Whispers Before the Storm
“I'm telling you this because I know you two must have worried about everything surrounding this whole affair.”
At the breakfast table, Mother brought up the recent management dispute before she even picked up her spoon, addressing Seon-ah and me. Her tone was calm, but the strain of the past weeks showed through it anyway.
“So it's over for good?”
When my sister Seon-ah asked, eyes wide, Mother shook her head.
“Your granduncle won't be able to touch the company again, but things will stay noisy for a while. Still, it's nothing like a crisis, so don't worry too much.”
“Are you planning to restructure the ownership?”
I tossed the question out casually, as if I had nothing left to hide.
Back when I was playing the high school student, I used to drop hints in roundabout ways. I'd decided that charade was no longer necessary.
I'd gone to see Managing Director Kim Seok-jun, after all, and Mother knew perfectly well how closely I'd been involved in this affair.
She flinched at my direct question, but she didn't deny it — she simply nodded.
“That's right. The company's going to be in an uproar for a time. But don't let it distract you, and don't—”
“Don't worry. I have college entrance exams ahead of me. Studying alone eats up all my time. But Seon-ah and I should at least understand *why* things are going to get noisy.”
At my words, Mother's face relaxed into a smile of relief.
“All right. Then shall we eat?”
“Mother, there were the elders who helped us this time, weren't there? You know, the—”
“The senior advisors?”
“Yes. Shouldn't you host them for a meal or something? I honestly think it's a good thing their names came up when they did.”
People worth taking care of.
Granted, how much practical influence could a handful of retirees really wield? But their symbolic weight within the group, and their value as political capital, remained as strong as ever. If Mother was going to cement her authority as leader, she needed to leave behind the image of a chairman who treated her elders with proper courtesy.
Mother considered it for a moment, then — as if she'd read the thought right out of my head — nodded.
“I'll do that. You're right.”
I felt this was the right place to draw the line on my involvement in the matter. I nodded at her answer and ate the rest of my meal in silence. When we finished, my sister was the first to grab her bag and stand.
“Off to school!”
“Have a good day, sweetheart.”
After Seon-ah left, I was slipping on my shoes and heading for the front door when Mother's voice came from behind me.
“Seon-woo.”
I turned around to find her emerging as well, already dressed for work.
“Yes?”
“Mom got a lot of help from you this time. Thank you.”
“I hardly did anything worth thanking.”
“Going to see Managing Director Kim Seok-jun. Pointing out things I never would have thought of myself. It was because of you that I found the courage.”
“You're the one who had it hardest, Mother. You've been through so much.”
Father had died without warning, and Mother — an ordinary housewife — had been thrown onto a battlefield with no time to prepare. That she had managed to protect the Sunjin Group from vulture relatives and slithering executives was a testament to her own ability.
After all, a hint means nothing if the person receiving it can't recognize it for what it is.
“I'm off to school, then. See you at dinner.”
“All right. Take care.”
The moment I stepped outside through the gate, the crisp morning air filled my lungs. It was the same air I breathed every day, yet today it felt remarkably fresh. My footsteps toward school had never been lighter.
“Senior, over here.”
I was sitting in the café when Han Jae-yi pushed the door open and walked in. Spotting me, she broke into a bright smile and waved like she was genuinely glad to see me.
“Hey, Kang Seon-woo. God, it's been forever.”
Han Jae-yi dropped into the chair across from me and set her bag down.
“How come you never text me?”
“I texted you first. That's why we're meeting right now.”
“Not that — I mean in general. Just a 'how've you been' now and then, you know?”
“I figured no news was good news.”
At my flat answer, Han Jae-yi gave me a look of utter disbelief, then lowered her voice.
“You're doing okay, right?”
“Me?”
“Well... you know, the Sunjin Group's been all over the news lately. It's been nonstop.”
So she had been keeping an eye on it after all.
“I'm fine. As you know, things will quiet down soon. Everything's been settled.”
Only then did Han Jae-yi nod, looking reassured.
“How's school life? The club?”
“You experienced what third year of high school is like just last year, senior. It's killing me.”
Studying for the college entrance exam twice in one lifetime — a fate I'd never asked for — was no small burden. The strange thing, though, was that the more I did it, the more of my old memories came flickering back.
“You're staying at a Korean university?”
“Where else would I go?”
“Well... it's just, chaebol kids usually head off to foreign schools and all that.”
Han Jae-yi glanced around furtively and murmured under her breath.
