Six Million Dollars Too Cheap
“Why did you come in on a weekend?”
Saturday morning, on the third floor of the Shinhwa Weltech research lab, where only the silence of the weekend should have hung in the air.
A senior researcher who had arrived first and was poring over data looked up in puzzlement at his junior colleague, who had just pushed open the lab door.
“Oh, the project I'm working on is almost finished, so I couldn't settle down at home. Figured I'd come in and wrap it up cleanly — put my mind at ease.”
“Get a grip. You're going to wreck yourself. Anyone watching would think you were being ordered to do this.”
“Even if it wrecks me, what more could I ask for these days? I come in on the weekend and the overtime pay lands in my account every single time. That was unthinkable before.”
The junior researcher grinned broadly and pulled on his lab coat with practiced ease.
Barely six months ago, this place had been less a research lab than a sinking ship.
Salaries were months late, and at lunchtime everyone had to scurry around nervously hunting for the cheapest restaurants, afraid the corporate card might get frozen at any moment.
Word of job openings circulated in secret among the staff, and the air in the lab had grown heavy and stagnant with anxiety.
Then a new owner appeared, and everything changed as if by magic.
The late wages being settled in a lump sum the moment the acquisition was announced was only the beginning.
The day a generous consolation bonus hit their bank accounts, a few of the employees actually cried over dinner and drinks.
The R&D team, which had existed in name only, was formally upgraded to a certified corporate research institute, and the ancient equipment was replaced with state-of-the-art machines.
“Days like these, you could spend your whole career here.”
“You're telling me. Back then it was all — what's the word — just getting badgered to slap band-aids on defective production lines. Real research? We didn't even dare dream of it.”
“Exactly. But now I'm actually doing the fundamental research I want to do, so I find myself wanting to come in on weekends. I must be going crazy.”
The atmosphere in the lab had transformed. There was life in the employees' eyes now. The moment they became convinced that the technology they created would be recognized — and rewarded accordingly — the results followed naturally.
The two men were deep in animated debate over the data on the monitor when a procession of familiar faces passed by the corridor beyond the glass wall.
“Huh? Isn't that the CEO and the Director? What are they doing on a weekend?”
The junior researcher leaned out and craned his neck.
The management CEO, rarely seen anywhere near the lab, and Park Jin-hyuk, who almost never left his office, were walking down the corridor as if escorting someone. Their manner was courteous to the point of excess.
And between them was an unfamiliar young man.
“Who's that?”
“Ah, I heard about him — word is, he's the grandson of our owner.”
“What? The grandson?”
“The Director dropped by earlier and mentioned it. Said an important guest was coming and told us not to worry about it, just keep working.”
“The owner's grandson shows up and the CEO and the Director are fawning over him like that? It's like they're receiving the Chairman himself.”
The junior's eyes went round.
The young man looked barely older than a college student — or at most a new hire just starting out in the working world.
And yet the silver-haired CEO and Director Park Jin-hyuk were bowing at the waist, hanging on the young man's every word.
It was hard to read this as anything as casual as an heir touring the factory.
“I suppose he's the one inheriting the company or something.”
The senior researcher watched the three figures recede for a moment, then turned back to his microscope as if it were none of his concern.
“Let's just ignore it and do our work. The people who pay our salaries will handle it. All we have to do is pull good technology out of this place.”
“Right. Gotta earn that weekend pay.”
With that, the two men buried themselves in their research once more.
“Everyone's at work on a weekend?”
As I walked down the lab corridor, I could see employees bustling about in rooms where only some of the lights were on.
The government had recently formalized the five-day workweek. It carried no legal force for workplaces under three hundred employees, of course, but Shinhwa Weltech had already adopted the five-day system proactively on my orders.
“Don't tell me you're still running a seven-day week?”
At my pointed question, Hong Sang-jin, the CEO walking beside me, broke into a cold sweat and waved his hands in denial.
