The next morning, two grand plans solidified in his mind upon waking: first, to buy a new phone worthy of his new status, and second, to hone his skills with the single-minded discipline of a martial artist. The inspiration came from a manhwa he'd been reading, 'The Heavenly Demon is Kind'—a tale of relentless cultivation and power.
Finally leaving his bed, he shuffled towards the kitchen, drawn by the scent of something other than instant coffee. And there he spotted Seo-yeon.
She was wearing an apron—a surprisingly chic, minimalist one—and had already prepared a full breakfast with the groceries he had bought. Plates of rolled omelets, perfectly seasoned spinach, and a pot of rice sat on the counter. The scene was so domestically idyllic it felt like a foreign film.
My husband is ready for his breakfast, she thought, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips as she heard his footsteps. He'll be so surprised. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and the way to make sure he never leaves is through my father, who will turn him into mush and throw him into the Han River if he tries.
"Good morning, Oppa!" she chirped, her voice bright as she turned to face him. "I thought you could use a proper breakfast before your… grinding."
Dong-seung stood frozen in the doorway, his brain still booting up. His eyes flickered from her beaming face to the elaborate spread of food, then to the sink where a single, used coffee mug from yesterday still sat. The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming. This was not part of the agreed-upon "business arrangement."
"You… cooked," he stated flatly, his tone hovering between confusion and accusation.
"I did!" she said, either missing or expertly ignoring his bewilderment. She gestured to the table. "Sit, sit! You need energy to build your empire."
He mechanically took a seat, his mind racing. This is a variable I did not account for. What is the expected ROI on a homemade breakfast? Is this a one-time event, or will it become a recurring operational cost? Do I need to increase her grocery budget?
Seo-yeon sat opposite him, resting her chin on her hands, watching him expectantly. "Well? Try it!"
He picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of the omelet. It was good. Really good. A fact that, for some reason, annoyed him further. It was easier to dismiss this entire situation if the food was mediocre.
"It's… efficient," he said, the highest praise his socially stunted, programmer brain could muster.
Seo-yeon's smile widened. He likes it! He's just shy! "I'm glad it meets your operational standards," she replied, a playful tease in her voice that sailed completely over his head.
He ate in silence for a moment, the weight of her gaze making the back of his neck itch. He needed to re-establish the framework of their relationship. "You don't have to do this," he said finally. "The rent agreement doesn't include… culinary services."
"I know," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Consider it a 'Support the Developer' donation."
The reference to his Gumroad page was so unexpected and tactically brilliant that he was momentarily stunned. She had used his own terminology against him. He had no logical counter-argument.
He simply nodded, took another bite, and accepted that his perfectly optimized, solitary grind had just acquired a beautiful, unpredictable, and dangerously well-fed variable.
After finishing eating, a new, more pressing thought booted up in his mind: Routine Establishment. He needed to formally report his latest income to the NTS portal. Making it a habitual, post-payout ritual was the most logical way to demonstrate consistent trustworthiness. It was a data stream he needed to keep clean, especially with the source about to become a firehose. His atrocious credit score was a permanent red flag on his file, and the only way to increase it was through a relentless campaign of boring, predictable compliance.
He opened the Shinhan Bank app, the numbers now a familiar sight.
[Shinhan Bank: Your Balance is 22,957,501 ₩]
[Credit Score: 531 / 1000]
[Evaluation: High-Risk (Grade 7)]
A sound of pure disgust escaped him. "Tch. My god." It had increased by a measly 10 points. All that effort, the meticulous reporting, the sheer volume of new income—and the bank rewarded him with a single, pathetic point for every 2.5 million won earned. It was the most inefficient grind he'd ever encountered.
Does owning an Amex card even do anything for this? He wondered, the thought immediately followed by a more paranoid one. Do I have to pay an annual fee for that thing? The System had been silent on the terms and conditions. The idea of an invisible, recurring charge made him shudder.
He dismissed the bank app with a scowl. Forget it. This was a long-term quest with garbage rewards. Pouring energy into his credit score was like trying to level up by killing level-one slimes—the EXP was negligible.
