How I Rode the K-Coin Wave in South America

Ding! Ding! Ding!

My phone had been going berserk since the crack of dawn. A call? No. A text? Not that either.

"What the hell is this?"

Still half-asleep, I squinted at the screen. Notifications from Stargram — an app I had joined years ago to keep up with friends, and absolutely not to look at bikini photos — were cascading down like a waterfall.

The notification count had already blown past 999+.

"W-what... is going on?"

I opened the app in a daze. My account, @UJIN0813 — which had exactly one selfie posted, taken on a San Marcos beach — showed a follower count of...

"2.25 million?"

Yesterday the number had been zero. Overnight it had exploded to two million two hundred and fifty thousand, and even as I stared, the counter was still climbing in real time.

The DMs were even worse.

"Huh..."

I was still sitting there, completely unable to process any of it, when a knock sounded and Isabella stepped in.

"Your Excellency, good morning. Would you care for coffee?"

"Ah, Isabella. Good morning... well, maybe not that good. Any idea what's going on? My phone's about to explode."

I held up the smartphone. Isabella offered a faint smile and handed me a tablet.

"It seems you haven't heard the news yet."

"The news?"

"Have a look."

The tablet displayed the front page of a Korean web portal.

"You've got to be kidding me."

The further I scrolled, the more my jaw dropped. I had become a hero in Korea. And not just a hero — an enormous one.

"How... how did this even happen? I thought we'd put an unlimited embargo on all of this."

"According to Director Lucio, news of San Marcos ran in a Florida daily. From there, it appears to have spread to Korea."

"The United States?"

"A considerable number of San Marcos immigrants live in Florida, and we did substitute food shipments for the reparations. The story seems to have traveled in the process."

"That's fine, but..."

I pointed at a video whose thumbnail alone made my face burn.

"Why does this exist?"

"Korea's National Intelligence Service moved first, apparently concerned that negative opinion might take hold."

"Something about that feels off..."

"It does. In my assessment, the coverage failed to capture even a tenth of Your Excellency's greatness. Shall I dispatch agents to Korea immediately?"

"No."

Why would we send agents into someone else's country? I shook my head, realizing that Isabella and I were operating on entirely different wavelengths.

"There is an upside, at least."

Isabella held out a document.

"Korea's three major television networks and the newspapers have submitted official requests for coverage."

"And why is that an upside?"

"It is an opportunity to spread word of Your Excellency's greatness to the homeland."

"...Just decline them. Please."

"Tch."

Isabella clicked her tongue and produced another document.

"Also... we have received a communication from the Korean government through official diplomatic channels."

"The government?"

"Yes. They have expressed a desire to establish an embassy in San Marcos."

"An embassy... now that one's tempting."

Korea and San Marcos had established diplomatic relations, but there was no embassy. If one opened, it would help draw Korean tourists, and the odds of Korean companies expanding here would rise considerably.

"Not bad. We should look for a good site."

"There is one problem, however."

"A problem?"

"They expressed concern that San Marcos remains under martial law."

Ah. Right. I had declared martial law. I'd gotten so used to it I'd forgotten.

"Hmm... yeah, that tracks."

It really did. Even if I were the president of Korea, I wouldn't send my own people into a country under martial law.

"Perhaps we should take a little more time?"

"No."

I shook my head, firm.

"Now is the moment. When the tide comes in, you row. While the boom is on, we bring in Korean tourists and Korean companies."

"But because of martial law..."

"Then we lift martial law."

"...I beg your pardon?"

Isabella's eyes went round.

"Yes. The civil war is already over, public order is fully under control, and the people behind the terrorism are on the verge of being arrested. There's no reason for the army to keep occupying the streets, is there?"

"That may be so, but..."

"If anything, keeping martial law in place only increases the burden on civilians."

"But if the army leaves, the security we barely established could unravel. Given the old crime rates, maintaining martial law would seem to be the correct course."

"Our people aren't that bad. Honestly, they used to steal and rob because they were hungry. Almost nobody is starving now. Let's trust them."

"Mm... understood. I will discuss the lifting procedures with Marshal Pedro."

"Good. Handle that, and get in touch with Korean airlines about a direct flight to San Marcos... actually, no. I'll take that up with Senior Secretary Aman myself."

"Yes, sir."

I still had no idea what kind of thunderbolt had just dropped on my head.

A few days later, Eugene went on national television and declared the lifting of martial law.

Eugene's expression brimmed with confidence. And why wouldn't it? After everything he had been through. He still couldn't step down — not with worries about the next administration, and not after his retirement fund had been "donated" out from under him — but it felt as though he had just cleared the first stage on the road ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to retirement.

