Power Plays and Digital Alliances
Hardly had Ha, the junior aide, left the room when another knock echoed at the door. At my call to come in, a tall, graceful young woman I assumed was Gu, the secretary, pushed it open and stepped inside.
"Please, have a seat. I hope I'm not stealing time from your busy schedule."
"I'm Gu Hyunji."
Seated before me, she was a striking beauty with sharp, refreshing features and a distinctly Western style.
"You're a grade 5 secretary, but you want to handle online operations, right?"
"Yes. As you yourself said, Congressman, no one can do politics in this era while ignoring the online world."
"Pardon?"
"Don't you remember?"
It was an out-of-the-blue question. Why would I remember this woman? Racking my brain, all I could recall was that she worked in some assemblyman's office—nothing more.
"Sorry, honestly, I don't."
"You came to the Danyang gathering back in the day, didn't you?"
"Back in the day? You mean the founding general meeting of Power of Ordinary Party Members?"
"Yes."
"Ah! You're 'BlackButterfly' from back then?"
"Yes. NaPolitics."
Only then did memories of her flood back. She'd been incredibly active preparing the founding meeting of Power of Ordinary Party Members—the most vibrant grassroots community in our party today—at a youth hostel in Danyang.
Smiling as those old recollections surfaced, I said to her, "You've become even more beautiful since then."
"Your wife is the real beauty, though."
"You've met my Ara?"
"I saw her during the tent protest in front of party headquarters last time."
"Ah, right. So how did you end up working in Han's office?"
"He's my brother-in-law. You're the only one who should know, Congressman. Got it?"
Her way of spilling the secret first and extracting a promise after was endearing. Back in Danyang, after an overnight stay, we'd toured the Eight Scenic Views and on to Jecheon with local members, and I'd thought she was such a sweet girl. We spent quite a while reminiscing about those days and discussing online operations. It confirmed she was the vital link between Han Seong-su and me—a new thread tying us together.
"You'll run for president someday, right, Congressman?"
"You think it's that easy? That's a seat bestowed by heaven."
"No, I believe if you hold onto the spirit you had as 'NaPolitics' back then, you'll definitely become president. My brother-in-law Han is a good man too, so take care of him."
"I was puzzled why Han suddenly reached out to me, but it was thanks to you, 'BlackButterfly.' I'm grateful."
After wrapping up business talk with Gu Hyunji, I called in Jeong-ah and Adak. Since they'd be working together, I needed to make introductions. Once greetings were exchanged, I suggested lunch to ease the mood, and we headed out of the office.
Once we settled at the restaurant and downed a shot of soju, the young folks loosened up naturally. Their main interest being online ops, conversation quickly turned to heated debate on countering the upcoming party convention effectively. I chimed in now and then, steering as someone who fancied himself an expert. All in all, it was a friendly, productive lunch.
The party convention buzz was heating up. Tensions peaked over the rules, exploding into controversy. The so-called new faction under Assemblyman Shin Jung-sik—labeled rising forces—demanded expanding the opinion poll share from 30% (party delegates 70%, members/public polls 30%) to 50:50 for broader public support, fitting the times.
Their logic wasn't wrong: without public backing, a party can't survive. But delegates and dues-paying members had steadfastly held the party together. Polling vague general public—whose loyalties weren't clear—risked shaking the party's very identity.
For me personally, riding high on grassroots support and recent media buzz, Shin's proposal was a godsend. Yet considering our party's maturity and the public's, it was a potential poison pill. Still, no reason for me to oppose it now.
"Park, what do you think we should do?"
No sooner had Shin's press conference demanding rule changes ended than Kim Seong-gap called. Though it was Kim speaking, I figured low-profile Park Seong-hwan and Han Seong-su were worried too. I proposed a meetup; we gathered at election HQ and waited.
As if voicing their anxiety, the assemblymen arrived at HQ before 5 p.m. We sat in the campaign director's office. Kim Seong-gap and Jeong Sang-won looked flushed; Park Seong-hwan and Han Seong-su wore tense expressions.
"You all seem worried."
"How could we not be, with Shin—not even Moon—stepping up like that? If Moon proposed it, Shin might oppose, but with Shin pushing and Moon's massive popularity, he'd never say no. They might have a secret pact."
"So if the rules go that way, you think we'd lose?"
"We all admit none of us—me, Jeong, Park, or Han—can match Moon's popularity."
"Kim, do you see the convention as an idol contest?"
"What's so special about polls?"
"What about our factions?"
"As you say, Park, we'd have no reason to lose there."
The conclusion was simple: no need to wade into factional mudslinging. As long as we didn't get crushed by Moon or Shin in polls, victory was ours. Even if they allied, no reason to field supreme committee running mates against us—ours were in the same boat. Focus on Kim Seong-gap's leadership race.
Ultimately, leadership boils down to momentum. Voters—members or public—lean toward flashy performers, youth toward online familiars. With solid planning, no big issue.
Moon's camp welcomed Shin's presser as hoped, barely hiding glee. Minor candidates—save Kim Seong-gap—erupted in fierce opposition. I urged Kim and the three supreme hopefuls to hold back statements, ending the meet.
"When do you plan to strike?"
As they left, Kim Sil-jang entered.
"Moon and Shin are aligned, so it'll pass. I'll wait till hype peaks then dips, highlight the poison pill, but pledge we'll accept for the party's sake."
"Won't Kim Seong-gap rebel?"
"Whether he truly trusts me will show then."
"Still, it's unsettling."
"We'll pull a last-minute show."
"A show?"
"Yeah. A massive rally sweep."
Kim Sil-jang left with a knowing look; I asked him to summon the online team.
"Saw the news today?"
"Yes."
"Your thoughts?"
"Moon exposing his petty side fully."
Adak named Moon, not Shin.
"How'd Moon become your target, Adak?"
"You can guess, Congressman. What nerve does Shin—zero popularity—have to push poll expansion? Rigged game."
Jeong-ah and Gu Hyunji nodded agreement. If they read it this well, little for me to worry.
"Develop counters to Shin's claim and spread them wide—that's your job."
"We already met before coming. We'll rotate: one stays at HQ, two work external."
"Good. Got enough source material?"
"Yes. Gu has about 100 ready, Jeong-ah says fan cafe members can cover plenty, and I've got that many too."
Not just Jeong-ah—Adak and Gu exceeded expectations. Minimum 300 IDs, or thousands mobilizing fan cafe, would match any candidate's online push. With that base, allied assemblymen would amplify exponentially. Shin and Moon might force polls, but they'd reap no fruits alone.
I called Han Seong-su, requesting his camp's online leads to HQ. Hand them to Adak, and the team gets proportional boost.