“Ah, that's just because it's easier to get *in* over there.”
Foreign universities had donation-based admissions systems running in full swing, making them the standard route for chaebol families obsessed with prestigious titles.
“Doesn't matter to me. I'll get in on merit.”
“Wow, quietly annoying, aren't you?”
Han Jae-yi shot me a sidelong glance, then asked again.
“The club?”
“Running smoothly. Min-jae's president now. He's a good kid — looks out for the juniors, and honestly, he's the type who shines when you hand him the real work.”
“Look at you, talking like a grumpy old corporate man.”
Ah. I did it without thinking.
“No, really — watch from the sidelines and that's what you'll see. Unlike the previous president, the kids actually follow him, and even the ones who never bothered showing up to club activities are joining in these days.”
“The previous president would be... me?”
“Hard to say. You're the only president I've known.”
Just as Han Jae-yi bristled and opened her mouth to fire back, I changed the subject first.
“How's the stock investing going?”
The expression on Han Jae-yi's face — one that had been seconds from erupting — brightened instantly.
“Oh, it's going. I actually brought this today to show you.”
Han Jae-yi dug through her bag and slid a crisp sheet of A4 paper across the table. It was a trading log printed out from her brokerage's HTS.
“Seriously, how on earth did you know about the impeachment and the China shock? Just like you said, when the market slid, that turned out to be the real opportunity.”
During our last phone call, I'd dropped a casual hint.
The market's about to collapse. That's when you strike.
Skimming the trading log, I could see she had understood my hint precisely and moved into aggressive accumulation.
“A chaebol kid, remember? Either way, you started buying heavily from this point.”
“Exactly. Did you check the market today?”
“I did.”
As if the impeachment crisis and the China shock had never happened, the stock market was burning hot.
“Foreigners are going on a Buy Korea spree.”
In this era, domestic retail investors and institutions, paralyzed by fear, had dumped their shares wholesale — while ironically, foreign investors had been scooping them up in bulk. Thanks to that, the market was riding an unprecedented bull run.
“That's how I made a killing too. You can see it right here...”
“Heavy on construction stocks, I see?”
I lifted my eyes from the paper and looked at Han Jae-yi.
“There's a common thread to these construction companies. Can you tell me what it is?”
“They're all construction-related firms with strong footholds in the Chungcheong region.”
*Ding ding ding! Correct!*
“The administrative capital relocation theme, right?”
At my words, Han Jae-yi nodded, practically glowing with excitement.
“I started picking them up in March. They're up a full 40 percent already. And they're going higher.”
“Then sell them.”
“What?”
“The capital relocation. It's not happening.”
Han Jae-yi's eyes went round.
Right around this time, another ruling was scheduled to shake the nation. The Constitutional Court was about to throw a roadblock in front of the government's ambitious plan to move the administrative capital to the Chungcheong region.
The theme stocks, soaring sky-high in the full bloom of their euphoria, would tumble off a cliff the day that ruling dropped.
“Wind down your position slowly. It's not going to happen.”
“No way — look at the media, everyone's saying it's a done deal. The government's resolve is ironclad.”
“Senior. What's the number one investment asset in this country?”
“Real estate.”
“Right. And within that, where is everything concentrated?”
“Seoul...”
“It won't come easy. Sure, they'll drag out all manner of legal arguments, but the real conclusion is this: the entrenched interests of Seoul, built up over decades, have more pull than the government ever will. As for the rest — look it up yourself.”
At my firm words, Han Jae-yi fell silent, lost in thought.
“Senior.”
“Huh? Oh — yes?”
“Do your thinking at home. Let's go. I gave you a hint today, so you're buying lunch. You said yourself you made a fortune.”
With that, I stood up and headed for the door, and Han Jae-yi came scrambling after me.
September 2004.
After school, I slipped into a black sedan that was waiting for me. Choi Sung-hoon sat behind the wheel; Jung Tae-sung rode shotgun.
The two had already divided up the territory of intelligence gathering between them. Choi Sung-hoon leveraged his strengths to pull information from the street — the underworld, the shadows — while Jung Tae-sung handled the high-grade intelligence that touched the worlds of finance and politics.
“We have a report for you.”
At my brief nod, Choi Sung-hoon, hands on the wheel, looked at me through the rearview mirror and began.
“The Myeongdong street money has been pouring into Yeouido in force recently.”
“Yeouido?”