“Of course not. We're strictly observing the five-day week as you instructed, sir. It's just that, in the lab, an unusual number of researchers come in on weekends voluntarily—”
At that answer, I glanced at Director Park Jin-hyuk. This man wasn't the type to squeeze his people dry to pad the numbers.
“Are the research projects falling behind?”
“No, nothing like that. We emphasize autonomy, and for some reason a handful of researchers keep showing up on weekends anyway.”
“You emphasize autonomy?”
“Yes. Rather than assigning specific tasks, we leave researchers free to pursue any topic on their own, so long as it broadly advances our technology.”
I nodded. It was the most ideal picture you could hope for in an R&D organization.
“They're paid bonuses for weekend work, aren't they?”
“Of course. As you instructed, we provide overtime pay on top of performance incentives.”
“Good to hear. Still, tell them to rest on weekends whenever possible. Research runs on physical stamina too. If they burn out en masse, we'll have a serious problem.”
“Understood, sir.”
Escorted inside, we entered the director's office.
The office was as impassable as ever, buried under research materials and papers strewn in every direction.
Typical Park Jin-hyuk — born to be an engineer, not a manager.
No sooner had we taken our seats than Hong began.
“As I reported, a Japanese company has reached out wanting to buy our technology.”
At the top of the documents he handed over sat a familiar logo.
Shinei Chemical
“What kind of company?”
“Shinei Chemical is a mid-sized precision chemicals firm headquartered in Osaka. Unfamiliar to the general public, but within Japan the prevailing assessment is that they're a hidden powerhouse in ultra-high-purity wet chemicals and specialty gases.”
Park Jin-hyuk added his own explanation.
“Think of them as sitting just below the majors like Stella Chemifa or Showa Denko. Major-grade technology in a mid-sized body — a classic hidden champion.”
“Major-grade technology, hmm. And a company like that wants to buy our technology. Have we published something new?”
Nothing had been reported to me. Since the Shinhwa Weltech acquisition, every major development had come through Jung Tae-sung like clockwork.
“Well, about that—”
Park Jin-hyuk fidgeted, stealing glances at my face.
“We recently granted the researchers more autonomy, and I encouraged them to write papers and present at academic conferences.”
“Papers?”
“Yes. Technology that goes unrecorded and unverified tends to become isolated, and... researchers also have a strong desire to make their names known. I judged it necessary for motivation.”
Not a bad judgment. But publishing in papers also carried the risk of diluting the technology's exclusivity.
Which was presumably why Park Jin-hyuk looked so uneasy.
“It's fine. If that's the reasoning, I'd encourage it myself. So they saw one of these papers, I take it? What's it about?”
“This.”
Park Jin-hyuk handed me a thick bound thesis.
A Multi-Stage Purification and Micro-pH Stabilization Model for Suppressing Metal Ion Re-contamination in High-Purity Hydrogen Peroxide (H₂O₂) Refining Processes
From the title alone, I hadn't the faintest idea what it meant.
“It's a paper on cleaning chemicals for semiconductor wafers.”
When my expression registered my confusion, Park Jin-hyuk hurried to explain.
“Simply put, the existing Japanese and American major processes have superb refining technology, but during storage and transfer, trace amounts of metal ions leach out from the piping and containers, contaminating the chemicals all over again.”
“Re-contamination.”
“Yes. Our research team didn't try to solve it with brute-force refining to ever-higher purity. Instead, we designed the post-refining transfer and storage processes as a single integrated system, using fine pH adjustments to suppress leaching at the source—”
“Ah — I understand. Who wrote it?”
“I did.”
At Park Jin-hyuk's matter-of-fact reply, a chuckle burst out of me. The puzzle had finally clicked into place.
If an ordinary researcher had written it, poaching that one person would have settled the matter. But a Japanese company proposing a joint venture or outright technology acquisition meant a headhunting offer had gone to Park Jin-hyuk himself first — and been turned down.
“They came to you with a scouting offer first, didn't they, Director?”
At my words, Park Jin-hyuk's face registered surprise before he slowly nodded.
