RAINBOW OF TEARS
SEOUL – MARCH 2010
The verdict landed at 3:17 PM on a Tuesday, with the sterile finality of a surgical incision.
"This court finds in favor of the plaintiff, the Gimcheon Market Association. Luxe Plaza Group is ordered to pay restitution of two hundred eighty-seven million won, and is enjoined from further eviction proceedings for a period of no less than twenty-four months."
The gavel cracked. In the defendant's box, the three-piece-suited lawyers from Shin & Kim sagged imperceptibly. Across the aisle, an old woman in a well-worn hanbok clutched the hand of her grandson, her knuckles white, tears tracking silently through the wrinkles of her face.
Kim Min-Hyuk did not sag. He did not smile. He simply gave the old woman, his client, a single, curt nod.
Perfect Memory & Rapid Recall: Logged. The judge's exact wording. The minute flicker of relief in the grandson's eyes. The faint, acrid scent of the over-polished courtroom wood.
Instant Calculation: Complete. Restitution sum: 87.3% of optimal target. Twenty-four months: sufficient for the vendors to reorganize, but not enough to permanently deter a conglomerate like Luxe. Probability of Luxe appealing: 42%. Probability of them accepting the loss as a cost of business and pursuing alternative, legal pressure tactics within six months: 91%.
"Attorney Kim," the lead opposing counsel began, stepping over with a tight smile, "a skillful performance. For a… pro bono matter."
Min-Hyuk's gaze slid past him, already cataloging the man's tells—the slight sheen on his temple (frustration, not heat), the micro-adjustment of his cufflink (a bid for control). "The law was clear. The performance was unnecessary." He began packing his leather folio, a model of efficient motion. A single yellow notepad, a single pen. He used less paper than the interns.
"Our client will be reviewing their options," the lawyer pressed.
"Case closed," Min-Hyuk said, the words devoid of inflection. He zipped the folio. "Next."
He was at the courtroom doors when he felt it—a specific, calibrated gaze. Not the grateful tears of his clients, not the simmering resentment of the defeated lawyers. This was analytical. Assessing.
He turned.
She stood near the Luxe Plaza side entrance, a silhouette of severe elegance against the oak-paneled wall. A tailored white blazer and skirt that cost more than the court's monthly utilities. Hair pulled into a flawless knot. Park Min-Ji, Director of Strategic Acquisitions, Luxe Plaza Group. Twenty years old and holding a billion-won portfolio. Her face was a mask of polished jade, but her eyes—dark, intelligent, and currently fixed on him—were live wires.
His Sub-Mind Archive automatically pulled her public dossier: graduated top of her class at Ewha Womans University at nineteen, youngest-ever appointment to the Luxe board, spearheading the aggressive "Luxe Horizon" expansion that was swallowing traditional markets like the one he'd just defended.
Instant Calculation: Her presence here, instead of at a board meeting, indicated a direct stake. Personal investment? Or a test from her family?
She moved toward him, heels clicking a precise, authoritative rhythm on the marble floor. Her lawyers parted for her like water.
"Attorney Kim," she said. Her voice was cooler than he'd anticipated, lower. It didn't ask for permission. "That was an impressive dissection of a standard land-use contract. You found clauses my own team insisted were unassailable."
He met her gaze. Enhanced Healing/Physique: His own heart rate remained at 52 BPM, resting. Hers, visible in the subtle pulse at her throat, was elevated. Not nervous. Engaged. "The clauses were predatory. The law sees through ornamentation."
A faint, almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. A recalibration. "You make it sound simple. As if you're merely reading instructions from a manual."
"The manual is the Korean Civil Code. It's publicly available." He adjusted his grip on the folio. The conversation was a variable he hadn't factored for. He'd won. The emotional transaction—his skill for their justice—was complete. This was spillage. "If you'll excuse me, Director Park. My work here is done."
He turned to leave.
"Who are you," her voice came again, not louder, but sharper, "to challenge us? A junior associate from a firm I've never heard of, taking on charity cases. What's your angle?"
He paused, half-turned. The old woman and her grandson were watching, hesitant. Instant Calculation: Prolonged contact with the opposing party post-verdict could be misconstrued. Could cause client anxiety. Optimal path: disengage.
He looked back at Min-Ji. The late afternoon sun through the high courtroom windows caught the delicate gold threads in her blazer, making her seem for a moment like a statue dipped in light. A lonely, formidable statue.
"Someone who remembers every broken promise," he said, his tone flat, final. "Good day."
He walked away, leaving her standing amidst her expensive lawyers, the echo of the gavel, and the stark, inconvenient truth of his victory. He did not look back. But his Perfect Memory recorded the exact image: her proud, isolated figure, the slight tilt of her head as she watched him go, the first crack of something other than certainty in her jade mask.
