The chill of the night still clung to the silk-like thread and the photograph. Son Oh-gong sat at the desk in his sterile, large bedroom, the items spread out like relics on a battlefield map. The thread was the most damning evidence: it felt like pure, unadulterated intent. It was too fine, too expensive, and too carefully woven to be casual. It represented a deliberate intrusion by a person with resources—the kind of resources his father commanded.
But his father, Son Gyeong-cheon, had been genuinely shocked by his defiance. The shock was the most valuable gift Oh-gong had received in months. Gyeong-cheon was accustomed to easy intimidation, to the passive fear of a grieving boy. Oh-gong had cracked that façade by threatening to expose Gyeong-cheon's financial movements. The retaliation wouldn't be immediate, but it would be proportionate and devastating when it came. He had bought himself maybe forty-eight hours of fragile peace.
He picked up the photograph. The woman—Gyeolsa—had the kind of eyes that held no warmth, only analysis. She wasn't just watching him; she was calculating his moves. If she was his mother's protector, why the secrecy? Why the theatrical notes and silent observation instead of a direct, legal approach?
Perhaps my mother knew my father would watch everyone she trusted.
He had to find a name, an organization, anything to ground the word "Gyeolsa" and the woman's face in reality. He didn't dare use the home computer, which was certainly monitored. Instead, he waited until dawn and slipped into the neighborhood's public library, a dusty, underused building a few blocks from the school.
He started simply: the reverse image search for the woman's face yielded nothing. She was too obscure, or perhaps the photo was too old. Next, he searched the word "Gyeolsa" combined with his mother's maiden name (Jang) and his father's corporate ties. Nothing obvious appeared.
He changed tack, focusing on the quality of the artifacts. The paper was key. He took a high-resolution photo of the note and the thread, then searched for "exclusive stationery," "premium paper texture," and "high-grade charcoal fabric." It was a long shot, but deep within the search results of a niche luxury blog, he found a match for the unique weave pattern of the thread. It was custom-made for a specific, exclusive line of men's corporate wear, only available to executives of a few major holding companies.
One of the listed clients was Kyung-In Holdings (K-I).
Oh-gong remembered his mother mentioning that name once, years ago, when she was frustrated with one of his father's business decisions. He hadn't paid attention then. Now, every memory was a critical piece of the puzzle.
He pulled up public records for Kyung-In Holdings. The company was legally structured as a shell corporation, a vast network of subsidiaries that owned various, disconnected assets—real estate, pharmaceuticals, and, crucially, a majority stake in the minor financial institution that handled the specific trust fund his mother had created for him.
Kyung-In Holdings is the cold hand holding the lever.
But K-I was registered under a single, nondescript director: a man named Lee. There was no mention of Gyeong-cheon, no mention of his mother, and certainly no mention of the woman in the photograph. This was too clean, too hidden. It was designed specifically to obscure the true owner.
Just as he was about to dig deeper into the corporate registry, the librarian announced the start of school hours. He quickly logged off, his heart pounding with the twin pressures of the investigation and the need to maintain his facade at school.
He arrived in the classroom seconds before the bell. Jin Seon-mi was already there, but today, she didn't greet him with a shout. She merely watched him approach, her easy smile replaced by a worried frown.
When he reached his desk, he found a new, thick notebook lying on his chair.
"It's for you," she said quietly, without preamble. "Since you were researching at the library this morning, I figured you might need a place to organize your thoughts. It's too big to leave lying around."
Oh-gong stiffened. "How did you know I was at the library?"
"I didn't," she replied, her eyes wide with innocent surprise. "I was walking past the street entrance when I saw you leaving. You were moving like you were being chased by a ghost. It made me worry. Anyway, I got this because you always look so tense trying to keep things in your head."
He picked up the notebook. It was plain black, with high-quality paper. It was meant to be sturdy and secretive. He felt a wave of conflicting emotions: gratitude for her intuition, annoyance at her ability to see through him, and a fierce determination to keep her safe from the darkness he was stepping into.
"Thank you," he managed, the words feeling foreign and rusty.
She brightened immediately, the easy smile returning. "Good. Now, you didn't have breakfast again, did you?"
"I ate," he lied instantly.
"You're a terrible liar, Oh-gong," she sighed, reaching into her worn, colorful backpack. "I brought two small packages today, just in case. They're savory egg rolls this time, so you can't say they're cake and refuse them." She nudged one toward his side of the desk.
