I. The Last Ghost of Seok-jin
Kim Taehyung was already operating with maximum vigilance, constantly juggling the global crisis and the psychological defense of Ha-eun. Yet, the financial market began showing new, worrying signs. It wasn't the brute force instability of Madam Park's era; this was a surgical, intellectual decay. One of Taewon Group's most sensitive and vital departments—the Quantitative Analysis Division (QAD)—was exhibiting systemic manipulation. QAD handled the complex, proprietary algorithms that drove Taewon's high-frequency market trading, giving them a critical competitive edge. If QAD failed, the entire financial structure of Taewon would be exposed and rendered obsolete.
The security chief's report confirmed Taehyung's darkest suspicion. The Chairman sat rigidly in his war room, the glow of multiple screens reflecting the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Chairman," the Chief reported, his voice tense. "The digital footprint is minuscule. It's not Madam Park's signature—too clumsy. It's not Yeong-ho's data theft—too focused. This is elegant, almost poetic in its precision. It's buried deep, utilizing old, forgotten backdoors we thought were sealed years ago. Only one person could leave this signature, sir: Kim Seok-jin."
Taehyung closed his eyes, a spike of cold fury piercing his calm exterior. "The Tragic Poet. Even from behind bars, he's still obsessed with destruction."
He slammed his fist lightly on the desk, the soft thud a poor reflection of his internal rage. "Seok-jin didn't just attack the physical holdings or the assets; he targeted the company's mind. He embedded a digital sleeper agent deep within QAD's core trading code—a fleeting asset designed not for a sudden crash, but to bleed the company dry over the next fiscal quarter."
"He wants to destroy the source of the prosperity, not just the surface prosperity," Taehyung muttered, pacing the room. "It's a moral attack. He's making a twisted statement about the tragedy of cold, hard profit and the corruption of the Taewon soul."
The problem was terrifyingly technical: the manipulation was so subtle, woven into the fabric of the learning algorithms, that trying to patch the code would risk crashing the entire QAD system, causing billions in immediate losses and permanent damage to client trust. "It's like trying to remove a single, poisoned thread from a massive, multi-layered tapestry," the Chief explained grimly. Taehyung didn't need a generalized patch; he needed to find the specific line of poetry—the malicious code—before it executed its final destructive sequence.
"The code will execute its final sequence within 72 hours," the Chief warned. "We are running out of time."
II. The Inconvenient Truth
Taehyung leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "We cannot send the IT security team. The QAD analysts are paranoid. They will lock down the system the moment they see an external probe. We will lose our chance."
The QAD department was notoriously insular, fiercely loyal to its own structure, and contemptuous of outsiders—a perfect digital fortress. They needed an anomaly—someone who could enter the department unnoticed and observe the analysts' behavior without triggering their defenses. Someone who didn't look like a threat.
Taehyung reviewed his mental list of available assets. His corporate spies were too obvious. Min-ho was too recognizable. His own presence would cause a riot.
An unnerving, ethically compromised, and utterly brilliant idea struck him with the force of a market crash. He needed someone who:
Had a legitimate, bizarre excuse to be in the area.
Was completely unconnected to current corporate politics (by definition).
Could observe subtlety and human patterns (the very things the analysts ignored).
Had the ability to distract key personnel without raising suspicion.
He looked at the small CEO action figure—now subtly customized with blue paint—sitting on his desk. The answer was insane. He needed Eun-ji.
Taehyung walked with heavy steps to the living room, where Ha-eun was attempting to write a poem about the tragedy of unwashed brushes on a large canvas. She looked up, her expression one of innocent artistic frustration.
"Eun-ji," he began, trying to make the request sound like a spontaneous, artistic quest. "I need your help with an immediate creative crisis. The rival poet (Jin) has hidden a piece of very bad art—a sad code poem—in the building where people count money. It's an insult to all genuine melancholic art."
"Bad art? I must stop it immediately!" she declared, her eyes blazing with purpose, dropping her brush onto the marble floor without a second thought. "Where is this terrible corporate sadness hiding? Is it taupe? I despise taupe secrets!"
"Exactly. We need you to go there under cover of your official title—Chief Internal Morale Consultant—and observe the people. See if anyone looks like they are harboring the poet's sadness, hiding a very unfunny, taupe secret in their hearts."
