Headlines Shift and a Fatal Shock
Five minutes or so had passed since Yoo Jae-won ended his call with Lee Jae-hong on ID Talk. “It’s changing already.”
The front page of Nextcom Korea’s news section began to refresh. The sensational story about a brutal game that had dominated the top spot slid downward, replaced by a new headline: “North Korea–U.S. Summit Talks Growing More Likely! White House Signals Openness to Dialogue with Pyongyang.”
“Lee Jae-hong has a good head on his shoulders.”
Watching the live updates, Yoo Jae-won gave the young manager high marks. Instead of simply deleting every article tied to Park Sang-han as ordered, Lee had begun filling the prime real estate with comparable stories of equal weight. That showed real judgment.
Yoo Jae-won would have been perfectly content to see every fabricated piece about Park Sang-han vanish outright. Those articles had never followed any journalistic standard; the sooner they disappeared, the better for everyone. But Lee Jae-hong understood the practical reality. If every story linking Park Sang-han to gaming vanished at once, the sudden silence itself would become the next headline. So he worked quietly, swapping one major story for another.
Fortunately, Korea had no shortage of other newsworthy events. Chief among them was the push for a North Korea–U.S. summit. Just as the inter-Korean summit had briefly eased tensions on the peninsula, a successful meeting between Pyongyang and Washington would reshape the entire political landscape of East Asia. President Kim’s earlier phone calls with President Clinton and the dispatch of special envoys had been overshadowed by the Park Sang-han scandal; now those efforts could breathe again.
— National Assembly agrees to convene special session, prioritize non-controversial bills first.
— Personal Information Protection Act, Internet Advertising Act, and others.
“At least that’s good news.”
The notification arrived while Yoo Jae-won was still watching the page refresh. When he entrusted a task to Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook, visible results always followed. These were the very bills ID Group had the most to gain or lose from, yet Yoo Jae-won personally welcomed them more than he could say.
Korea was a country where citizens were watched far more closely than in the United States. Few nations issued every citizen a resident registration number and required a photograph on the card. That same culture of meticulous oversight had carried over to the internet. Sites were beginning to ask not only for resident registration numbers but also home addresses and family details upon registration. Even ID Group’s own Korean services required these fields; the law left internet companies little choice.
The clause had originally been written for landline telephones. When wired phones first became widespread, Korean politicians had been most concerned with national security. If the state was to manage the communications network, it needed reliable records of every individual who picked up a receiver.
The new Personal Information Protection Act changed the equation. It allowed internet companies to decide for themselves how much personal data they would collect, while dramatically increasing their liability if that data leaked. In the event of a breach, the operating company would be held responsible, with damages starting at a minimum of 100,000 won per person. In the most serious cases, executives could even face prison time.
One particularly sharp clause allowed for class-action lawsuits. If a court awarded damages, the ruling would apply to every victim in the affected group, eliminating the need for repeated individual suits.
“After a few companies go under because their customer data got stolen, everyone will start paying attention.”
With the legal value of personal information now fixed at 100,000 won per person, the old days of leaking millions of records and paying a mere five-million-won fine were over. A single breach of one million records would mean at least 100 billion won in compensation—an amount that would terrify even the largest conglomerates. Security would suddenly become a top priority, and the security industry itself would grow rapidly.
The trend was already visible. Kim Cheol-su, the medical student who had created the V6 vaccine program, had abandoned his original career path and founded a venture company. Kim Lab, as it was commonly known, specialized in antivirus software tailored for the Android OS. Even after the shift to a Unix-based kernel, V6 remained the fastest to support Android. As Android’s market share surpassed 90 percent and the number of internet users exploded, viruses multiplied. The antivirus market grew with them. Kim Cheol-su’s V6 became widely used both in Korea and abroad, attracting investment and even buyout offers from major foreign security firms such as McAfee and Norton.
Of course, the stricter penalties drew complaints. Some argued that such heavy fines would discourage internet startups. Yet the same law contained several provisions favorable to the industry: the amount of mandatory personal information was reduced, and companies gained freedom to choose their own authentication and security methods.
For ordinary users, the law was also welcome. Unless they themselves had mismanaged their passwords, they could expect compensation without lifting a finger. And companies would no longer be forced to install cumbersome external programs just to meet arbitrary government standards. Yoo Jae-won’s well-known aversion to ActiveX had helped bring the new legislation into being. Now that he effectively controlled Microsoft, ActiveX-style requirements were unlikely to reappear anyway, but the law removed any remaining possibility.
The Internet Advertising Act was modeled directly on its American counterpart. Every commercial advertisement online had to be clearly labeled as such, and abusive practices were prohibited.
“As expected, the fastest way to move Korea is to use America as leverage.”
