It was early—too early for Seoul to be awake, yet the city never really slept. And still, amidst the murmurs of traffic and the soft pink hush of a sun trying to rise, Jung Hyun-seok stood still.
In front of him towered the building he once called his life: SOJiUN & Co.
His name. His legacy.
His wife. His son.
Ji-hyeon and Soo-min. So and Ji and Un—a future that was supposed to be.
The building hadn't changed. Its glass still shone with quiet prestige, its entrance polished to reflect ambition. A newer logo now crowned the front, sleeker, modernised. But beneath it, in small engraved gold lettering, the original name still rested:
Founded by Jung Hyun-seok.
He stepped forward.
For the first time in 19 years, the sensors at the glass doors recognised his presence. They slid open.
A ghost walked in.
The lobby froze. Conversations halted. Phones lowered mid-call. Fingers stopped typing. It started with a whisper.
"…Is that..."
"Mal-do-an-dwae-yo (No way!)"
"It can't be—"
"That's him."
He walked slowly, the way someone returns to a home that is no longer theirs. His sharp suit looked like it had been cut from time itself—timeless, perfect. Not a wrinkle in sight. But his face—his face was aged by something heavier than time.
Grief had a way of folding into the skin. Making a man look more sculpture than flesh. The lines around his mouth were deeper. The curve of his jaw more severe. But his eyes—those had not changed.
Eyes that once built an empire.
The ceiling hadn't changed. The art installation of glass and steel fragments he commissioned still dangled above. Ji-hyeon had called it a "city skyline collapsing in reverse." She had picked the title.
Ascension.
He smiled faintly.
Every step echoed.
Whispers followed him.
"He was real all along..."
"I thought he…"
"Wait, that's the founder?"
They stared like they'd seen a ghost.
They had.
The receptionists froze behind their desks. The security guard instinctively reached for his earpiece, hesitating, unsure whether to announce or question the appearance of the man in front of him. But his hand stopped halfway. His mouth opened slowly, eyes widening, recognition slamming into him like a wave. One second passed. Then another.
"D… Daepyonim?"
That word—'President'—hadn't echoed through the lobby in nearly twenty years. And yet it burst from his lips like it had been waiting all this time. A whisper, a prayer, a gasp.
From the far side of the open floor, a young associate walking with a coffee tray dropped two of the cups. One rolled and spilt across the floor, but she didn't notice. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"It's him…"
"Sesange (Oh my word/Oh my God)."
"Daepyonim…?!"
The whisper exploded into ripples. Executives, interns, secretaries, even janitors turned toward the sound. Feet froze mid-step. Calls ended mid-sentence. Heads snapped up from desks. A stunned, collective breath filled the air like the entire building had suddenly remembered how to breathe all at once—and then forgot again.
Jung Hyun-seok stepped forward slowly, his shoes echoing quietly against the pristine marble floor. The light caught the slight streaks of grey in his hair, the sharp black suit fitting him like it had been made just yesterday. He looked older—of course—but not frail. Not broken. He looked like time had moved forward without him, but had never quite left him behind.
"Daepyonim!" A woman—mid-40s, department lead—was the first to rush forward. She reached him breathlessly, hands clasped in front of her chest like she didn't know whether to bow, cry, or both.
"I—Is it really you?"
He nodded twice. "It's me."
That was all it took. A surge of emotion rippled through the floor. Executives bolted from the elevator bays, team leaders left meetings mid-sentence. Even senior staff from the top floor were heard running—running—to the lobby.
"Mr Jung?! Mr Jung!"
"Sir, we thought—"
"We thought you'd—"
"—retired permanently—"
"—that you were sick—"
"—that you moved abroad—"
"Daepyonim…" A younger employee whimpered the word like it hurt, his voice shaking. He was barely an intern when Hyun-seok left. Now he was in management. "You're really here… we waited…"
Someone sniffled. Someone else let out a half-laugh, half-sob. A small woman near the reception desk burst into actual tears.