His finger was just about to close the app when the screen flashed, and a new notification—sharp, urgent, and utterly different from a transaction alert—overrode everything.
BRRRR
[Shinhan Bank: Your account has been temporarily locked for security review.]
Please consult your local bank advisor.
"You fucking bitch!" he screamed, forming a furious Y with both arms as if cursing the heavens.
From the kitchen, Seo-yeon merely glanced over. She didn't really care about the reason. She thought it was cute; he was known as a shy person, after all. But now he had shown her that he had a devil inside. Does this also apply to bed activities? she wondered, a slow smile spreading across her face. My impure thoughts, haha.
Panic set in. After frantically searching the app—navigating menus buried like nested if statements—he finally found his advisor's direct line and dialed.
The representative's voice was cold and formal. "Mr. Lee, we've flagged a series of high-velocity, large-sum deposits into a previously dormant account. This activity, coupled with your credit history, has triggered a mandatory anti-money laundering review. The National Tax Service has also been in contact. You are required to present all relevant documentation—contracts, invoices, proof of business—at our main branch tomorrow at 10 AM. Agents from the NTS will be present."
The phone felt heavy in his hand. The "fortress" he was trying to build now had its gates besieged by the two most powerful entities in the country: his bank and the tax agency. Cold dread, a feeling he knew all too well, began to seep back in, threatening to undo all his recent confidence.
He fumbled with his phone, his fingers clumsy with panic, and dialed his uncle.
The line picked up after the first ring. "Dong-seung? What is it?"
The words tumbled out in a rushed, frantic jumble. "Uncle! I need a lawyer! As quickly as possible! The bank locked my account, and the NTS is involved—they think I'm laundering money! They want to see me tomorrow!"
There was a beat of silence on the other end, but it wasn't one of shock. It was the silence of a general assessing a new battlefield report.
"Breathe, Dong-seung." his uncle's voice was a low, steadying rumble. "This is not a crisis. This is a formality. A predictable one."
"A formality? They're treating me like a criminal!"
"They are treating you like a statistical anomaly," his uncle corrected, his tone utterly matter-of-fact. "You went from nothing to millions in a week. Of course, they noticed. This is the system working as designed. Annoying, but standard."
Dong-seung could hear the faint rustle of papers and the clink of a glass—the same sounds he'd heard during their last call. His uncle was already in motion.
"I will have Attorney Park meet you at your apartment in one hour. He is one of the best corporate litigators in Seoul. He used to work for the Fair Trade Commission. He knows how to speak to these people. Give him every document you have—everything. Do exactly as he says."
The sheer speed and decisiveness of it left Dong-seung speechless. The looming, terrifying meeting was just… handled.
"Uncle… thank you, I—"
"Don't thank me. Learn from this," his uncle interjected, his voice firm. "This is the cost of doing business. This is why you build a fortress. Now, go. Prepare your documents. Let the lawyer build the wall."
…
The main branch of Shinhan Bank was a modern financial citadel, an imposing building of smoked glass and polished granite that absorbed the weak autumn light. Inside, the vast lobby exuded sterile quietness under vaulted ceilings, its air thick with the faint metallic tang and the palpable tension of unbroken order.
Near the security desk, two uniformed police officers stood with casual vigilance, their presence a silent warning of the consequences of disturbing this temple's peace.
Dong-seung clutched a thick folder to his chest like a shield. Inside was his entire digital life, rendered in ink and paper: Gumroad dashboard printouts, Fiverr contracts, his own spreadsheets, and—critically—the official completion certificates for his software, bearing the seal of the Korea Software Standards Organization (KSSO) that he'd printed from the System's email.
Beside him, Attorney Park, a man whose calm demeanor was as impenetrable as the bank's walls, scanned the room with a detached air. "Remember," the lawyer murmured, "you are a successful entrepreneur. Answer about your business. Nothing more."
They were led into a sterile, windowless conference room. Two bank officials and one severe-looking woman from the NTS sat on the other side of the table, their faces impassive.
