju."

"How much did he drink, for heaven's sake..."

"Three glasses. So what?"

At that, even Mom had nothing left to say.

"I think he takes after me."

"Not holding his liquor is one thing. Did he have to pass out?"

I took the hint and went up to the second floor. The staff had offered to help, but really, this much was nothing. Only after I had laid my brother carefully on the bed did Mom, who had followed us up, switch off the light and speak.

"Drinking, all of a sudden?"

"Well. He said he was going to teach him how to drink."

"And you're all right?"

"It doesn't feel much different, honestly."

"You're really all right?"

"Yes. As you can see."

At that, Mom's expression changed.

"We had visitors from overseas."

Visitors—for a moment I thought it might be Tennessee. But what was this? Names I had never expected came spilling out one after another. They had run a long way, it seemed, so that a refusal would be difficult.

Let them lead you by the nose with a trick like that, and you're finished as a businessman. Show a vision, or tap the calculator and guarantee a return. Appeal clumsily to sentiment, and all you have done is confess your own incompetence.

"Most of them said they would come again tomorrow and left, but I think one person is still ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠waiting."

From what she told me, he had been waiting for six hours.

"In the private room?"

Perhaps worried I might still be drunk, Mom came with me all the way there. Maybe it was the cold of the night air. What little liquor I had seemed to flee even faster.

And then—

"Jihoon."

Mom called my name in a calm voice, a tone quite different from before.

"When you have a moment, could we talk?"

"Talk?"

"Not as mother and son. There's something I need to say as a director of the Hyeon-gang Cultural Foundation, to the CEO of JH."

Our mom was a talent out of Seoul National University. She lived as Father's wife, that was all. Had she only been free to give herself to the work, she was someone who would have drawn a line across the history of art. And now that same mom was bringing up work for the first time.

"You can say it now."

"Hm?"

"I'm too curious. If it isn't too long, I'd like to hear it right away."

Mom looked as if she were turning it over for a moment. Then, as though she had changed her mind, she shifted her expression and spoke.

"I want to introduce the artists our foundation supports onto the world stage. I was wondering whether Oxford Street, or the department stores in London, might join us as that window."

It would not simply be that she needed a space in which to exhibit. She meant that if the work were shown there, the publicity would be certain.

"Fine art goes without saying, and lately a great many fashion designers have been applying as well. Even as pop-ups, there are so many artists I want people to meet."

"So you're saying we should enter into an agreement."

Mom nodded, more firmly than she ever had.

"And once the contract is signed, what do I stand to gain?"

"A steady supply of artists Hyeon-gang has vetted and supported. JH would keep the talent pool that makes it what it is, and gain artistic depth on top of that."

Nor was that all.

"We'll pay the venue fees, of course, and share the revenue, so there is no way JH loses on this. That much I can promise."

She set a vision on the table, and she did not miss the profit and the loss. A perfect answer. Full marks.

"That's excellent."

"Really?"

"Shall we write the contract right now?"

"Jihoon, you aren't saying that because you're drunk?"

"Come on. I'm perfectly sober."

Mom was beside herself with joy. The Hyeon-gang Cultural Foundation was a project she had taken part in herself from the day it was founded. Her affection for it must have run deeper than anyone's. I grinned. Business talk or not, we had reached the private room before I knew it.

"By the way, Mom."

"...?"

"Who did you say is waiting?"

"Good evening."

A Japanese man who looked to be in his late thirties. I had assumed, of course, that he would be someone from fashion. And what was this? On the card he held out was something else entirely.

Mega?

Perhaps he read the question. He opened his mouth with care.

"I hoped to ask your opinion... I'm sorry to have come so suddenly, without an appointment."

From the way he watched me, the company did seem to be in trouble.

Is he after an investment?

I cleared the expression from my face and waited for whatever came next.

"We had been planning a 16-bit machine. A next-generation console..."

I knew it. The Sega Drive.

Wait.

As I remembered it, the early sales had not been bad, if only because it could call itself the first 16-bit console. But history had changed. Super Family had launched earlier than anyone expected, and now they could not even claim to be first.

A groan caught in my throat. An ill-fated machine to begin with. Not only was the release late—the performance had fallen behind as well.

Put it out like this, and the company might actually go under.

I was turning this and that over when Satoshi spoke, heavily.

"Upgrading the performance would take two years at the least. In that time a competitor would seize the market. And yet if we release it on the present specifications, we have no competitiveness at all."

I understood what he was saying. But why come to me? Because he needed an investment?

And then—

"I would like your consulting."

Satoshi came out with something I had not expected.

"Every venture you put a hand to is a runaway success, day after day, is it not? Once or twice might be chance. But when the same thing keeps repeating, that is no longer luck. That is ability."

So he meant to pay a fee, and buy the consulting?

"Please spare us only two hours. The fee is modest, but we can offer as much as a billion won."

A billion won. It would not so much as brush the trillion I had set my sights on. Still, they say gather the dust and you raise a mountain. A billion won made for rather generous dust.

Figured as an hourly rate, it isn't bad at all.

My mind made up, I asked him.

"So. What is it you want to know?"