No Pay, No Gain
A lot had happened in just a few days. The biggest development was that D-day had finally arrived, but several other events of considerable significance had also unfolded in Korea, the United States, and Japan.
In Korea, the Constitutional Court had delivered its ruling on the impeachment petitions filed by the eight judges who had been impeached by the National Assembly. The court upheld the Assembly’s decision in full, removing every judge affiliated with the Minsapallye Yeonguhoe—including Ma Tae-sik—from the bench. All of them were now ordinary citizens.
Word on the street was that the Constitutional Court had tried its best to save at least one of them. In the end, however, the evidence presented by presiding justice Shin Kwang-ryeol had been so overwhelming that no one could be spared. He had meticulously documented how the group had pooled special activity funds and distributed them only to compliant judges, how promotions and powerful positions had been monopolized among Minsapallye Yeonguhoe members, and how they had exerted pressure during the Japanese colonial-era victim lawsuits. Once that evidence was released, the outcome was inevitable.
The moment the impeachment was confirmed, the prosecution moved swiftly, requesting arrest warrants for all eight former judges. Here the courts showed a flicker of resistance. Warrants were issued for Ma Tae-sik and the other ringleaders, but three judges were denied warrants on the grounds that there was no risk of flight or evidence tampering. The prosecution strongly objected. Phone records and in-person meetings made it clear the judges had coordinated their stories. The claim that there was “no risk of evidence destruction” was hollow; the courts had simply given the defendants so much time between the National Assembly’s impeachment vote and the Constitutional Court’s ruling that they had already destroyed everything incriminating.
When Yoo Jae-won heard from Jung Byung-woo that some of the warrants had been rejected, he clicked his tongue but was not particularly surprised.
“The courts have been protecting their own for years. This isn’t new.”
As Yoo Jae-won said, it was a familiar sight. Besides, the impeachment was only the beginning. The enormous wealth accumulated by Ma Tae-sik and the other dismissed judges far exceeded what any judge could have earned through decades of legitimate service. Evidence that they had accepted bribes and trampled on innocent people was already surfacing, and lawsuits challenging their past rulings were beginning to pour in. The fact that judges had been exchanging money among themselves meant that a full prosecutorial investigation would devastate the Supreme Court. Internal resistance would be fierce.
Yoo Jae-won watched the situation with calm detachment. Impeaching judges was difficult the first time, but the second time would be easier. Once the ringleaders of the internal opposition were identified, they could simply be placed on the express train to impeachment as well.
The next piece of news was directly connected to Yoo Jae-won. The inter-Korean family reunion event was now just around the corner. There had been some controversy surrounding the selection process. Over a million applications had been submitted, yet only five hundred people could actually participate. Questions about fairness were inevitable, and many suspected that late-arriving applications had simply been discarded.
Jeon Myeong-heon, who was in charge of the event, handled the situation with characteristic showmanship. He opened the data-entry office to the press. An entire gymnasium had been rented and filled with hundreds of computers and specialists digitizing the mountain of applications. Thanks to OCR software and the sophisticated macro functions of ID Office, each application could be processed in just three or four seconds. The only human tasks were loading documents onto scanners, pressing buttons, and swapping pages. Three hundred people worked in six rotating shifts around the clock. As a result, the entire million-plus applications were digitized in less than a week.
The lottery was conducted immediately afterward. Following Yoo Jae-won’s advice, Jeon Myeong-heon chose a method designed to maximize public trust rather than spectacle. Observers were selected from among the applicants, election commission officials were brought in to supervise, and the entire process was covered by a massive press contingent. A large projector displayed the lottery program in real time so everyone could watch. The program ran without error, producing a clean list of five hundred names in a single execution. Fortunately, one of the winning families happened to be among the observers, providing perfect footage for the media.
Once the lottery concluded, the digitized application data was not destroyed. Instead, it was transferred to the Ministry of Unification, where it would serve as a valuable database for future family-reunion and welfare programs.
The list of five hundred names was immediately sent to North Korea. North Korean authorities quickly located the corresponding families and confirmed their willingness to participate. Because the Workers’ Party itself was promoting the event, no North Korean citizen refused. A few successful applicants discovered that their northern relatives had already passed away due to old age or illness; in those cases, replacements were drawn from the reserve list.
All preparations were complete. Today the selected families boarded ships bound for Mount Kumgang. The North Korean regime had built a hotel there with the intention of developing the area as a resort. Holding the reunion at that location served the dual purpose of showcasing the scenic beauty of Mount Kumgang and providing advance publicity for Mirae Group’s upcoming tourism development project.
