Laying the Foundations
The cold that cut like a knife couldn't pierce through the windows. Thanks to that, the classroom was filled only with warm sunlight. This indescribable comfort was lulling the kids to sleep. Even the teacher didn't bother waking them, probably figuring it was better if we all dozed off. In the quiet room, I jotted down some notes to organize my thoughts.
WFC was going to make big money. But I didn't want to be a fighter swayed by cash. With this second chance, I wanted to devote myself entirely to fighting. That meant preparing for a lot of things. Not every problem stems from money, but money causes a hell of a lot of them. So for someone like me who knew the future, stocks were essential.
But I wasn't dumb enough to mess with stocks as a dual citizen—that would bring the nightmare IRS knocking. Naturalizing in Korea made sense, but one huge issue hit me: military service. US citizenship meant crippling IRS taxes; Korean citizenship meant the national defense obligation. A brutal dilemma.
Still, going to the army? No way. Two years would mean missing out on up to eight WFC fights max. Sure, keeping US citizenship came with insane taxes—nearly 40% on capital gains federally, and with San Francisco as my residence, it'd hit 50% combined with state. Long-term holds or selling losers could mitigate it, but I wasn't buying trash stocks. Tax-advantaged accounts? They'd hound me with calls. Last resort: move states. But that wouldn't fix the amputating tax rates.
Once I decided to make bank on stocks, ditching US citizenship was the play. Mess with nationality flags, and 1,000 billion won earned could vanish by 500 billion in taxes. Better to burn 500 billion on taxes than serve two years in the army. Something to mull over step by step.
The nationality debate continued at home after school. Mom, bored as ever, sidled up to me.
"Son? What's got you brooding like that?"
"I wanna get Korean citizenship, but then I'd have to do military service."
"Why? Hate the idea of army life?"
"Yeah. No real need to—"
A sudden flash of killing intent made me flinch and turn to her.
"Your dad would have a heart attack if he heard. Huhuh, should I tell him?"
"Ah, no!?"
Dad would freak if he knew I hated the army. In the Becker family, military service was practically destiny.
"Uhuh?"
Mom's mischievous grin was pure trouble. She might actually rat me out. Beckers dodging the draft? Unthinkable. I could end up getting a full family history lecture on how Dad lived, how we eat and survive—basically clan law: Beckers serve.
Time passed, and I officially became Korean. No big hassle—my age made it simple; just renouncing US citizenship wrapped it up. Military was still a snag, but time it right, and I could sweet-talk Big Uncle during his USFK stint. For now, escaping the IRS felt liberating. No more hand-filling tax forms—made me smile.
"Hmm..."
"Don't cross the line."
"Got it~"
My desk mate treated it like a daily quest, eyeing the line I'd drawn. She was kinda cute staring like that, so I grinned—then she scowled and got back to work. Kinda hurtful. Guess I inherited only the bad looks from Mom and Dad. Couldn't they make me handsome...?
Spinning my pen flashy while studying Korean history wasn't bad. Korean was familiar now; info flowed in fast. Numbers still popped in English first, though. The soft, malleable brain felt clean—straight-up absorbing knowledge.
Summer break hit. As a kid before, I skipped Dad's jiu-jitsu dojo around this age, too busy gaming. Mom loved me gaming, so it was my gaming frenzy era. But now, in the ghost-town commercial building, Dad and I trained alone. He was thrilled just by that.
"Ooh! You're good!"
"Did it land right?"
"Leon, you're a genius!"
Dad tapped out laughing when I locked in the technique. This happy face wouldn't last long—shadows would creep in soon enough. Guarding an empty dojo would leave him desolate.
During a break, we chatted.
"No one's coming to this building?"
"Don't worry about that."
"Kids love PC bangs these days. Why not open one, Dad? Building's huge."
"PC bang?"
Too early, I thought, but Dad eyed me like he'd heard the buzz.
"You want Dad to run a PC bang? I'm the strongest guy in the world."
"What does that matter?"
Dad always favored physical work. He grumbled at me reading books; guess it applied to him too.
"PC bangs have sketchy types, but with you? None would dare."
"..."
It was 2003 now. Prime time for the real PC bang boom. Dad, no business experience, would hustle info and turn this into our eternal cash cow. I could cut his trial-and-error.
I'd rolled in IT for years—give me parts, I'll solder and build. Held responsible for Amazon PC repairs to server management, climbed to lead on tech alone.
"I know computers inside out~"
"Really? Not just gaming?"
"Gaming's pro level too~"
Even family friends hit me up for PC fixes over Dad. Helped Little Uncle's unit build intranet servers plenty.
Dad got serious.
Dojo open three months—no students.
"Should we close the gym?"
"Nah. Would old folks come to a PC bang?"
"..."
"Your muscles and size draw young guys wanting jiu-jitsu. Friends drag friends to PC bangs. Mom could learn easy—no heavy lifting, just clicks."
Dad looked resolved. I'd minimize mistakes, but not overstep my kid limits. Can't reveal high-level skills fully. Dad was a success himself—action speed unmatched.
Tempted by pulling in strength-hungry kids, he borrowed from Grandpa and prepped the business.
At home, Dad researched computers—straight-up headfirst. Bought one, disassembled it, studying basics. Pure ground-zero dive. Couldn't teach that without suspicion, so I played with Harin while scouting options myself.
Dad tapped contacts, planned fast—asked my input often. My friends loved PC bangs, after all.
Mom wasn't worried—cool as ever. If it flopped, I'd feed them, her vibe. Mom's survival instincts were beastly; post-Dad's failure, she jobbed at taekwondo association, rocketed to president. Pre-Dad, national team hopeful.
Dad's execution was fire—interior done before thaw, computers flooded in. Kid-friendly: smoking room with modern vibe, spotless setup unbelievable today. Finally, kitchen.
Dad balked at a kitchen in a PC bang, but I laid it out straight.
"One hour's 500 won max. Sell ramen or chapagetti with egg for 2,000? That's 1,000 extra."
Mom grinned.
"Our boy's smart. Food biz is key."
"So, let's do Mom's homemade burgers too."
Pre-regression, Mom developed menus. Family swooned over her burgers. Her custom burgers and American hot dogs? PC bang staples incoming.
"But son."
"Yeah?"
"Selling cooked food needs business permits, hygiene certs, facility standards. You know that?"
Didn't know that far—Mom did. I glanced at Dad; he sighed, back to studying.
"Drinks too. Americano's hot."
"You're more hyped than me. Love PC bangs, huh?"
Dad chuckled at Mom's tease. Ice maker essential for us frost-nation folks. Swapped water cooler cups for folded paper ones; sell ice-filled plastic cups for 500 won—Mom loved it. Said I'd be a businessman; Dad sulked hard.
Didn't notice before: Mom wanted normal kid life; Dad craved extraordinary. Explains his WFC hype.
Break ended, school resumed—PC bang opened. Opening hype: 500 won/hour for two weeks. Hired part-timer, but Mom kitchen-trapped, Dad fixing PCs.
Knew it'd boom. Event week one: 12 million won. Dad stared, dumbfounded. Advanced the timeline years— one less future worry checked off.