May: The Queen of Seasons
May—the queen of seasons. I sat in a café overlooking Banpo Hangang Park, nursing a cup of coffee while watching children run wild across the grass. They never seemed to tire. It was as if their stamina had no limit. In truth, I was only resting because my head was pounding. The reason? The document sitting in front of me: Corporate Acquisition Plan.
A week after I asked Director Jo, the file had arrived. It came from a small M&A boutique in Yeouido called Boutique. I didn’t know much about them, only that they were an accounting firm. The quality was excellent—clearly the work of professionals. Good enough that I was willing to pay for it.
Three companies were listed, each with strengths, weaknesses, budget requirements, specialties, and locations.
The first was Augen. Its strength lay in a single high-margin product protected by patents. Its weakness was the lack of scalability that came with relying on one product. Cash flow from sales was decent, but internal culture had collapsed due to employee embezzlement. The drop in brand recognition from the scandal had cut into revenue, which was why the company was on the market. Asking price: 5 billion won, assuming assumption of debt.
The second was Tripolion. Its main asset was a large factory site with room to expand production capacity. The product line consisted of contract manufacturing for a major pharmaceutical company. The downside was its location in the provinces—difficult to attract research talent and poor accessibility. The budget was 30 billion won, of which roughly 20 billion was tied up in real estate. The report noted high investment potential, but also flagged the risk: if the parent pharmaceutical company terminated the contract, the business would collapse. Still, the note added that the parent did not currently operate its own replacement facility, so the usual power dynamic between client and contractor was reversed.
The last was Geon-guk Medical. Its advantage was that the president himself came from an R&D background, so investment in research and infrastructure was solid. The fatal flaw was that management could not sell; the company was bleeding money. Budget: 10 billion won. It had been surviving on government subsidies, but recent cuts had hit it hard.
I read through everything and still felt lost. One moment the numbers were in the millions, the next they jumped to hundreds of millions. It made my chest tighten. I called an executive meeting. When in doubt, ask.
Even Hamo and Director Jo admitted the scale of the business required careful study. I asked the questions that mattered most: funding sources, factory locations, any overlap with our organization, and operational plans. Just as I was about to wrap up and schedule another meeting for next week, Hamo changed the subject.
“Boss, Director Jo was worried. Where exactly did you source the weapons?”
—Hamo (37.0)
North Korea… I didn’t want to lie to Hamo, but some things still needed to stay hidden.
“I got them from someone I know. Is there a problem?”
—GB (38.1)
“Dangerous transactions should be left to the security team. That’s what we’re paid for.”
—Hamo (37.0)
I had used the security team when buying the weapons. Maybe he misunderstood. The next line made his real meaning clear.
“We need a dedicated combat unit. I’d like to recommend someone for team-leader level. I’ll send the résumé.”
—Hamo (37.0)
Ah. He wanted me to hand the work over to professionals. He was right. In Korea, openly carrying firearms while riding around in Brotherhood Welfare Center vehicles was already pushing it.
That afternoon the résumé arrived.
Name: Lee Myeongsu
Gender: Male
Age: Born 1992
Education: High school graduate
Experience: Former Special Forces sergeant, counter-terrorism unit, overseas deployment, combat experience.
The résumé was short, but the man described was clearly no ordinary person. A walking weapon, maybe?
“Hamo, this guy is way overqualified. He doesn’t fit our organization.”
—GB (38.1)
“It’s fine. Once he leaves the military he’s just another unemployed guy.”
—Hamo (37.0)
Something in his tone suggested he already knew the man.
“He’s my younger brother.”
—Hamo (37.0)
So this was a proper nepotism request. Korea really was a country built on school ties, regional ties, and blood ties. The news had said so, and it seemed true. My connection with Hamo must run deeper than I thought—now even his brother was joining the operation.
The next day I went down to the Brotherhood Welfare Center and conducted the interview. He passed without question. His presence alone felt like that of the leader of the Trio brothers. When I asked what salary he wanted, he told me to decide. Yet his eyes were wary.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
So I answered the only way that made sense.
“Let’s spar.”
We spoke with our bodies. He was good—very good. I was about to suggest we call it a day and grab a meal when he spoke again.
“Next time, bring a weapon. Even a simple one. You handle them well.”
I had been caught. The truth always stung. Still, the security team already had plenty of seniors. I worried about how to integrate him.
When I mentioned it to Hamo, he said the hierarchy issue had already been settled. Age, ability, and position had placed Lee Myeongsu at the top. That made sense. Even I had felt the pressure. We decided he would start as an assistant manager with a four-man team beneath him—promoting him straight to manager would have looked odd.
I gave him his initial orders: maintain existing duties, run training, and build team cohesion. I also briefed him on the organization’s current situation—the North Korea matter, the China matter, and the dangerous missions that would come. Lately the orders had been quiet, but there could still be simple errands—deliveries, that sort of thing. I told him about the members’ physical condition and training levels.
He summed it up in one sentence.
“If it can’t be done, make it happen. That’s the phrase I’ve lived by for half my life.”
Reliable. In the mornings we trained together. In the afternoons he attended Director Jo’s lectures. Director Jo would have made an elite deputy director long ago if his body had held up. He was sharp—almost unnervingly so.
We visited all three companies the M&A firm had recommended and gathered more information.
Augen’s factory was idle. Only two employees remained, red headbands tied around their foreheads. I turned the car around the moment I saw them. A company that couldn’t even pay wages wasn’t worth considering. If I ever went bankrupt, I decided, wages and severance would still be paid.
Tripolion’s site in Jeongeup was an empty plain. The sign at the industrial complex entrance stood alone; no other buildings nearby. Far off I could see an SK sign, but the area looked undeveloped.
“Those three blocks all belong to the company,” the guard told me. A pharmaceutical company with that much land? It was the size of a football stadium. The guard said production was running normally and salaries were paid on time, but recruiting new workers was difficult because the area was so isolated.
Geon-guk Medical was in Hwaseong, inside an apartment-style factory building that looked more like an ordinary office than a research facility. No one spoke to me when I entered. The youngest-looking employee finally answered my question: it was a pharmaceutical company. When I asked what they made, he gave a vague “this and that” and barely hid his irritation.
First impressions: only the second company had potential. I told them to focus contact efforts there. The next day they returned with new information. The data had been wrong. Director Jo and I spoke with the partner remotely; he apologized repeatedly. I told him we had simply gone for a look around, which only made him more apologetic.
The first and third companies were legitimate sale targets. The second was preparing for an IPO and was looking for investors, not a buyer.
Disappointing. Still, I asked whether it was a worthwhile investment anyway. The partner explained the options—something between a private loan and a lottery ticket. There were priority purchase rights that could explode in value after listing, and convertible bonds that paid interest or could be swapped for stock later. I only half-listened once he started talking about preferred shares. When he realized I was interested, he launched into a full sales pitch. Thanks to the fake accountant I had once employed, I understood enough to know the real problem: I would have no control. The risk was too high. An IPO would draw scrutiny from regulators, shareholders, and investors alike. I had no desire to explain where tens or hundreds of billions had come from. The National Tax Service, police, or prosecutors would come knocking the moment the money appeared under my name.