Despite the smooth progress, two small clouds remained. One of them was an accusation aimed directly at Yoo Jae-won. Among the winning families, applicants from the Busan region had appeared at more than twice the rate of any other area. Some critics suggested that the Tongil National Party, which was politically weak in Busan, had rigged the lottery to boost its chances in the upcoming general election.
“For heaven’s sake, I can’t even talk to a computer. How am I supposed to manipulate a completely random draw?”
Yoo Jae-won was exasperated. The program produced different results every time it ran; rigging it to favor a specific region was impossible. The source code had been verified in advance, yet people were still making baseless claims.
The other issue was a reckless remark from Japan. The Japanese colonial-era victim lawsuits had triggered a judicial corruption scandal in Korea, and the country was now positioned to begin a proper reckoning with its history. President Kim had taken a hard line toward Japan, symbolized by the demolition of the former Government-General building. Japan had demanded that even the bricks be shipped back to Japan for their “historical value,” but President Kim’s resolve had not wavered.
Just as inter-Korean relations were rapidly improving and the first family-reunion event was drawing global media attention to the peninsula, a right-wing Japanese politician declared that Dokdo was Japanese territory. He also claimed that North Korea’s conciliatory posture was merely a smokescreen to hide its nuclear ambitions and accused the world of being deceived.
The statement provoked an immediate backlash in Korea, while anti-Korean sentiment surged in Japan. Right-wing Japanese media outlets called for economic retaliation, urging consumers to boycott Korean products.
“They really do have a talent for saying ridiculous things. And they’re so two-faced about it.”
The truly amusing part was that several of the media outlets loudly demanding economic sanctions were the same ones that constantly begged Shin-Nihon Investment Bank for advertising. The Nikkei’s recent rebound had been driven largely by the strong performance of companies affiliated with Shin-Nihon Investment Bank. Those same companies had the budget to place generous advertisements, yet even the right-wing press was now whining.
Although Shin-Nihon Investment Bank sounded Japanese, it was in fact a Korean-owned firm. Ordinary citizens might be fooled, but journalists certainly knew the truth.
“Well, a handful of right-wing politicians and media outlets don’t represent all of Japan.”
There was another development. A new Korean cultural wave appeared to be emerging in Japan. Among Japanese students, a massive boom was underway for something called “Purikura.” The name sounded unfamiliar, but it was simply the Japanese term for sticker photo booths. After visiting the ID Technopialand pavilion at the Daejeon Expo, Itochu Corporation had immediately sought a licensing deal, which was quickly concluded. In Japan the machines were marketed under the brand “Print Club,” which Japanese pronunciation had shortened to “Purikura.”
The primary users were middle- and high-school girls. They loved the fact that stepping into the booth produced instantly beautified photos with flattering effects applied automatically. Yoo Jae-won had already developed the camera filters for future mobile phones, and their quality far surpassed the earlier Purikura trend. Users could also add text and icons to the on-screen image or transform their appearance into something comical. Although each session cost a thousand yen, the Purikura booths in busy districts had lines stretching around the block.
Adults also responded positively. The machines offered not only beauty filters but also a formal ID-photo mode that removed blemishes and refined facial contours without distorting the original image. In some cases the results were better than professional studio portraits.
As Purikura became a nationwide sensation, Yoo Jae-won’s profits grew substantially. In addition to the already-paid licensing fee, he earned significant margins on equipment supply. Most importantly, he received ten percent of all sales as royalties, and because ID Technology also supplied the special ink and photo paper, his overall share exceeded fifty percent.
Japanese media were well aware of these figures. Some tried to frame the success as Korean exploitation of Japan or a drain on national wealth, but the machines were already so deeply entrenched among high-school girls that the criticism had no effect. Orders continued to flood in from Japan; more than a thousand units were already reserved, and if the pace held, ten thousand units within a year was not impossible.
Buoyed by the Japanese success, formal distribution in Korea was scheduled to begin soon, and serious discussions were underway with major American retailers. The only bottleneck was manufacturing capacity. TG’s facilities were already at maximum output, so additional OEM contracts were being negotiated with specialized factories in the Incheon industrial complex.
“And finally, the U.S. Congress.”