When the United States moved, Korea still followed—even in the mid-21st century. The advertising law was, in practice, also an election law; the restrictions on manipulation carried significant political weight. Established politicians had no desire to see a new medium upend the existing power structure, so agreement came quickly.
The law would make life harder for those hoping to ride the internet wave to sudden prominence, but Yoo Jae-won was unconcerned. Anyone with genuine ability would rise regardless. What mattered was that the internet’s greatest weakness—manipulation—now had a meaningful check.
“That takes care of the internet side.”
Having confirmed the changes on Nextcom’s front page, Yoo Jae-won reopened ID Talk. Only one outlet had dropped the Park Sang-han story so far; the real work was just beginning.
ding!
— Chairman, this is Choi Kang-wook.
The message arrived at the perfect moment. Yoo Jae-won had been about to click on Choi’s name when the notification appeared.
— Sorry to keep you waiting. The Personal Information Protection Act and the Internet Advertising Act will both pass during the special session on June 22.
“Ah, I just saw the article. It didn’t mention a date, though. Is it confirmed?”
— Yes. It should appear on the evening news. We couldn’t get a firm date on the labor law or other economic reform bills; those still require more discussion.
“Two out of the package is faster than I expected. Well done.”
Yoo Jae-won had never expected the labor law or class-action provisions to sail through in a single session. Major clashes were inevitable, and a last-minute procedural vote might still be necessary. Korea’s current economic boom made serious debate on labor reform difficult, yet Yoo Jae-won already saw multiple warning lights flashing. When the global economy eventually turned—and it would—the sudden outflow of foreign capital could trigger a far larger crisis than before.
The two major labor federations believed workers had finally begun to enjoy some prosperity and suspected that greedy capitalists were using the boom as an excuse to dismantle regular employment. Yoo Jae-won could not tell them what he had seen in his previous life. Fortunately, public opinion remained manageable. Most politicians in the National Assembly leaned pro-business, and the public was not especially fond of the labor federations, whose leadership was dominated by activist circles.
Still, the political landscape suggested the labor law would ultimately pass in a form Yoo Jae-won could accept. Large corporations would gain a new employment category—non-regular workers—even with restrictions attached. They would undoubtedly push to expand that category further, but Yoo Jae-won intended to block any excessive growth.
“About the Park Sang-han incident—doesn’t it feel strange to you?”
After receiving Choi Kang-wook’s full report on legislation and current affairs, Yoo Jae-won returned to the matter that had been bothering him.
— Yes, I’ve been thinking the same thing.
Choi’s reply came at once. In Korea, he served as Yoo Jae-won’s perfect second-in-command. He participated in actual management decisions and received intelligence reports almost on par with Yoo Jae-won’s own. He could not have missed the growing media trend that linked the Park Sang-han case to gaming in order to attack ID Group.
— The Daehan Ilbo started it, and quite a few outlets have followed. There are also reports that certain companies are encouraging the narrative.
Choi Kang-wook was one step ahead. In Yoo Jae-won’s previous life, the same attempt to blame gaming for the crime had occurred. He had assumed the current attacks were simply opportunistic, not deliberately orchestrated.
— We’re still in the investigation phase, so I haven’t prepared a formal report yet.
“Understood. Let me know once it’s ready. And I have no intention of letting the Park Sang-han matter slide.”
— Yes, sir. We’ll take every measure available.
That was enough between them. Yoo Jae-won saw no need to spell out instructions about pulling advertising or preparing rebuttals. Yet he believed those steps alone would be insufficient. To prevent any future attempt to link violent crime with gaming, simply disciplining the media would not be enough. The public itself needed to be convinced.
“Is there any chance of a prime-time debate program covering the Park Sang-han case?”
— A prime-time debate? KBS has its late-night discussion show. Are you considering appearing yourself?
The 100-minute debate format did not yet exist. The late-night program was currently the only serious current-affairs discussion show on air.
“Yes. I’d like to go on and clear up the misunderstandings myself.”
Too many debate programs missed the real issues. A discussion about the Park Sang-han case would almost certainly veer off course. Yoo Jae-won knew his own presence would guarantee high viewership. If he appeared and delivered the facts with force, public opinion could be turned around.
— Hmm. Chairman, weren’t you planning to focus on the next Android version in Redmond?
“It’s fine. There’s the mobile phone pilot service and the Jeju Island investment to check on anyway. The timing works for a quick trip back to Korea.”
— I see. Understood.
Recognizing the firmness in Yoo Jae-won’s tone, Choi Kang-wook offered no further objection. No producer at KBS would turn down the chance to host him. Negotiations moved swiftly, and a date was nearly finalized.
Then, just days before his departure, in the final week of June, an event no one had anticipated struck without warning.
— Kim Il-sung is dead!
The breaking news from North Korea’s Korean Central Television spread across Korea and then the entire world in less than an hour.