The conference room resembled an aquarium: glass walls, the cold light of ceiling lamps, and a flawlessly polished table that mirrored the faces gathered there. Beyond the panoramic windows, Seoul drowned in lights—but none of them held anyone's attention now. What mattered here were the numbers, the signatures, and a few trembling voices.
Yoon Seung-ho sat at the head of the table like a conductor: almost motionless, intensely focused, yet the room's entire rhythm depended on his presence. Before him lay last month's reports, graphs showing falling revenue, and lists of key clients. The bottom lines glowed like a verdict.
To his left and right sat eight directors. Each was a distinct stroke: some loud and irritable, others quiet and sly. Their traits formed the mosaic portrait of the company.
Director Lee—stocky, broad-shouldered, with a flushed face. His voice always sounded louder than necessary; he spoke as if to shout over his own frustration. His tie was pulled tight, as if binding not just his neck but his emotions.
Director Jeong—tall, thin, with long, nervous fingers that incessantly tapped on his folder. His face was perpetually strained; something unsaid simmered within him.
Ms. Park—in a severe suit, silent and observant; she took notes, but her gaze was cold and calculated: she looked not at the numbers, but at the people. Her notebook script was even and silent, like a sentence being passed.
Kim Young-soo—grey-haired, with soft speech and an old-school gaze. He turned pages slowly, with characteristic dignity, as if he wanted to linger on every figure to draw conclusions unhurriedly but correctly.
And then there was him—a new stroke, one not previously highlighted: Director Han—a middle-aged man, calm, sensible, with even manners and a gaze that didn't catch the eye but drew attention. He didn't irritate the room with shouting; on the contrary, his composure created silence around him. Where Lee and Jeong generated noise, Han generated focus—and in the midst of this chaos, glances involuntarily fell upon him.
The others sat slightly apart; some checked figures, some pretended to be busy, but Seung-ho saw: everyone was scanning each other's reactions.
***
"Sales have dropped," Lee began, shattering the silence like a heavy hammer. "It's all because of the liquor batch. The quality was below standard—suppliers failed us, clients are complaining, returns are flowing in."
"That's an attempt to cover a hole," Jeong snarled back. "The problem is the strategy. The campaign was a failure, money was wasted. You're covering up your mistakes."
Their words clashed, both insisting on their version, and the conference floor instantly splintered into two camps: 'suppliers' versus 'marketing.' Voices rose, tones sharpened; the argument escalated into an accusation.
Word by word. Anger by anger. Some of the seated directors froze, others grabbed their papers, trying to hide a tremor. But this time, Seung-ho did not let the argument spiral into an uncontrolled brawl.
He listened. He didn't interrupt. But concentration accumulated in his gaze—and suddenly, amidst the chaos, he clearly saw a reaction: when a line in one of the reports flashed, reading "Moonlight Club chain—claims, complaints, loyalty drop," Jeong almost recoiled. His fingers halted on the folder; the characteristic neurotic tapping suddenly ceased. It was fleeting, but for those who know how to read people—it was definitive.
'The clubs,' Seung-ho thought. Where omegas disappeared. Where the company's reputation was scarred not just by figures, but by other people's fates.
Lee, without slowing down, slammed his palm on the table: "Sales are falling, and you're still shifting the blame onto external suppliers!" his voice was rough, almost a shout.
The argument reached a boiling point, and then, like a knife, Seung-ho cut the air with a single word.
"Enough."
The word was quiet, steady, and delivered with such concentrated will that it instantly extinguished the fire. Voices died down naturally. A tense silence hung in the room, as if the air had become thicker after that single word.
Seung-ho neither shouted nor gestured. He leaned back in his chair, narrowed his eyes slightly, and slowly shifted his gaze around the room. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm but pierced deeper than any scream.
"I see the figures," he said, "I see the reports and the excuses. But I also see attempts to cover up failures with loud words. We will not waste this meeting on shouting. We have a reputation—and it is suffering not only due to the quality of the supply committee or a failed advertising campaign."
He paused, and the entire room listened more intently than ever before.
"The disappearance of omegas in our clubs affects our reputation far more seriously than a sales drop from one batch," he continued. "These are not just figures anymore. These are faces. These are families. And if it turns out that the roots of these problems extend within this company—and someone in this room is involved in what is happening in those establishments—then I demand that this person stop right now. Cease immediately. Otherwise, the consequences will be dealt with by me personally."
The pause became glacial: it held not just a tone—it carried a threat that made even the most confident men in the room pale.
Han, calm and sensible, looked at Seung-ho without fuss. His face remained unchanged, but a slight shadow of interest appeared in his eyes—not panic, but keen observation. It was on him that attention fell at that moment: in the noise of conflicts, his measured position became a magnet for the mind. He nodded slightly, as if acknowledging that he understood what was being discussed.
Lee and Jeong fell silent. Their fury melted beneath the weight of the word and the look. The others slowly lowered their eyes to their papers, collecting their thoughts and strategies, unwilling to give off any superfluous signals.
***
"The meeting is adjourned," Seung-ho said evenly. "Leave the reports on the table. I want a detailed analysis of the reasons for every expense item and especially concerning the Moonlight Clubs. Tomorrow—at nine. And don't come with emotions—come with facts."
The directors began gathering their folders. Some hurried, some were thoughtful. But everyone understood: the tone had shifted. Where before there was a superficial struggle for justification, now there was a real threat of exposure.
When they had left the room and only the echoes of receding footsteps remained, Seung-ho placed his hand on the cold edge of the table and took a deep breath. He knew: someone among them was trying to cover up incompetence—and someone, perhaps, was hiding far darker things.