The 6.7 Million Dollar Verdict
"The compensation is hereby ruled at 6.7 million dollars. Bang, bang, bang."
The dry voice of the U.S. federal court judge rang out as the gavel slammed down.
6.7 million dollars.
A staggering sum nearing 10 billion won in Korean currency.
Kang Deok-su, sitting in the defendant's seat, felt his eyes shake like there was an earthquake.
It was an unfathomable amount—even if he stripped every asset from the company he'd devoted his life to and his personal fortune bare, he couldn't pay it off.
"Th-this... this is invalid! What the hell did I do wrong! Just for a little stomachache!!"
Kang Deok-su clung to his lawyer, screaming, but the court officers had already seized his arms and were dragging him away with iron grips.
Why on earth had he taken such a reckless, high-risk gamble?
The reason was simple.
'It worked fine in Korea.'
In Kang Deok-su's business world, the law was on his side.
A single phone call to the officials and cops he'd wined and dined with his bros, and any crackdown vanished.
Food poisoning? As long as no one died, it was just a few days of business suspension or a slap-on-the-wrist fine at worst.
He'd shove some hospital bills and hush money at the victims, and they'd sign the settlements.
Bringing that 'Korean bullshit mindset' straight into the land of systems and rule of law—America.
That was his fatal mistake.
The price for ignoring Branch Manager Choi Su-ho's warnings was brutal.
Meanwhile, Choi Su-ho, who had nearly rotted in jail unjustly, was dramatically released.
"This recording file contains all the circumstances."
"Hey, you bastard! If it looks fine on the outside, just ship it! American kids have iron stomachs—they won't die!"
Americans mostly used iPhones, but luckily, Choi Su-ho was on a Korean powerhouse phone with automatic call recording.
That feature proved his innocence.
Face-to-face in the interrogation room with Kang Deok-su, Choi Su-ho unleashed his pent-up rage.
"You fucking dog. You almost ruined my life."
"Hey! Choi Su-ho! How dare you talk to me like that!"
Ptooey!
Choi Su-ho hawked a thick glob of phlegm right into Kang Deok-su's face.
"Rot in an American prison, you piece of shit."
That was the end of it.
Choi Su-ho packed his bags the moment he was freed and bolted to the airport, boarding the next flight back to Korea.
Vowing never to even take a piss in America again.
And Kang Deok-su's downfall didn't stop there.
His wife in Korea, catching wind of the prison sentence and 10-billion-won compensation ruling on the news, immediately filed for divorce at family court.
But asset division? Fat chance.
The U.S. court's fines and compensation orders were set to seize every domestic asset he had.
In the end, before going broke, his wife grabbed whatever cash she could and vanished like a thief in the night.
Family, money, company.
Locked in a cold prison on foreign soil, Kang Deok-su had lost it all.
At that moment, Ji-hoon was staring blankly up at the sky.
"No, I didn't expect it to blow up this big."
I gazed vacantly at the sky, muttering to God.
"Why are you doing this to me, seriously."
The Good Food kimbap poisoning outbreak in Boston.
The fallout was enormous.
The K-Food boom—especially the frozen kimbap that couldn't keep up with demand—had hit a brick wall on exports.
My phone had been blowing up for days.
The callers: Korea's food conglomerates.
Hearing that desperate voice, I snorted inwardly.
'In your dreams.'
No, I couldn't fathom why they'd ask me to fix this.
Look at the situation.
The image of 'kimbap' itself had tanked into the gutter.
U.S. news was calling it 'Salmonella Rolls'—how the hell was I supposed to convince consumers?
I had no confidence. No, I couldn't do it.
Hadn't Korea seen it before?
Ramen lard scandal. Taiwan castella cooking oil controversy.
Once a food gets branded as dangerous or illness-inducing, consumers never open their wallets again.
Clearing that stigma takes years, decades—or the market dies outright.
And they want me to jump in and save it?
"Ridiculous."
Above all, the fundamental question hit me.
'Why the hell should I help?'
Hansang was unequivocally an American corporation.
Paying taxes on U.S. soil, hiring American workers, growing here—an 'American company.'
Just because I'm Korean?
Leaning on that 'we're all in this together' ethnic sentiment?
"What a joke."
I muttered.
Korea had given me more painful scars than good memories.
The 'scammer' label, criminal finger-pointing, the suffocating hell of Hel Joseon.
I'd escaped that place, barely carved out a spot here, and now fellow Koreans were sticking out their hands because 'same blood'?
It made my stomach turn.
Coldly speaking, their downfall wouldn't hurt me. If anything, fewer competitors would solidify Hansang's dominance.
So I decided to ignore them.
The aftershocks of the poisoning scandal were merciless.
FDA inspectors swarmed factories unannounced, tearing through food companies.
Top targets: overseas firms entering the U.S. market.