“Yes. As you know, sir, the KOSDAQ market has become these scum's personal playground lately.”
A sigh escaped me despite myself.
I'd been keeping watch over the markets, and while the KOSPI rode an uptrend, the KOSDAQ kept tumbling head over heels. I already had my suspicions about the cause — the moral rot of KOSDAQ-listed CEOs, and the mischief of dirty money flooding in from Myeongdong, exactly as Choi Sung-hoon reported.
“The trend right now among KOSDAQ chief executives is something called *ghost subscription*. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes — you're talking about phantom shares, aren't you?”
“That's right. They borrow money from loan sharks and pay in the rights-issue proceeds with a one-day maturity. Then they get the certificate of payment issued, pull the money right back out the next day, and return it.”
The reason for the ruse was simple: stock manipulation.
They would float glowing disclosures — a major capital raise completed, a heavyweight investor on board — to lure in retail investors and pump up the price, then dump their own shares and vanish with the profit.
The only ones left burned were the moths who'd flown into the flame too late.
“Park Nam-gyu isn't pulling that garbage too, is he?”
“No, sir. We keep him on a tight leash. When the elder up in Jeonju warned him that anyone pulling such lowlife tricks wouldn't be looked upon kindly, he turned obedient as a lapdog.”
Park Nam-gyu had no idea who I really was. He simply kept striving to stay in the good graces of the fictitious Jeonju elder that Choi Sung-hoon had conjured for him.
“If anyone connected to Director Choi's side pulls something like that, cut them loose. Getting entangled becomes a headache.”
“Understood, sir. I'll keep that in mind.”
I turned my gaze to the passenger seat.
“Then, Director Jung.”
“Yes, CEO.”
“What's the situation with Sunjin Aluminum?”
“The news coming out lately is not good. They appear to have sold off Sangsa's shares as laid out in the plan submitted to the court, but the sale was so rushed that they unloaded them not at fair value but at fire-sale prices.”
“There'll be plenty of public criticism of Chairman Kang Byung-chul, I imagine.”
“Yes, and beyond that, questions of accountability over the parked shares are also coming to a head.”
The parked shares were stock that had been quietly acquired through roundabout channels — foreign brokerages and private equity funds. The problem was that the crash in share prices had snowballed those losses into an avalanche.
“Aluminum is trying to shift the blame onto the foreign private equity funds that lent their names, while the funds are saying they merely bought and sold on instruction — that the operational decisions were yours to make, and so they bear no responsibility.”
“So a full-blown legal war, then. Good. We can stop concerning ourselves with that side entirely.”
Left alone, they would dig their own graves and collapse on schedule.
“And Director Jung — liquidate all the investment assets in SJ Holdings and Reborn Capital.”
“...You mean convert everything to cash, sir?”
“Yes. Sell it all down and turn it into cash. Then there's a biotech company called Eugene Pharmatech. It's listed on the KOSDAQ — buy its stock.”
At my instruction, Jung Tae-sung turned around, face startled.
“The entire amount, sir?”
“Yes.”
“...I will carry out the order as given.”
Jung Tae-sung found it strange, but he didn't question it.
The market was buckling under high oil prices and a strong won — a thick fog of uncertainty hanging over everything. In times like these, the market tends to latch onto one powerful swing rather than macro trends; it fixates on an individual catalyst.
In a matter of months, a storm would sweep across South Korea — no, across the entire world.
The stem cell theme.
I was gazing out the window, calculating the timing ahead, when it happened.
Bzzz—
The phone in my pocket vibrated. Checking the screen, I saw it was Park Jin-hyok, research director of Shinhwa Weltech.
What on earth does he want?
The man lived and breathed nothing but research, so a direct call from him was nearly unheard of. Puzzled, I pressed the call button.
“This is Kang Seon-woo.”
— CEO, I'm sorry to bother you when you're busy. I need to see you as soon as possible.
“Is something the matter?”
— Well, there's a company that wants to buy our technology.
Offers of technology partnerships or outright sales came up now and then. I'd instructed him to consult the managing director and refuse them out of hand.
— Ordinarily I'd have settled it that way, but the problem is the company in question is Japanese. The terms are far from ordinary, so I felt I should report it.
Japan, you say? A Japanese company wanted to buy Shinhwa Weltech's technology.
It piqued my interest — and I decided this was a conversation I needed to have properly.
“I'll come down to Ulsan this weekend. We'll talk then.”