Hyun-seok didn't flinch.
Not at the questions. Not at the outpouring of emotion.
He bowed his head, deeply.
"It's good to see you again."
People surged forward instinctively—but paused. No one dared to touch him. He was real. He was there. But he felt like something from a myth.
One of the board executives cleared his throat nervously. "Sir, are you here to… resume command?"
Another followed up, "Is this a… company restructure?"
"No—wait—is this something to do with the shareholders' meeting next month? Sir, if it is, we can—"
Hyun-seok simply raised a hand.
Silence fell like a wave.
"Call Attorney Kim Daon."
The shift was immediate.
People exchanged glances. Whispered.
"The Kim Daon? The legal director?"
"Wait—that's still his personal legal rep, isn't it?"
"Wasn't he best man at his wedding?"
"Isn't he the reason the company survived the early years?!"
From behind the front desk, the receptionist nodded once, shakily, and picked up the phone. "Yes, sir. Right away."
Still, the crowd lingered. Some stayed out of respect. Some stayed because they simply could not walk away. They had adored him. Loved him. He had not been a cold-hearted CEO obsessed with power—he had been kind. Too kind, some whispered. Too loving. Too family-oriented. Too forgiving. Too generous to his employees, even the interns.
But he had built SOJiUN with those values—and the company had thrived.
Everyone in this building knew his name. Some of them had built their careers here because of him. Others had stayed because of how he treated them—not like workers beneath him, but like people beside him. Not a single person in this building felt like he was just a boss. He had been the heart of it all.
And now, he had walked back in.
Not to take it back. Not to be seen.
But because something bigger was moving underneath.
Something no one understood—yet.
The private conference room had barely been used in years. It sat on the executive floor behind frosted glass, once designed for board meetings and high-level negotiations. Today, it stood still, quiet—until the door opened.
Kim Daon entered with a breathless rush, barely composed. His blazer hung loosely over one shoulder, his tie askew, as if he'd dressed too quickly, driven too fast, and run the last flight of stairs. His breath caught in his throat when he saw him.
"Ya! (You/Hey!)" he shouted, like it was the only word his body remembered how to say. "You said you'd never come back here. You told me—you said never again."
Jung Hyun-seok stood by the window, back straight, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the skyline of a city that had changed more than he had. He didn't turn around.
"I didn't plan to."
Daon let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh. His shoes clicked against the polished floor as he crossed the room in two strides. "You bastard. You really... you're really here."
Only then did Hyun-seok turn. Slowly. Quietly. The two men stood face to face.
They had once built this company together. One from vision. The other from structure. Daon was the sword. Hyun-seok, the soul.
Daon blinked rapidly. "Do you even know what you've done to this building? People downstairs are crying. Actual tears. Executives are speechless. I had to lie to the board about a meeting just to run down here."
Hyun-seok gave a small, sad smile. "Didn't expect it to be that dramatic."
"Of course you didn't." Daon rubbed the back of his neck. "Of course you didn't, you ghost."
A moment passed.
Then Daon lowered his voice. "Are you sure you want to do this? After all this time?"
Hyun-seok nodded once. "I don't know how much time I have left. And it's not about me anymore."
Daon went still. The levity left his face.
"Tell me," he said quietly.
Hyun-seok stepped forward, pulled out a chair, and sat. The air between them turned dense, heavy with unspoken grief and purpose.
"There's a boy," Hyun-seok began, his voice low. "He doesn't know who he is. He thinks his name is Yoon Ji-ho. But it's not. It never was."
Daon didn't breathe.
"His name is Jung Soo-min," Hyun-seok said, eyes on the table. "My son."
The silence cracked.
Daon leaned back slowly, hand over his mouth.
"He's alive?"
A nod.
"Does he know?"
"No. And I won't be the one to tell him."
Daon frowned. "Why?"
Hyun-seok looked up. His eyes were calm. Steady. "Because I'm not doing this to be remembered. I'm doing this so he can live. So that if anything happens to me, there's something left behind for him. Something good. Something clean."