“...That's correct.”
“And you refused.”
“Yes.”
“Why? A Japanese company would have treated you far better.”
“That's... well, sir, it simply felt like betraying you — CEO Kang Seon-woo. You're the one who saw the potential in a failing company and in me. Besides, there's the contract to consider.”
A ten-year contract. Back then it had been a safeguard to keep Park Jin-hyuk locked in, but looking back now, it had been a stroke of divine providence.
“So they pivoted to a technology purchase?”
“Yes. Just in case, I deliberately left the core process recipe out of the paper when we published.”
At last the situation was clear. But my questions weren't entirely dispelled.
“So it's an idea that would attract interest even in Japan.”
“Yes. Japan's high-purity chemical refining technology has already hit a physical ceiling. Pushing purity any further means costs balloon exponentially or yields collapse. What I proposed isn't higher purity — it's lower cost for maintaining purity.”
In other words, an attractive alternative that could boost margins immediately.
“What terms did they offer?”
“Six million dollars, in exchange for exclusive usage rights to the technology in the paper within Japan, plus full transfer of the know-how for applying it to production lines.”
At an exchange rate of 1,020 won, roughly 6.1 billion won.
I had spent less than five billion won acquiring Shinhwa Weltech. In barely half a year, a single piece of technology would more than recoup the entire investment. An offer to make anyone's eyes pop.
I turned to the CEO overseeing operations.
“Your thoughts, Mr. Hong?”
“If we can sell it, I'd call it a good opportunity. It's exclusive rights to Japan only, and applying this technology to our own mass production lines would take considerable time and money. Using their capital to test commercial viability — a kind of testbed — doesn't look bad to me.”
He had a point. I looked at Park Jin-hyuk again.
“And your thoughts, Director?”
“As the CEO said, Japan-only exclusivity means the terms themselves aren't bad, but...”
Park Jin-hyuk trailed off.
“Set aside business and money. Tell me, purely as your instinct as a research director.”
“...I don't want to sell the technology.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn't feel like they simply covet the technology and want to buy it. There's something unsettling about them — I get the sense they'll demand something else, relentlessly, once we're actually at the negotiating table or after the contract is signed.”
“So there were signs?”
“No concrete evidence. Just my gut... an engineer's instinct.”
“Then that settles it. Let's refuse.”
At my decisive answer, both men's eyes went wide at once.
“I understand perfectly how remarkable the technology in that paper is, and why they need us. But I find it unsettling too.”
I crossed my arms and looked back and forth between the two men.
“Six million dollars just feels far too cheap. Domestic exclusivity, rights to apply it to production lines, full transfer of the paper's know-how — and all of that for a mere six million? Does technology normally trade this cheap?”
At my question, Park Jin-hyuk shook his head.
“A process improvement this innovative would normally mean buying the entire company outright, or demanding a technology transfer fee of at least ten to fifteen million dollars. Especially for a cash-rich Japanese major.”
Exactly. Process stability is directly tied to semiconductor and display yields — an area where the majors never pinch pennies.
Which was precisely why I'd acquired Shinhwa Weltech and set out to build its technical strength first.
“And the terms are just a little too clean, aren't they? On the surface, it looks like they're being considerate of us. We only use it in Japan, we won't touch the Korean market? Doesn't that smell like a trap?”
In reality, the high-purity chemicals market was locked down tight by Japanese companies.
If a process became the standard in Japan, every other company would be forced to swallow tears and adopt that same standard.
Which meant exclusivity in Japan carried a very real chance of becoming exclusivity over the global standard itself.
“What's more, the paper is still early-stage and unverified. Pouncing on it this eagerly reeks of an intent to lock us in at a bargain price before the potential is visible. It's the perfect setup for them to grab us by the ankle once the technology matures.”
The two men nodded gravely at my words.
“Let's decline the offer for now and watch how they react. Their real objective — it's time to find out what we're dealing with.”
After all, among all the buyers who ever came for technology, I had never once seen one who came purely for the technology itself.