SEOUL – DECEMBER 2020
The air in the goshiwon was cold enough to see his breath, but Je-Hoon didn't feel it. His focus was a physical hum in the tiny room, synced with the rhythmic pulse of data on his screen.
Three brokerage accounts—one Korean, one Singaporean, one Hong Kong—were executing Marco's orchestrated symphony of micro-trades. Over the past 48 hours, they had accumulated a 3.7% stake in Sungwon Bio, a small-cap pharmaceutical firm teetering on the edge of obscurity and opportunity. Average purchase price: ₩12,450 per share. Total outlay: ₩14,800,000. Nearly all his capital.
On the surface, it was insanity. Sungwon Bio was a textbook cautionary tale: family-run, outdated labs, declining revenue for five consecutive quarters, and a stock price that had been in a gentle, terminal decline.
But beneath the surface, Marco had found the fissure.
[Patent D-38765: Broad-spectrum antiviral adjuvant. Enhances efficacy of existing generic antivirals by an average of 40%. FDA fast-track designation granted August 2020. Korean Ministry of Food and Drug Safety (MFDS) final approval pending. Stuck in 'administrative review.']
[Analysis of review board members' public calendars, academic publications, and past decision patterns suggests deliberate stalling. Probability of external influence: 94.2%.]
[The 'external influence': Daeil Pharma, Korea's third-largest generic drug manufacturer. They have been accumulating Sungwon debt and covertly buying shares through nominee accounts for 11 months. Goal: force a distressed sale before approval sends Sungwon's value soaring.]
Je-Hoon watched the Level 2 order book for Sungwon. Tiny sell orders appeared like clockwork every 20 minutes, suppressing any uptick. It was a classic "death by a thousand cuts" strategy.
"They're patient," Je-Hoon murmured.
[Daeil's strategy is low-risk, high-reward. But it contains one critical miscalculation.]
"And that is?"
[The lead reviewer stalling the approval, Director Kwon Myung-shik, is up for promotion to Vice Minister next month. His primary opponent is a reformist candidate who has made 'clearing bureaucratic backlog' a key platform. Kwon's stalling is no longer in his political interest. He will act soon.]
"How soon?"
[Recalculating based on today's National Assembly committee hearing transcripts...]
[Probability of Kwon expediting the Sungwon approval within the next 72 hours: 78.6%. He will want it seen as his proactive achievement.]
A window. A tiny, closing window of opportunity that only someone who could calculate human ambition with the precision of a physics equation could see.
"Monitor all channels. The moment there's a whisper from the MFDS, we need to be the first to know."
[All passive scans are tuned to keywords: 'Sungwon,' 'D-38765,' 'Kwon Myung-shik,' 'adjuvant approval.']
Je-Hoon leaned back, closing his eyes. In the darkness, Marco painted probabilities like constellations.
---
DAY 2: THE WEAKEST LINK
Marco's intelligence was limited to what Je-Hoon could perceive, but his capacity to connect disparate dots was limitless. The key was Sungwon Bio's CFO, a weary man in his late 50s named Park Chul.
Je-Hoon positioned himself in the shabby lobby of Sungwon's headquarters in Magok, an industrial district west of Seoul. He looked like any other junior office worker—cheap suit, slight frame, holding a tablet. He was there to "deliver a sample" from a non-existent lab supplier.
Park Chul passed through the lobby at 9:17 AM, heading for the elevator. His shoulders were slumped. His eyes were fixed on the cracked linoleum floor. Marco's passive scan washed over him from five meters away.
[Emotional state: Exhaustion (72%), Resignation (18%), Latent anger (10%).]
[Physiological markers: Elevated cortisol, minor atrial fibrillation, signs of chronic sleep deprivation.]
[Analysis: A man who knows his company is being stolen but feels powerless. He is the pressure point.]
Je-Hoon didn't approach him. He let him pass.
Instead, he waited.
At 1:03 PM, Park Chul left the building alone for a convenience store lunch—a cup of instant noodles and a banana milk. He ate on a concrete bench outside, oblivious to the December chill.
Je-Hoon approached, holding two cans of hot coffee from the machine. He sat on the far end of the bench, placing one can beside him. He said nothing, just sipped his own coffee.
After a minute, Park Chul glanced at the extra can, then at Je-Hoon. "Is that...?"
"It's extra," Je-Hoon said, offering a small, unthreatening smile. "The machine gave me two. Please, take it. It's too cold to be sitting out here."
