New Beginnings (27)

There’s an old saying that generosity flows from a full granary. That’s exactly how I felt. With 33 kilograms of inventory sitting in reserve, my mind eased and my disposition turned magnanimous. I looked after the logistics department under the deputy director and Seon’s logistics team, checked on the welfare center renovations, pushed forward the farm reconstruction project, and handled every other organizational matter without the slightest friction.

So what did I do? I went on a date. We had planned a two-day, one-night trip—actually, a lifetime itinerary—but the actual time we spent together felt like a minute and two seconds. She said it was exam period. When I asked if it was vacation, she explained that even seasonal semesters have exams. I nodded like I understood, even though I had no idea what she was talking about as a high-school graduate. Still, I wanted to take her somewhere nice, so I made a reservation, but she canceled it saying it was too expensive and dragged me to a tteokbokki place in Sinchon instead. Ramyeon and gimbap. Damn it. But she seemed happy, or maybe I was just happy watching her face, so I followed along with a grin. Thirty million won in date expenses wouldn’t have hurt, yet we only spent thirty thousand and parted ways. I’m supposed to be a capable man—I wired two hundred thousand dollars to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠North Korea just the other day—yet somehow I ended up looking like a broke loser.

After eating at the snack shop, we went to a cheap coffee place nearby. While we were having a cup, Miju spoke up. Money was one thing, she said, but what did I think about studying more? There were national scholarships and other support programs; if I worked part-time, I could probably manage university. She was only studying because her parents insisted, but she thought I could handle both work and school. For a split second I pictured myself doing three bows at Dokdo and five at Yeonpyeongdo, but I swallowed the urge. I told her I’d think about it. The real problem, I admitted, was my major—I didn’t even know what I wanted to do. She smiled softly and said she understood. It felt like I owned the world.

Have you ever heard the term MOU? It stands for Memorandum of Understanding. In Korean—or rather, in Sino-Korean—it’s translated as “yanghae gakseo,” a memorandum of understanding. Originally it referred to a written agreement between nations that, while not carrying the full legal force of a treaty, still held binding power. In diplomatic negotiations, it records mutual positions and commitments even when a formal treaty isn’t reached. Between private companies, an MOU is typically used to confirm and document interim agreements reached during negotiations before the final contract is signed. The final contract may differ from the MOU. An MOU carries no legal enforceability, but breaking it without valid reason invites moral condemnation. However, MOUs between states do carry diplomatic weight. It is one step more advanced than a simple letter of intent (LOI).

Why was I reading this? Because I got a call that morning.

Recent sales reports show your performance is overwhelming. Of course, the main product being cannabis and the per-gram pricing difference play a role, but you seem to have a good head for business.

I almost asked what an MOU was, but I didn’t want to look like an ignorant boss, so I told him to submit a proposal. He said he understood and hung up. I did the right thing, right? Later that afternoon I frantically searched the internet. What kind of agreement was this supposed to be between us? In this market where no one could be trusted, what power did a piece of paper really have?

That same afternoon I received a single-page proposal.

Manager Seon, do we really need to go this far? Fine. Let’s do it. It felt ridiculous—doing business this way only to suddenly have documents flying around and seals needing to be stamped. I called him to find out his exact purpose and the other party involved.

Of course they wouldn’t. Who hangs a signboard when they’re selling this stuff? I asked what exactly they wanted to do—the draft was broad and vague.

Then I received a crash course in Gangnam studies—its history, development, and current state. I learned for the first time that Gangnam was a traditional consumption market. According to Manager Seon, it was purely a demand region. That made sense; anything brought in from outside would be cheaper. I pictured cannabis being grown right in the middle of expensive Gangnam land. So Gangnam would handle distribution to consumers while we supplied the product. Prices were fixed: cannabis at 15,000 won per gram, Blue at 50,000, hashish at 200,000, and the rest negotiated case by case. He said they had already been slipping in little by little and the quality was trusted. As expected, our organization’s quality was its greatest asset. But this would require moving field operatives—could a mere manager-level person handle it? I told him I’d review it and immediately contacted Deputy Director Ha.

I had to ask like the charismatic leader I was. Acting on my own and getting cut out would only hurt me. But Deputy Director Ha hesitated. Why?

What was that? I considered my response. Should I reprimand him, or pretend I already knew? As I said, I was a charismatic leader.

I had no idea.

?? So that “nationwide” thing he mentioned before was this? I asked about the current status, pretending I already knew. Two agents in Itaewon, two in Bucheon and Incheon, and two in Gyeongnam and Busan. I really didn’t know my own organization. I only just realized who the manager in Gyeongnam was—Cheongnok’s older brother. We had one of the founding members stuck at manager level. I felt ashamed. When he gave me the organizational résumé last time, I hadn’t recognized the ID. He must have still been a junior agent or entry-level back then. Judging from how he used to sell product, probably a junior agent.

Getting to the point, I asked what he thought of Manager Seon’s proposal and how the organization should respond. He told me to wait a moment. I had a feeling he was calling Director Jo. Having both pillars of the organization together made me uneasy, but I left them alone because they were genuinely invested in remodeling and running the welfare center. If even one of them got ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠caught, I’d probably be dragged in too. I had to stay clear. According to their assessment, Manager Seon was ambitious and career-oriented, so accepting the proposal would be good for the organization. I agreed—he was the hardest worker among the family members I dealt with directly.

Then? Approve it? Should I only look at the positives? I felt I needed to consider the downsides too. I put on a sharp expression.

Director Jo spoke at length, but it boiled down to two words: fairness and risk. He explained that the scale difference with other managers would be too great. Unlike the others who were limited to a single product, Manager Seon would be able to sell both Blue and cannabis. There had already been internal complaints when he first went independent; giving him even more would spark significant discontent. And the larger the scale, the more attention from authorities—and the greater the risk. He was right. I could end up on a blacklist myself. The thought reminded me to ask.

Shit… Thank you, senior.