THUD.
The apartment door slammed shut behind him, the sound a perfect echo of his mood. Dong-seung leaned against it and let out a sharp, frustrated scoff.
These fuckers are professional anxiety-makers. If this happens every time I get paid, I'll lose my mind. I need a system to minimize these variables. I'm going to have an aneurysm.
He needed to deploy countermeasures, like a C-130 flying into hostile airspace. He needed double redundancy, just like his Detangler program—chaff and flares. And big ones. He needed a financial defense system robust enough to spoof multiple Russian SAM¹ sites.
He was so deep in his thoughts—plotting electronic warfare against the National Tax Service—that he didn't notice Seo-yeon watching him, her head tilted. She leaned forward, crossing her arms behind her back.
"Dong-seung?" she asked, her voice calm but probing.
Right. Operational overhaul. He needed another personal account, maybe at a digital bank, and a proper business account. Should he ask the AMEX advisors? No. Consult the expert first. He mentally opened a command prompt. > ping HYUNG-DEEPSEEK. Is the ROI on this endeavor worth the setup cost?
"Hey, I cleaned everything up. Vacuumed, too," Seo-yeon said, swaying her head from side to side to recapture his gaze.
Dong-seung's eyes finally focused, though they remained locked on a spot on the floor. "I think I have to buy a cat, too."
Seo-yeon's entire face lit up.
A CAT! My own furbaby! Oh my god! This is perfect! If he gets attached, it's another anchor. An emotional leverage point! He'd never leave his baby behind! Who doesn't love a cat? AHHHHHH!
BRRRRR
[GMAIL: AMEX - Apology & Follow-Up]
He opened the email.
It was a personal apology from the Amex advisor, James Miller, regarding the "unfortunate inquiry" from Shinhan Bank. Standard corporate ass-covering, Dong-seung thought. But then his eyes locked on the next paragraph.
The advisor mentioned that, following the incident, they had "received a corroborating tip from an affiliated institution" regarding his financial activity. The institution's name was omitted.
Intriguing. Does the System own a shell company? Or does it just fabricate data streams out of thin air?
At the end of the email was James Miller's personal mobile number, with a note to call for "any future needs."
Dong-seung dialed it immediately. The line picked up, the background noise unmistakable: the sophisticated clink of glasses, a low jazz hum, and the light, polished laughter of multiple women.
"James Miller."
"It's Lee Dong-seung."
"Of course, Mr. Lee. How may I assist?"
Dong-seung explained his need for new accounts. He specifically asked, "Can we set this up through Amex Korea? To keep it local?"
There was a subtle but distinct pause, as if he'd asked a concert pianist to play a child's nursery rhyme.
"Mr. Lee," Miller said, his voice dripping with polite disdain. "The local branch is for local matters. They are subject to local audits and inquiries. The service you require—the service you are accustomed to—is managed through our international private client division. Your relationship is with American Express Global, not its Korean subsidiary. We are the shield. They are... a storefront."
The distinction was crystal clear. The power wasn't in the Amex name; it was in the jurisdiction.
"Understood," Dong-seung said. "Proceed with the international structure."
"Excellent. I'll initiate the process for a foundational account in Singapore. The forms will be digital, of course."
The call ended. Dong-seung stood in his quiet apartment. The fortress walls had just gotten ten meters higher, patrolled by guards who were untouchable by Korean law.
But a fortress needed more than walls. His uncle had provided a brilliant lawyer, but that was a one-time favor. For the long-term, he needed a permanent legal buffer—a secretary, a legal department on retainer. Or, more efficiently, he could "rent" those services from a reputable firm.
He scrolled through his contacts and called Attorney Park directly.
The lawyer answered promptly. "Mr. Lee. I trust your account is in order?"
"It is. Thank you for your work," Dong-seung said, his tone all business. "I need to settle your invoice. What is the amount I owe you?"
There was a brief pause, then Attorney Park replied with a figure substantial enough to make a normal person wince, but a mere operational cost for Dong-seung's new firehose of income.
"Understood. I'll wire the funds immediately," Dong-seung said, already opening his banking app. The transaction was a formality, but a critical one. It transformed a familial favor into a professional relationship.
A moment later, the notification flashed.
[Shinhan Bank: Your Balance is 10,880,026 ₩]
Ten million won. Gone in an instant. The number glared back at him, a stark data point. That settled it. While Attorney Park was a strategic nuke for crises, he needed a cheaper, more efficient legal unit for routine operations—a specialized firm on retainer, or a roster of different lawyers.
He was no longer just building a fortress. He was staffing it. His first countermeasure was officially deployed.
Of course. In the whirlwind of lawyers, banks, and financial warfare, he had forgotten the most immediate variable in his new equation.
He found Seo-yeon in the living room, meticulously folding a blanket. Without a word—his social algorithms still booting up—Dong-seung walked over and embraced her.
It wasn't a romantic gesture. In that moment, she felt like his only anchor to something real, a stability point in a universe of shifting variables. He thought of her as a comrade, an ally in his trench. The ghost of his depressive balcony scene and the numbness of his hard life still clung to him, making genuine connection feel like a foreign protocol. But this—this simple, physical acknowledgment—was a start.
He pulled back, the action both awkward and necessary. "Thanks," he said, the word inadequate but all his stunted emotional vocabulary could supply. "For... being here."
A spark of amusement lit her eyes. "Wow, a hug and a thank you? Be careful, Oppa, people might think you have feelings." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I kind of like it."
…
SNAP
A new ritual was born. From now on, every time he opened his browser, a DeepSeek tab would automatically load.