Korean companies under the K-Food banner got stripped bare.
Poor hygiene, bacteria exceeding limits.
News blared daily lists of violations: business suspensions, fines.
Even local U.S. food companies were getting nailed with correction orders and shutdowns.
But Hansang's lunchbox factory?
We passed with flying colors.
"Unbelievable."
Even the notoriously picky FDA inspectors were shaking their heads in admiration, thumbs up as they left.
Thanks to my philosophy that hygiene comes first in food production, baked into the factory design from day one.
The first factory, running 24/7 full tilt.
I was touring the interior, head to toe in a full white hygiene suit.
Whirr-whirr-whirr!
Massive industrial exhaust fans on the ceiling churned relentlessly, circulating the air.
Crisp, clean air quality.
Before my eyes unfolded the pinnacle of automation.
Sizzle!
On a huge iron griddle, automated rotisseries spun nonstop, stir-frying hundreds of portions of seasoned meat.
Not some worker shoveling with a spatula, but precisely calculated temps and timings.
Next to it, giant vats dwarfing human size bubbled in a row.
Steaming broth vapors vented through pipes, automated ladles scooping exact portions.
Plop, plop, plop.
At the long conveyor belt.
Workers in masks and gloves divided seasoned veggies and kimchi into lunchbox containers with mechanical precision.
No room for error. Pure division of labor.
No chit-chat, no slacking.
"Haha."
I couldn't help but laugh.
Not just from the money rolling in.
Imagining dozens more factories sprouting across California.
Finishing the inspection, heading to the exit, the factory manager trailed me with a tense expression.
"Great work. Hygiene, cooking processes—flawless."
"Thank you, boss! Everyone's been extra vigilant."
"Keep it up like this. FDA shows up, no sweat."
"Yes, boss! Got it."
The office wall had a whiteboard crammed with tiny script: incoming/outgoing logs, hourly checklists.
One glance showed their meticulousness.
"Alright, keep it up~"
"Yes! Take care!"
With the manager seeing me off, I stepped out.
The logistics yard buzzed.
"Back! Back! Okay, stop!"
Wing-body trucks reversed into docks.
Trays opened, spilling fresh veggies straight from the field, meat direct from slaughterhouses.
From our nearby ingredient farms—direct pipeline.
No middlemen: peak freshness, killer prices.
Watching forklifts hustle ingredients inside, I clenched my fist.
Production, manufacturing, consumption.
Perfectly meshed like gears in a machine.
Headquarters logistics team must be swamped building the distribution network.
"Busy, busy."
I hopped in the car for the next schedule.
With the poisoning chaos raging, we had to charge ahead faster.
"Is this luck?"
Pondering it, it felt like the universe's energy was cradling me.
Think about it.
California flu wave birthed 'Korean food = health tonic.'
Competitors' poisonings piled on, handing us massive windfalls.
Business is skill, sure—but timing and luck propel you high, as the old saying goes. Spot on.
The whole situation felt scripted to make me the protagonist.
"Like Truman bro himself."
Even I couldn't gauge how far I'd climb.
California for now—but all stores open, school lunches at 100%, mega food complex potential exploding, distribution locked in?
Covering the entire U.S. in one leap? Not a pipe dream.
Globalizing Korean food? That was never my goal.
I just wanted to make a living after landing here. How'd it snowball like this?
Thinking back, it started after meeting Lily.
"Hmm. What is it? Insanely good compatibility?"
They say living with your perfect match brings luck rolling in.
Can't hurt.
Next Korea trip, drag Lily to a fortune teller for a compatibility reading.
My wife was a total lucky charm, no doubt.
And proof of my fortune luck hit again.
The report on my desk.
The contents were shockingly positive.
'Schools adopting Hansang lunches show significant drop in student obesity rates.'
It started small.
A Berkeley High student posted on a popular U.S. community forum.
The student compared their enrollment physical exam sheet with recent personal checkup results.
No extra exercise.
Just swapping pizza and burgers for school lunches every day—weight down, blood sugar normalized. Testimony post.
It exploded in views, pinging our PR team's radar.
"President, this is our shot. Turn it into official data now."
The PR head charged in, eyes blazing.
We pitched the school—and nearby highs.
"We'll check student health for free. Hansang covers all costs."
No reason for schools to say no.
Parents loved it.
We partnered with local hospitals, sent medical teams, ran exams.
Compared data to enrollment records, crunched stats.
Results...
"Wow."
The graphs didn't lie.
Obesity rates, climbing upward, plunged post-lunch program launch.
Super-obese kids shedding pounds, overall nutrition balanced.
Data proving Korean food was healthy for kids.
"Blast this as a press release, and it'll be pandemonium."
I closed the report with a satisfied grin.
We'd proven a fix for America's chronic obesity plague.