The NTS agent, Ms. Kim, began. "Mr. Lee, these transfers from 'Gumroad Inc.'... explain the nature of this business."
Dong-seung laid out his documents, his voice steadying as he walked them through the evidence of his work. He showed them the product, the sales records, and the client contracts. Then, anticipating their skepticism, he slid the KSSO certificates across the table.
The lead banker picked one up, his eyebrow raised. "We will need to verify this."
"Please do," Attorney Park said smoothly.
The banker excused himself. The room was silent for five long minutes until he returned, his demeanor subtly shifted. "The KSSO has verified the authenticity of the certificates." The statement hung in the air, dismantling a significant wall of their doubt.
Then came the expected question. The banker tapped a statement, his finger resting on a line item from American Express. "This card. Our records show no credit application. And the product type... It's a premium card. How did a person with your... financial history... acquire this?"
Dong-seung's throat went dry. This was the one variable he couldn't document.
Before he could stammer a response, Attorney Park looked up from his phone. "The source of my client's banking relationships is not your concern. You are reviewing the legitimacy of these deposits," he said, gesturing to the Gumroad printouts. "You have verified their origin. This card is a method of spending, not a source of income. It is irrelevant to your anti-money laundering protocols regarding these funds. You are overstepping."
The banker's jaw tightened. He knew the lawyer was technically correct—their mandate was the source of the deposits, not how he chose to spend them. But the presence of the impossible card was a ghost in the machine, a glaring anomaly that screamed there was more to the story. To press further without concrete evidence was to risk a lawsuit.
…
The banker, Mr. Choi, refused to let the anomaly go. "The card, Mr. Lee. Our records show no application. Explain it."
Dong-seung's throat went dry. This was the variable with no documentation.
Before he could speak, Attorney Park cut in. "The source of my client's banking relationships is irrelevant. You are reviewing the source of his income. You have verified it. This line of questioning is an overreach."
"With all due respect, Counselor, it is not." Mr. Choi picked up the desk phone. "We took the liberty of contacting American Express Singapore for verification." He pressed a button, and a speakerphone ringtone filled the room.
A polished voice answered. "James Miller, Client Services."
Mr. Choi identified himself. "We require confirmation on an account holder, Lee Dong-seung."
The line was silent for a moment, filled only with the sound of rapid typing. Then, the typing stopped.
When the ambassador spoke again, his voice was a sheet of ice. "The profile is flagged 'Onyx Circle.' I have no clearance. You have no jurisdiction. This inquiry is terminated."
The line went dead.
BEEP BEEP
The silence in the room was absolute. The NTS agent, Ms. Kim, was no longer looking at a suspected tax evader. She was looking at a ghost.
Mr. Choi stared at the phone, his confidence shattered. He had tried to call a witness and summoned a sphinx.
After a tense silence, the lead banker conceded. The provided evidence for the income is in order. The hold on your account will be lifted."
The moment the door shut, Ms. Kim allowed herself a slow, calculated breath. Lee Dong-seung was no tax cheat. He was an enigma. And enigmas were not for low-level auditors like her; they were for the men and women on the tenth floor.
Back at her desk, she opened a standardized "Case Elevation Request" form. In the field for "Justification," she did not write about magic cards or secret identities. She wrote in dry, bureaucratic prose: "Subject's financial profile exhibits hallmarks of a sophisticated shielding mechanism, the nature of which falls outside standard audit protocols. Recommend transfer to the Financial Intelligence Unit for further analysis regarding potential violations of the Foreign Exchange Transactions Act and international capital movement regulations."
She checked the box for "Inter-Agency Liaison Recommended" and, from a dropdown menu, selected National Intelligence Service - Financial Security Directorate.
It wasn't a dramatic accusation. It was a quiet, administrative decision. And in many ways, that made it far more dangerous. Dong-seung had just become a file, and files on the tenth floor had a habit of never being closed.
Outside, the autumn air felt like a pardon. Attorney Park gave a thin smile. "They are satisfied with the business. Now they are simply curious about the man. Your uncle sends his regards."
The fortress had held, but the watchful eyes outside its walls had just multiplied.