The older man hesitated, then nodded in thanks, taking the can. The simple act of kindness from a stranger seemed to momentarily puncture his bubble of misery.
"You work at Sungwon?" Je-Hoon asked, his tone conversational.
"...I do. For twenty-two years." The words held more grief than pride.
"It must be hard, these days. I hear things."
Park Chul snorted, a bitter sound. "You hear right. Vultures circling. They want the name, the building, and to throw the people in the trash." He took a gulp of coffee. "Sorry. You don't need to hear this."
"Sometimes it's easier to tell a stranger," Je-Hoon said gently. Marco fed him the next line, calibrated for maximum resonance. "My father worked for one company his whole life too. They sold it to a conglomerate a month before his pension vested."
A spark of shared outrage flashed in Park Chul's eyes. "Bastards. It's the same playbook. Starve us. Make us desperate. Then offer a 'lifeline' that's really a noose."
"They're betting on the patent failing," Je-Hoon ventured softly.
"That's the joke!" Park Chul leaned forward, lowering his voice. "It's not failing! It's held up. The science is solid. The data is pristine. I've seen the correspondence—the questions from the review board are procedural nonsense. They're waiting for us to run out of cash to make the next 'clarification' payment." His fist clenched. "They're stealing my CEO's life's work. His father's work. And I have to smile and keep the books while they do it."
The dam had broken. The information flowed—not explicit details, but the emotional truth, the shape of the trap.
Je-Hoon listened. He nodded. He was a mirror for the man's frustration.
When Park Chul finished, deflated, Je-Hoon stood. "The coffee was a small thing. But don't give up hope yet. Sometimes, the clock runs out for the vultures, not the prey."
He walked away before Park Chul could ask his name.
[Connection established. Emotional leverage acquired. If the approval comes through, Park Chul will remember this conversation. He may see you as an ally, not a threat.]
"One pressure point identified," Je-Hoon whispered, merging back into the foot traffic. "Now, we monitor the other."
---
DAY 3: THE PRESSURE BUILDS
The market was a nervous animal. Sungwon's stock twitched between ₩12,300 and ₩12,700. Daeil Pharma's invisible hand kept it in a chokehold.
Je-Hoon spent the day in a PC bang, masked by the glow of gaming monitors and the clatter of mechanical keyboards. Here, he was just another kid grinding in a virtual world, not a predator executing a real-world raid.
Marco's active scan pulsed out once at noon, a focused, invisible probe sweeping the 20-story building that housed the MFDS offices in Cheongju, 140 km south of Seoul. It was a risk, but a calculated one.
[Active Scan (1/3 daily use) complete.]
[Target: MFDS 7th Floor, Drug Approval Division.]
[Detected: Elevated activity. Multiple closed-door meetings involving Director Kwon.]
[Key phrase extracted from lip-reading via security camera feed (5-second window): '...need to clear the backlog before the year-end report...']
[Probability of imminent action now: 89.1%.]
It was happening. The bureaucratic gears, rusted by corruption, were being forced to turn by a greater force: political ambition.
"Time to apply our own pressure," Je-Hoon said.
[Method?]
"A nudge. To Daeil Pharma."
Using a prepaid smartphone from a location three districts away, Je-Hoon sent a single, untraceable SMS to a number Marco had identified as belonging to Daeil's head of strategic acquisitions.
"MFDS moving on Sungwon patent. Your window is closing. A friend."
The message was ambiguous. It could be a warning from a sympathetic insider. It could be a bluff from a rival. Its purpose wasn't to inform—it was to panic.
Panic led to mistakes.
[Message delivered. Recipient device location shows immediate movement from office to executive floor. Probability of emergency internal meeting within the hour: 96%.]
"Now," Je-Hoon said, his fingers hovering over his trading terminal. "We wait for the mistake."
---
4:17 PM – THE MISTAKE
It came not as a roar, but as a misstep.
On the order book, a large block of Sungwon shares—nearly 2% of the company—appeared as a market sell order. It was meant to hammer the price down, to create one last wave of fear to trigger a margin call or a surrender from the Sungwon family.
But it was too big. Too obvious. And timed with a sudden, suspicious lull in the usual trickle of sell orders.
The market, that nervous animal, sniffed the blood in the water—but not the blood Daeil intended.
Whose shares are those? Why sell so much now? What do they know?
Rumors, Je-Hoon knew, moved faster than light in the financial world.
