(Seojoon's pov)
Minji's words in the park felt like a coiled wire in my chest: One man who won't be quiet. One with teeth.
I sat at my kitchen table with my phone cupped in one hand and the folder she gave me open beside my plate. The lamplight made the paper edges look sharper; the names on the list felt heavier than the ink would suggest.
Lee Han-su, I read again. Broker. Ruined fund two years ago. Creditor whispers.
Cho Min-gyu. Temp agency manager, passed-over for a contract.
Park Eun-soo. Junior auditor, demoted for asking questions.
It was a small, sordid hall of people Kang had used and thrown away. Each one had an angle, an appetite. I knew enough to know: you only needed one hungry mouth and the rest will follow.
My thumb hovered over Lee Han-su's number first. I pictured him — the thin face I'd seen at a creditors' meeting, the empty smile he'd used to hide his teeth. If anyone would sell their anger for a payday and a little vindication, it was him.
I pressed the call.
The line rang four times before someone picked up. "Han-su here."
"Lee Han-su?" I said, keeping my voice even and small. "This is Seojoon."
A pause. The tone on the other end shifted — the curiosity of someone who remembers a name with teeth behind it. "Seojoon? It's been a while. What do you want?" he asked, guarded.
"Not much," I said. "I just… thought you might be interested to hear something about Kang Taejun's recent maneuvers. Heard anything odd about the L-Merger? Strange pockets of deferred liabilities?" I kept my voice neutral, casual. Planting a question, not an accusation.
Silence. Then a soft exhale like someone slurping the last of a drink. "Depends. Who's asking?"
"Someone who used to be on the other side of his table," I said. "One of the people who lost when he decided to shift the pieces. If you want people to look, you need a spark. You don't need all the flames — just the right match."
Han-su made a sound that could have been a laugh. "You're playing the philanthropist now, Seojoon? Are you serious?"
"Serious." I didn't elaborate. "We both know the board listens when the market smells smoke. If you want the board to feel it, push a whisper to — I don't know — a journalist. I can get you a name."
There was another pause, then the soft, dangerous lowering of a voice that I'd heard before in rooms where money and ruin were decided. "Are you offering a lead?"
"A lead and a meeting," I said. "Tonight. If you want to take a look at some numbers for yourself."
He was quiet for a long time. "I'll be where the whiskey is. Don't embarrass me." The line clicked.
I breathed out slowly. Call one made. Not a promise, not yet. Just a seed.
Next was Cho Min-gyu. I dialed and kept my voice flatter, like a man with nothing to lose and no performance to hide.
"Min-gyu? This is Seojoon."
"Seojoon? The—" his voice trailed. I could hear the ledger-like rustle of papers behind him. "What's this about?"
"Contracts," I said. "The one that disappeared two decades ago back when I was married to Kang Taejun.. There are people who remember. I'm meeting one of them. You want to come by? Might be worth hearing how the contract moved through Kang's people."
Another silence; then a cough. "I've been waiting for someone to say those words out loud." He grunted like a man de-clenching. "Where?"
I gave him a cafe name, a corner I'd chosen for its drab privacy and its lack of CCTV. "Ten thirty," I said. "Come alone."
He swore, low and happy-sad. "If this goes anywhere, I'll—" The line cuts.
The calls threaded into one another until the list was shorter and my chest felt slightly fuller. One by one I pulled at threads I'd kept knotted for years. For each name there was a memory: cheap coffee in the back room where I'd once waited for a man to decide whether my rent would be paid; a contractor who'd stared down his bills and lost; a temp manager who'd watched clients be rerouted and livelihoods vanish.
The last call I made was the worst. Park Eun-soo — the junior auditor. He was the smallest fish, but the most useful. You start a leak at the audit table, the auditors look, the board gets nervous. If anyone still remembered his temper when crossed, it would be him.
Eun-soo answered on the third ring, breathless. "Yes? Park here."
"Eun-soo," I said. "This is Seojoon. Do you remember the third quarter anomalies two years back? The entries that got shifted into a shell company? I can show you where they came from."
There was a long, stunned exhale. Then, voice low with frightened excitement: "You— you have something?"
"Enough for you to have a look," I said quietly. "Not public yet. I need someone inside who won't blink at the number of fingers on the ledger."
"Where?" he whispered.
"Tomorrow. We meet at the coffee stand near the auditors' office. Bring a pen."
His reply was one I'd been waiting for: "I'll be there."
After I ended the last call, the apartment's silence felt different — not empty, but charged, as if some subtle thing had been set into motion. The night outside pressed against the windows, indifferent. Inside, the folder lay open, the faces and numbers like a map.
It wasn't justice. It was leverage. It was something quieter, closer to what Minji had asked for: make him bleed slowly. I felt both the small, sharp satisfaction of movement and the cold under my ribs that said this would not be clean.
Halfway through locking my phone, a message came through. No number — just a line of text:
"He's watching more closely than usual."
My thumb hovered. Whoever sent it knew something I didn't. Someone else was already stirring the water. It could be a warning. It could be a threat. It could be helpful.
I set the phone facedown and wrapped my hands around the warm rim of my tea.
Tomorrow would be a day of small meetings, whispered leaks, baiting the board's attention like a predator. Tonight, I had to be careful. Minji had told me to be ready to disappear if needed. I felt that possibility like a shadow on my shoulder.
I breathed, loud and hard once, and let the sound fill the room.
Somewhere down the line, when the first ripple hit and Kang noticed the tremor in his empire, he might smile and suspect nothing — or he might feel the first sting, and start to flail. Either way, the plan had begun. The city hummed on. I turned off the lights and tried to sleep in the small, breathing gap between one violent life and the first steps of a slow, quiet reckoning.