Daon stared.
Hyun-seok continued. "I want to transfer ownership of everything to him. Quietly. With legal protections. No media. No announcements. Not even his name. Just one clause: if I disappear, everything comes to him."
Daon swallowed. "You want him to inherit SOJiUN."
"Only if I disappear. And I might."
Daon leaned forward. "Then let me help. Properly. Don't do this like you're already dead."
Hyun-seok shook his head. "You said it yourself. I've been a ghost for years. Maybe this is the last thing I can do while I'm still somewhat alive."
"What will he call himself?" Daon asked.
"Whatever he wants. Yoon Ji-ho, Jung Soo-min, or something new. I'll never force a name on him. To be honest..."
He paused. His voice softened.
"...I'd prefer he stay as Yoon Ji-ho. It'll be less painful for him. And maybe... maybe it lets me remember her a little. Ji-ho. Ji-hyeon. It's close enough."
Daon stared at him. "You still love her."
"Every day."
"You still stand outside. Every day."
"Until he comes home. Or until I leave."
"I need your full discretion, Daon-ah," Hyun-seok said, voice low.
Daon nodded. "Always."
Hyun-seok reached into his coat. Slowly. Carefully. He pulled out a folded document—thick, creased, sealed at the edge.
Daon took it wordlessly.
He unfolded it on the desk. His fingers paused as his eyes scanned the heading: Last Will & Testament of Jung Hyun-seok.
The next two hours were filled with details—Daon meticulously reviewing, adjusting, clarifying. They inserted confidentiality clauses. Naming Yoon Ji-ho as the sole heir to SOJiUN & Co and all of Jung Hyun-seok's personal assets. With strict legal protections to ensure that, should anything happen to Hyun-seok, Ji-ho wouldn't be thrust into the public eye, nor would his identity be forcibly uncovered.
When it was done, Daon reached for the signature pen. "This is everything, hyung. Final and binding. Once you sign this, it's sealed."
Hyun-seok nodded. "Good. Let's do it."
They signed. Initialled. Dated.
Daon placed the signed will into a secured envelope, sliding it into a locked compartment behind his desk. "No one else will touch this. I swear it."
Then—
He turned back to Hyun-seok, his eyes shining. "If something happens to you—"
"Don't say that—"
"No. Listen. If something happens…"
He placed his hand on his chest.
"I swear on everything I have, I will take in your son as my own. I'll raise him with my kids. He will never be alone."
Hyun-seok blinked. Then exhaled a breath that trembled.
"…So what I'm hearing is, you've already got a third party joining you and your wife, huh?"
Daon scoffed, laughing dryly. "Ya! This is a serious moment!"
"You just pledged your life and family, and you expect me not to comment?"
Daon smirked. "Still a bastard."
"And you're still younger."
"I'm six months younger. That doesn't count."
"In South Korea it does."
They laughed for a moment. Just them. Just two brothers who had been through too much.
Then Daon turned more serious. "Have you… been in touch with Halmeoni?"
A pause. A long one.
Hyun-seok nodded faintly. "Yes. But it's hard. Every time we speak, it's like speaking into a mirror. We see the people we lost in each other."
"…Should I tell her? That Ji-ho… that Soo-min is alive?"
"Not yet," Hyun-seok said quietly. "Slowly. Gently. If you rush her, it might shatter her."
Daon swallowed. "Okay."
They sat in silence again, the weight of everything settling.
Then—
A shift.
From outside the building, unnoticed, unseen—
A pair of eyes watched.
Hye-won sipped her coffee. Min-jae adjusted the rear-view mirror.
Neither spoke.
Their car was parked just far enough not to draw attention. Just close enough to see.
They watched as Jung Hyun-seok stepped out of the building.
He looked different today. Not just dressed for business—but driven by something heavier. Something sharper.
The car remained idle. Silent. Watching.
They did not know what he was doing.
But they were watching.
And their eyes did not blink.