He looked at the savory egg roll, steaming faintly in the foil, and then at her earnest face. He realized he was profoundly hungry. He also realized that accepting this small, intimate act of care was allowing himself to be vulnerable, and in his current world, vulnerability was a weapon his father could use.
He reached out, but not for the food. He gently pushed the egg roll back toward her.
"Eat both," he instructed, his voice low, firm, and bordering on a command. "If my father finds out that you are... distracted... because you are helping me, he will find a way to make you regret it. I can handle myself. You need to focus only on your work. This is serious, Seon-mi."
Her face fell slightly, hurt by the blunt rejection. "I just want you to be okay."
"I will be okay," he promised, meeting her gaze with a sincerity he hadn't known he possessed. "But only if you are untouchable. I don't want you involved in my mess."
It wasn't a rejection of her; it was a desperate attempt to draw a boundary of protection around her. She didn't understand the depth of the threat, but she saw the fear in his eyes. She slowly nodded and started unwrapping her own egg roll, but she kept the second one wrapped.
"Fine," she whispered. "But if you pass out from low sugar, I will blame myself."
After classes, Oh-gong immediately went to the computer lab, leaving Seon-mi with a curt nod that felt agonizingly impersonal. He needed to strike while his father was still calculating his next move.
Using the school's firewall and a VPN, he performed a deeper, almost illegal search on Kyung-In Holdings, bypassing the public registry limits. He found an old, archived shareholder meeting log from seven years ago—just after his mother's death.
The log revealed that the majority of K-I's shares were not held by Director Lee, but by a blind trust legally represented by one anonymous entity: J.H.K.
The document did not list a full name, but it was enough. Oh-gong cross-referenced the initials J.H.K. with the corporate officers who worked closely with his mother before her death. The search result was immediate and chilling:
Jeong Hae-kyung.
Jeong Hae-kyung was the full name of the woman in the photograph. The one Oh-gong had identified as Gyeolsa. She was not just a confidante; she was the secret, controlling shareholder of the very company that now managed—and potentially threatened—his trust fund.
Gyeolsa is not just watching me; she is actively managing the only leverage I have against my father.
He now understood the cryptic notes. She hadn't left him out of malice; she had protected herself to protect him. If Gyeong-cheon knew Jeong Hae-kyung was the real shareholder, he would have eliminated her immediately.
The investigation led to a detailed schedule of upcoming K-I administrative meetings. One was scheduled for tomorrow evening at a high-rise office building downtown—a legal review of "Trust Portfolio 14-A." Portfolio 14-A was the name of his mother's inheritance trust.
This was Gyeolsa's next command. She wasn't asking him to research; she was forcing him to act. He had to be at that meeting, or risk losing everything.
He packed his things and headed toward the main gate, his mind racing. He was so focused on the meeting location that he almost missed her.
Jeon Yeo Been, the junior student who had defended the girl from the bullies and had brought him the cake yesterday, was waiting near the curb, leaning against a low wall, seemingly waiting for a ride.
As Oh-gong walked past, she looked up, her expression serious. She didn't say "Good morning" or "Hello." Instead, she spoke in a low, distinct voice, her eyes flicking momentarily toward the back of the school, where the large oak tree stood.
"You should know," she whispered quickly, just loud enough for him to hear, "that the cake maker is strong, but she's not alone. There are people here, right now, taking photos of her."
Oh-gong froze. He didn't need to turn around to know who was behind this. Gyeong-cheon had deployed his first, cold strike, using Seon-mi's association with him as leverage. He hadn't been able to force the transfer, so he was escalating the pressure on the anchor that kept Oh-gong grounded.
The image of Seon-mi being photographed—being documented, judged, and made vulnerable—sent a hot wave of protective fury through him. He reached into his pocket and clutched the thread of the charcoal fabric.
He cannot touch her.
He turned to Yeo Been, his gaze intense. "Thank you," he said, the gratitude absolute.
"Go to the tower downtown," she instructed, her voice dropping lower, her eyes meeting his with an unexpected intensity. "Be there at seven. The one with the spire."
Before he could ask how she knew, a black sedan pulled up. She nodded once, a gesture of finality, and got in, leaving Oh-gong standing alone, facing the setting sun and the looming threat of the downtown skyline.
He wasn't just fighting for money anymore. He was fighting for his anchor. He had a target, a time, and a fierce, cold purpose.