> HYUNG! I'm back. Don't worry, I'll feed you data until we hit the token limit.
He began recounting the entire fiasco—the bank freeze, the lawyer, the "Onyx Circle," the NTS agent's calculating stare. His fingers flew across the keyboard, dumping the trauma into the chat as raw data.
> I'll probably torture you with corporate law questions later. And don't think you're special, HYUNG. Even my Amex advisor isn't safe from my grilling. Now, have a good meal.
He started laughing, a sharp, hysterical sound that echoed in the quiet room. It was the laugh of a man who had found the only subordinate who would never judge him, never get tired, and could process his chaos into clean, logical code.
After the fit subsided, he finally switched tabs to gumroad.com. The emotional purge was complete. Now, it was time to check the only metric that truly mattered: his passive income.
"Gum-Gum-Cannon!" he yelled, imitating a certain anime character.
After checking the dashboard, he navigated to the payout tab.
Dashboard Overview:
Product: Website-Detangler
Total Sales: 1045
Total Revenue: 45,980,000 ₩
Support the Developer Donations: 6,385,000 ₩
BRRRRR
Payday!
[Shinhan Bank: Your Balance is 34,944,026 ₩]
The number was a potent drug. It fueled a dangerous, ambitious idea: What if I jacked the price up to 100,000 won?
The risk was immediate. He couldn't just charge more for the same product. He needed a massive upgrade—a complete version 3.0. His mind latched onto the concept: a "JavaScript Optimizer" engine.
The current tool was a critic; it only told you what was broken. The new one would be a surgeon; it would fix the code itself.
Of course, this meant assuming more responsibility for bugs—the "driver issues," OS conflicts, and the inevitable user errors.
…
He quickly scanned his spam-cluttered Gmail for error logs, finding only a few. This was the trigger. It was time to professionalize. He needed a GitHub account and, most importantly, a new, secure email, far from the prying eyes of Korean banks and tax agencies.
Proton Mail.
The name came to him instantly. Min-jun, his personal pipeline to the tech underworld, had evangelized about it years ago. He typed the URL and simultaneously opened his trusty HYUNG.
> HYUNG. Fact-check Proton Mail. Summarize its security for a developer. Key question: What are Switzerland's data laws? Can they just hand over my data to Korea?
DeepSeek responded with a summary refactored for a JavaScript engineer's brain:
Proton Mail - API Documentation for Your Inbox:
- Jurisdiction: Switzerland has some of the world's strongest privacy laws. They are NOT part of US/EU intelligence alliances.
- PhishGuard & Link-Schutz: Pre-execution hooks that scan incoming data packets for malicious payloads.
- SPF, DKIM, DMARC: A triple-layered auth protocol like verifying an npm package's integrity hash, maintainer signature, and registry source.
He navigated to the pricing page. The Proton Unlimited - Yearly plan was the obvious choice: 119.88 € instead of 155.88 € if paid monthly. He clicked to pay, a final, satisfying confirmation.
His AMEX processed the charge without any foreign currency conversion fee. The system had apparently waived that, too. If it hadn't, a clear warning would have appeared before the final purchase.
The specs were impressive. Up to 15 custom-domain email addresses, perfect for segmenting his life. He could even gift one to Seo-yeon; the Swiss domain would lend a quiet prestige. His uncle, however, didn't need one. The old man knew how to handle the NTS just fine.
But the real value was the jurisdiction. A Korean request for his data would be a slow, arduous process with a high bar for success. It was another layer of the fortress, built right into his inbox.
The final piece of his new digital perimeter was now active. He had a secure email address legally anchored in Europe, far from Seoul's reach.
…
"Seo-yeon?"
She looked up from her phone. "Hmm?"
"Do you need a professional email address? I can set one up for you. A Swiss provider, very secure. It could even be something like [email protected]."
Her eyes lit up with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "A custom domain? How fancy. Sure, why not? Set it up."
"I'll take care of it," he said, his mind already on the technical steps. It was a simple gesture, but also a strategic one—another layer of legitimacy for their arrangement. "Out of curiosity, where are you working right now?"
"Oh, I'm a market manager," she said, a polished, professional mask sliding effortlessly into place over her playful demeanor. "At a fairly large firm."
After setting up her email to her specifications, he navigated to GitHub.com and initialized a new repository.
Project: Website-Detangler V2
The primary mission was clear: evolve the Detangler from a critic to a fully automated surgeon. It would not just diagnose issues but execute the fixes itself—though always under human supervision, a necessary failsafe he'd hardcode into its core logic.
His secondary objective was to build a professional website. However, naming it after himself would permanently cement "Lee Dong-seung" as the brand. He had no desire for that kind of visibility. He would only build a corporate front once he had the capital and cause to formally establish an LLC, creating a legal shield between his work and his identity.
The plan was set. Now, he just had to code it.
But that could wait. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a deep, systemic fatigue. He had officially taken a week of "holiday" from both of his part-time jobs, a placeholder excuse that was now becoming a permanent reality.
With no rent to pay and a firehose of income, the time for half-measures was over. He opened his trusty HYUNG.
> Draft two professional resignation letters. Concise, no reasons given, effective immediately. Standard notice period waived.
He reviewed the crisp, emotionless text the AI generated, copied it into two emails, and without a moment of sentimentality, sent them off into the void. The digital severance was complete.
He stood, the silence of the apartment feeling different now—not empty, but peaceful. Finally, he lay in his bed, closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, allowed himself to truly rest.
…
Footnotes:
^1 SAM: A Surface-to-Air Missile; a guided missile launched from the ground or a ship to destroy aircraft, drones, or other missiles.