"My artist's eye is perfect for spotting hidden misery and bad aesthetics," she confirmed, already scrambling to find her notepad. "But Taehyung, if I go into the counting room, I must be protected from boring financial talk. You must promise me that."
"I promise. I will be your shield against all spreadsheets," Taehyung assured her, though his conscience was screaming warnings. He knew the risk was immense. A corporate environment was the single biggest trigger for her amnesia. But he had no other option; the company's survival depended on this fragile, oblivious asset.
III. The Corporate Poet's New Assignment
Taehyung took extra precautions. He disguised her in clothes that suggested 'eccentric genius' rather than 'former CEO'—a flowing silk scarf, large dark glasses, and an oversized, dramatically cut velvet jacket. She looked like an avant-garde performance artist who had wandered into the wrong building.
As they drove toward the tower, Ha-eun's excitement was palpable, her previous fear entirely replaced by artistic mission.
"Taehyung, when I go into the counting room, should I demand a group forehead kiss for team synergy? It is a highly effective morale boost," she asked seriously, reviewing her self-created mental checklist.
"Absolutely not. We stick strictly to the Corporate Poet's Field Protocol," Taehyung warned, his voice severe. "Remember: stealth, observation, and minimal physical contact. You are there to judge their emotional contribution to the poetry of finance. You may only ask them two questions: 1) What is the colour of their stress? and 2) Does their job prevent them from writing a good limerick?"
"Stress color and lyrical repression," she muttered, tapping her temple. "Understood. The mission is purely diagnostic."
Upon entering the QAD department—the heart of the financial machine—the effect was immediate and catastrophic to the analysts' concentration. The intense, serious analysts—who were usually impervious to distraction—froze at the sight of the Chairman entering with a strange, bright-eyed woman carrying a notepad and a small plastic action figure (the CEO doll). The sudden breach of QAD's sanctity caused a visible ripple of shock.
Taehyung quickly introduced her as his "highly sensitive artistic consultant" there to gauge employee burnout and the "lyrical quality" of the work environment.
Ha-eun immediately went to work, her 'artist's eye' focused on the analysts with an unsettling intensity. She ignored the expensive equipment, the multi-million-dollar data screens, and the complex charts, focusing purely on the human element. Her gaze was unnervingly insightful.
"You, sir!" she declared, pointing a dramatic finger at a young analyst who was sweating slightly under the pressure. "What is the colour of your stress? Be precise, I need the HEX code of your anxiety!"
"Uhm... chartreuse, ma'am?" the analyst stammered, bewildered and terrified of incurring the Chairman's mysterious consultant's wrath. "It's a very unstable yellow-green, ma'am."
Ha-eun turned to Taehyung, shaking her head sadly. "Too bright. He is hiding something dark and volatile under a distracting colour. His emotional projection is dishonest."
She moved swiftly to another analyst, an older man who was calmly looking at a screen filled with complex algorithms. He was the picture of corporate calm. "And you, sir? Does your job prevent you from writing a good limerick? Does the sheer volume of numbers crush your potential for rhyme?"
The analyst paused, a faint, nostalgic smile crossing his face. "Yes, ma'am. It does. It requires all my focus. I haven't written a rhyming couplet in fifteen years."
"A true tragedy!" Ha-eun announced, making a deeply serious note in her pad. "Another victim of fiscal repression. We must document this systemic poetic failure."
Suddenly, Ha-eun stopped, her usual animated chatter dying in her throat. She stood perfectly still at a workstation tucked away in the corner. It belonged to an analyst named Park Ji-hoon. The analyst wasn't looking at the financial data; his focus was on an old, framed photograph on his desk.
Ha-eun's face, usually animated, grew strangely quiet. She stared at the photo, her posture straightening almost imperceptibly. Taehyung felt a cold wave of dread; he knew a powerful trigger was incoming. The childish curiosity vanished, replaced by an unsettling, almost familiar contemplation.
"Taehyung," Ha-eun whispered, her voice barely audible, ignoring the analyst completely. "This man's picture... it looks like a broken promise. The composition is flawed."
She looked closer at the framed photo. It was a picture of a smiling, younger Kim Seok-jin.
"And the man in the picture... he looks like he likes sad poetry. He looks like he could betray an entire financial system just to prove a point about heartbreak."
Taehyung's heart froze. The memory hadn't returned, but her instinctive recognition of Seok-jin's motive and personality was even more dangerous. She had found the asset.