The last document open on the Shell Book resting on Yoo Jae-won’s lap was a summary of the American legislative situation. The public outrage over comment-section abuse had become a major political issue after Yoo Jae-won’s round of television interviews. Congressional hearings on new legislation were now underway. Thanks to the lobbyists Remington had confidently predicted would deliver, most lawmakers were receptive to Yoo Jae-won’s core proposal: any paid promotional content had to be clearly disclosed. Comment manipulation could simply be classified as advertising.
Opposition existed, of course. Companies and individuals who had profited from undisclosed advertising pushed back. As a compromise, lawmakers were discussing applying the rules first to the internet and then expanding them to traditional media if the initial results proved satisfactory.
The hearings had also taken up Yoo Jae-won’s long-standing call for stronger personal-data protection laws online, including rules governing collection, storage, and corporate liability in the event of a breach. If the United States enacted such legislation, Korea would almost certainly follow suit.
“Jae-won!”
A bright, cheerful voice cut through his concentration. Tiffany stood before him, her parents smiling warmly behind her.
“Hello! Father, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Yoo Jae-won.”
Yoo Jae-won carefully set Tiffany down after she ran into his arms and offered a polite greeting. He had met Tiffany’s mother, Marina Fink, several times, but this was his first encounter with her father. Stephen D. Fink had always been away whenever Yoo Jae-won visited their home. Still, wedding and family photographs had given him a clear idea of the man’s appearance, which eased the awkwardness.
“Yes, it’s good to finally meet you. Tiffany and my wife have talked about you so much my ears are practically falling off. I was actually a fan of yours even before that, though I suppose you’ve forgotten. Anyway, it’s a pleasure! Stephen D. Fink. I run a modest little private-equity fund called Blackstone.”
“Blackstone?”
The secret surrounding Tiffany’s father was finally revealed—though it had never really been a secret. Yoo Jae-won had simply never been curious about what Tiffany’s father did for a living. Now the reason Tiffany rode the top-of-the-line Model 1 electric bicycle became obvious. Blackstone was one of the world’s largest private-equity firms; at its peak in the late 2010s it had managed enormous assets. Even now it oversaw roughly forty-two billion dollars. That capital belonged to investors, not to Stephen personally, but the ability to attract such sums spoke volumes about his capability.
Stephen’s self-proclaimed fandom of Yoo Jae-won was directly tied to Blackstone’s performance. When the American market had looked hopeless, he had followed ID Investment’s move into Japanese Nikkei futures. Later, when ID Investment increased its technology holdings, Stephen had done the same with his own fund. Copying someone else’s strategy was easy when results were already visible, but doing so when the move still looked risky required real nerve. Thanks to Yoo Jae-won, Blackstone’s returns had been excellent, and Stephen’s goodwill toward him had grown accordingly. When his only daughter began dating the man, Stephen could hardly have been happier.
“Congratulations on the Android Corporation listing as well. The stock is already at thirty-six dollars and fifty cents? Remarkable! Our fund holds a fair amount, so I’ll be counting on you going forward.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
Once the listing was complete, Yoo Jae-won had stopped actively managing Android Corporation’s share price. That did not mean he was abandoning the company; he simply refused to engage in artificial price support such as share buybacks. As long as the operating system remained stable and new products continued to be developed, the stock would rise on its own.
“By the way, I must say I’m rather envious of you.”
“Pardon?”
“I only got to meet my father-in-law after Tiffany was born. You, on the other hand, haven’t even married yet and you’ve already been invited aboard his private jet. That means he’s already accepted you. Of course, if I were the father-in-law, seeing the Android listing would have been enough to win me over. That’s why he sent the jet, I suppose.”
It turned out that Stephen’s own father-in-law— Tiffany’s maternal grandfather—had opposed Marina and Stephen’s marriage. Only after Tiffany’s birth had he reluctantly given his blessing.
“Dad!”
“Honey!”
The story was amusing, but hearing it stated so bluntly in front of the people involved left Yoo Jae-won unsure where to look. Fortunately, Tiffany and her mother intervened at the same time, sparing him further embarrassment.
“Well, we can talk more on the plane.”
Stephen led the way, guiding Tiffany, her mother, and Yoo Jae-won toward the VIP gate reserved for private-jet passengers rather than the regular check-in counters. Yoo Jae-won was already familiar with the route from previous company-chartered flights.
“That’s the model. Quite impressive, isn’t it?”
When Stephen pointed out the aircraft, Yoo Jae-won’s jaw dropped. It was a Gulfstream, a popular choice among the wealthy, but the logo on the vertical stabilizer was nothing like what he had expected. Chevron—the double-chevron emblem of one of the world’s seven major oil companies—was emblazoned clearly on the tail.