Looks like I've crossed the first ridge.

There was one fact, however, that he had overlooked.

The truth was, martial law had never meant all that much in the great nation of San Marcos to begin with. There was one state television station and one state newspaper, which meant press freedom had never existed in the first place, and the National Assembly had been dissolved ages ago by former President Juan. More than anything, the very concepts of protest and public assembly simply did not exist in the minds of San Marcan citizens.

After centuries of colonial rule and dictatorship, ordinary people gathered for exactly two reasons: to join a gang and commit crimes, or to drink, dance, and raise hell at a wedding.

Public security, of course, remained a real problem. San Marcos had never risen against its own government, but it was still a country in Latin America, and its two leading local products were street gangs and young men who could become street gangs at any moment. Isabella and Pedro, however, had prepared for that with meticulous care.

They invented a new concept called Special Police Companies, dressed soldiers in police uniforms instead of military ones, and stationed them at police precincts. One company was assigned to each of Libertad's five stations. These "police" were armed not with pistols and batons but with assault rifles and machine guns. Police in name only, they were in practice an army purpose-built for urban warfare.

And that was not the end of it.

"We're short on police, so the army sent support — we should fill the army back up by the same number."

Operating on the miraculous logic that sending a hundred men entitled him to receive a hundred in return, Pedro skimmed one company of halfway decent officers from the existing police force and folded them into a bizarre new unit called the Military Police Corps.

The net result was that whether martial law was lifted or not, men with guns were watching the streets just the same.

Still, one thing did change, exactly as Eugene had intended.

"Yo, you hear? The curfew's been lifted!"

"For real? So we can drink all night?"

The nighttime curfew that had begun at ten o'clock was gone. And so Eugene stood in the Presidential Palace late into the night, gazing out at a glittering Libertad, and felt a deep, quiet pride.

Feels damn good, giving the people their freedom.

He had no idea that special police with machine guns were watching those night streets.

Having crossed the great mountain of lifting martial law, Eugene's next move was to arrange lodging — hotels and the like. The Korean embassy was confirmed, and businesspeople and tourists would be coming. The problem was that there was nowhere decent to put them.

"It's a real problem. We can lend the official residences to the businesspeople, but there's no solution for tourists."

"We've already secured a few sites, so we could break ground now..."

While Eugene sat buried in the problem, Senior Secretary for Resources and Tourism Lessa Morena raised her hand. She had been his secretary and housekeeper back when he was Minister of Resources and Tourism, and in the latest civil service competency evaluation she had astonishingly taken first in her department, earning a meteoric promotion. A self-made legend.

"Your Excellency, I have an idea."

"Let's hear it."

"What if we made use of the empty houses?"

"Empty houses? We have those?"

"We purchase the gangsters' homes."

"...Come again?"

"These are landscape photos I took while conducting a separate survey."

Lessa brought the pictures up on her tablet. Luxury mansions stood on scenic hills on the outskirts of Libertad. Swimming pools were standard, the gardens sprawling, the interiors finished in marble that would not have lost to a five-star hotel.

"These belonged to the gang bosses and officers currently working in the Central Basin. They sit empty now, with no owners."

She swiped to the next set of photos.

"These are the mansions the gang members used as hideouts. As you can see, they're relatively new construction."

"Lessa, you're not suggesting..."

"We remodel the estates into hotels or resorts, and convert the in-city hideouts into guesthouses or hostels."

"Oh...!"

Eugene slapped his knee.

"Now that is an excellent idea! Those guys won't be coming back anyway — they're too busy growing corn out in nature — so the houses are just a headache for them. If the government buys them at a fair price, it's a win-win."

He said it with genuine delight.

"That's our Senior Secretary Lessa."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

Lessa smiled, bashful.

Director Lucio of the SIA, however, heard a different conversation.

The moment the meeting ended, Lucio summoned his aide.

"Assemble the agents. Leave for the Central Basin immediately."

"Sir? Why the Central Basin all of a sudden..."

Lucio covered his mouth and whispered, his voice gone cold.

"His Excellency wants the real estate those gang bastards own. No discussion. Tell them to hand it all over."

"Understood. And the purchase price — how should we set it?"

"Purchase price?"

Lucio let out a short, contemptuous laugh.

"We're recovering criminal proceeds for the national treasury. Why would we need a purchase price? Bring it back as a voluntary donation."

"Ah..."

"If anyone says they can't, cut off a finger if you have to and stamp their seal on the donation certificate. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Understood."

And so the government of San Marcos marched diligently onward, same as every other day.