[The sell order is a defensive error. Daeil is trying to force the issue before the MFDS acts, but they've revealed their hand. Institutional algorithms are detecting abnormal volume.]
Sungwon's stock dipped to ₩12,100. Then it stalled.
And then, a single, brave buy order appeared. Not Je-Hoon's. A small Seoul-based hedge fund, known for speculative biotech plays, bought half the block.
The dam cracked.
Je-Hoon moved. With Marco guiding his timing to the millisecond, he deployed his remaining capital, buying every share he could at the artificially depressed price. ₩12,150. ₩12,180. ₩12,200.
The stock began to climb. Slowly. Then with gathering momentum as other algorithms joined the reversal.
By market close, Sungwon Bio ended at ₩12,750. Up 3.5% for the day. Je-Hoon's unrealized gain stood at over 20%.
But the real battle was just beginning.
---
NIGHT – THE SILENT APPROVAL
At 8:47 PM, the news broke.
Not on the mainstream financial wires. On the official, dry-as-dust MFDS regulatory update portal—a page only lawyers, analysts, and AIs like Marco monitored obsessively.
"Patent D-38765 (Sungwon Bio) – Status: APPROVED. Effective immediately."
There was no press release. No fanfare. Just a change in a database field. Director Kwon had done his job quietly, efficiently, and without attracting the blame for the prior delay.
Marco captured the update 0.7 seconds after it was posted.
[Target acquired. Approval confirmed.]
[Initiating pre-prepared trade orders.]
It didn't matter that the market was closed. The after-hours OTC (over-the-counter) market for institutional players was just waking up. Je-Hoon's orders—limit sells at ₩18,000, a 40% premium to the closing price—were among the first in the queue.
He waited in the dark of his room, the blue glow of the monitor the only light.
His phone, connected to the prepaid number known only to Park Chul, buzzed at 9:21 PM.
An unknown number. He answered.
"...It's Park. Park Chul." The voice was trembling, but with elation, not fear. "It... it came through. The approval. How did you... who are you?"
"A friend, as I said," Je-Hoon replied, his voice calm. "Congratulations."
"The CEO... he's crying. We have a chance now. But Daeil... they'll be furious. They'll try something else."
"Let them try," Je-Hoon said. "You have the patent. You have the law. And now, you have a shareholder who believes in the company's real value."
A pause. "That was you? Buying today?"
"Good night, Park Chul-ssi. Build something great with your second chance."
He ended the call.
For the next four hours, the OTC market burned. Daeil Pharma, caught flat-footed, tried to buy back shares to maintain control, but the price was spiraling beyond their reach. Je-Hoon's limit sells were hit, one after another.
By 2 AM, his position was fully liquidated.
[Trade Summary: Sungwon Bio]
[Total Investment: ₩14,800,000]
[Total Return: ₩49,550,000]
[Net Profit: ₩34,750,000 (~$29,500)]
[Return on Investment: 235%]
The numbers glowed on the screen. In six weeks, he had turned his desperate ₩92 million into nearly ₩130 million. He had broken a corporate predator's scheme. And he had done it from a ₩350,000 goshiwon room.
No one knew his name. No one would ever know.
He felt no thrill. No euphoria. Only the smooth, cold satisfaction of a perfect calculation executed. Marco's influence was tempering his emotional peaks, focusing everything into pure cognition.
[Warning: Emotional numbing at 31%. Advised balance: maintain human social anchors.]
"Noted," Je-Hoon said. He looked at the time. He had slept four hours in the last two days. His body, optimized, demanded rest.
As he lay on the thin mattress, the city's nocturnal hum through the thin walls, a final thought surfaced.
Park Min-jun. He would have heard about this. A obscure pharma stock mooning on a patent approval. He would see the patterns, the invisible hand. He would know, in his gut, that the ghost he had created was still out there. And growing stronger.
The thought was not a fear. It was an anticipation.
[Next target analysis initiated.]
[Sector: Media.]
[Rationale: Information is the true currency. To ascend, we must learn to shape the narrative.]
Je-Hoon closed his eyes as Marco began parsing the ownership structures, debts, and hidden scandals of Seoul's smaller broadcasters and online news outlets.
The financial game was just the tutorial.
The real game—the game of influence, perception, and quiet power—was about to begin.
---
[End of Episode 3]
[Status: Capital Secured]
[Wealth: ₩130,650,000 (~$111,000)]
[Next Episode: The Media Lever]