---
SEOUL – LATER, THE SAME DAY
The offices of Baek & Kim were austere, all smoked glass and silent air conditioning. Min-Hyuk's own space was a corner room, larger than his needs, a reward for a perfect win record. It contained a desk, a chair, a bookshelf of legal codes he'd already memorized, and a single potted sansevieria—a gift from a grateful client he couldn't recall by name.
He placed the yellow notepad on his desk. On it, a single line written in his precise hand: Gimcheon Market Association → Victory.
He opened the bottom-left drawer. Inside lay a simple black ledger. He flipped past other single-line entries. Choi Family Eviction → Victory. Kim Yong-suk, Industrial Accident → Victory. Park Delivery Union → Victory.
He added the new line.
Pro Bono Quota: 1 of 5 for March. Corporate Quota: 1 of 1 for March.
He closed the ledger. The emotional residue of the courtroom—the old woman's tears, the grandson's hope, the sharp curiosity in Park Min-Ji's eyes—was filed away in a mental compartment labeled Closed Transaction.
A soft chime from his computer. An internal firm memo. Congratulating him on another high-profile win for a pro bono client (the phrasing careful, implying a quaint hobby). Reminding him of the partner meeting tomorrow to discuss the real clients: a merger between two chaebol subsidiaries, potential billings in the billions.
He closed the notification.
The sun was setting, painting Seoul in hues of orange and deep blue. From his window, he could see the glittering, multi-tiered monstrosity of a Luxe Plaza mall, a cathedral of consumption. And not far from it, the dim, struggling lights of a neighborhood like Gimcheon.
His body hummed with a quiet, unused energy. Elite Physique: Peak condition, special-forces stamina. Sitting still felt like a form of decay.
Sub-Mind Archive: Knowledge of the city's streets, traffic patterns, vehicle mechanics, combat tactics—all pristine, unused.
The ledger was balanced. The lawyer's work was done.
But the night was long.
He stood, took off his suit jacket, and hung it neatly on the back of his chair. From a small closet, he pulled out a simple, dark blue driver's jacket. Durable, anonymous. He swapped his leather shoes for a pair of worn, comfortable boots.
On his way out, he passed the firm's senior partner, Attorney Baek.
"Min-Hyuk-ssi! Excellent work today. The partners are thrilled. That Park girl from Luxe won't know what hit her!" Baek chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.
Min-Hyuk absorbed the impact without shifting. "It was a straightforward case."
"Modest as always. Get some rest. Big things tomorrow!"
"Yes," Min-Hyuk said, already moving toward the elevator. "Rest."
He took the elevator down to the basement parking garage, not the lobby. He walked past his own sensible, grey sedan—a lawyer's car—and stopped beside a different vehicle.
A Hyundai Sonata taxi, painted in a fading rainbow stripe. Unremarkable. Invisible.
He slid into the driver's seat. The interior smelled of old vinyl, disinfectant, and, faintly, of the hopes and despairs of a thousand strangers. It was the most honest smell he knew.
He keyed the ignition. The engine purred to life, tuned to a perfection no regular taxi would ever know.
A small, discreet earpiece in his ear crackled to life.
"Channel open," a smooth, synthetic female voice stated. Ahn Go-eun, testing the comms from the underground base. "Quiet night. No active requests. Rain forecasted in two hours. Recommend patrolling the usual corridors."
"Acknowledged," Min-Hyuk said, his voice different here—softer around the edges, the legal precision sanded down.
He pulled out of the garage and merged into the river of Seoul's evening traffic. The neon signs began to bleed their colors onto the wet streets. The towering video screens played ads for the latest luxury handbag, available exclusively at Luxe Plaza.
He drove, his Perfect Memory mapping every pothole, every alley. His Instant Calculation predicting the flow of traffic, the potential flashpoints—a drunk stumbling into the road, a speeding delivery bike. His body, a coiled spring of unused capability, relaxed into the simple, physical act of driving.
This was the other ledger. The one not written down. Where justice wasn't a verdict, but an intervention. Where payment wasn't a fee, but the silent gratitude of those the world had passed by.
He was Kim Min-Hyuk, the youngest star lawyer in Seoul.
And for the next few hours, he was just Driver Kim. Waiting. Watching. Remembering.
A flicker on the rain-smeared windshield—the reflection of the colossal, glowing Luxe Plaza logo. For a fraction of a second, he saw not the logo, but the face of the woman who commanded it. Park Min-Ji. Her question hung in the humid air of the taxi, mixing with the scent of coming rain.
Who are you?
The light turned green. He pressed the accelerator, the Rainbow Taxi sliding forward into the deepening blue of the Seoul night, a splash of muted color in a world of stark contrasts.
[End of Episode 1]
[Status: Operational]
[Legal Quota: Complete]
[Vigilante Quota: Pending]
[Next Episode: Brake Failure on a Rainy Night.]