The health department arrived at Moon & Son's flagship store at 3:47 AM.
I knew because Dae-ho was perched on our bakery's fire escape, livestreaming the entire raid to his 40,000 followers. His phone camera wobbled as he zoomed in on the inspectors in their white hazmat suits, their flashlights cutting through the predawn dark like scalpels.
"—and there goes the manager in his pajamas!" Dae-ho's whisper was loud enough to carry through my open window. "Look at him flail! This is better than that time we caught Mr. Kim sleepwalking into the dumpling freezer—"
A sharp knock at my bedroom door interrupted him.
Grandfather stood in the hallway, already dressed in his full baker's whites despite the ungodly hour. His hands, usually steady as stone, trembled slightly around the morning paper.
FOOD SAFETY SCANDAL ROCKS SEOUL screamed the headline. Below it, a photo of a Moon & Son delivery truck being impounded.
"You," he said, his voice rough with something between pride and fear, "are going to explain exactly what you've done."
The Paper Trail
By sunrise, the entire neighborhood knew.
Mrs. Park nearly bowled me over at the market, her gnarled fingers clutching my sleeve. "The news says they found rat droppings in their flour supply! And—and—" Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Banned preservatives from China!"
I bit the inside of my cheek. The rat droppings were real—Dae-ho's discovery during his ill-advised "nighttime reconnaissance mission" last week. But the preservatives? That was Taehyun's doing.
Jeong's mist curled around my ankles as I unpacked the day's butter. He's better at this than I expected, it seemed to say.
The Rival's Weakness
Moon & Son's CEO held a press conference at noon.
We crowded around the tiny TV in the bakery's back office, watching as Kim Sang-chul—a man who'd built his empire on "traditional values"—sweated through his custom-tailored suit.
"This is an isolated incident," he insisted, mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. "A single disgruntled employee—"
The screen cut to a clip of their head baker sobbing into a reporter's microphone: "They told us to triple the additives! When I refused, they threatened my daughter's tuition!"
Grandfather sucked in a sharp breath. Mother crossed herself. And Dae-ho—
"HA!" He nearly upended the table as he leapt up. "That's our baker! The one who quit last month! I told you he was a plant!"
Jeong's mist flickered toward the ceiling—the ghostly equivalent of an eye roll.
The Unexpected Ally
Taehyun arrived at dusk, his Sunyang blazer replaced with a black hoodie and a tension so palpable I could taste it, metallic and sharp, like licking a battery.
"They're blaming the night shift," he said without preamble, slapping a folder onto the counter. "Firing everyone who ever questioned their recipes."
I flipped it open. Inside: emails. Dozens of them, all from Moon & Son executives, all discussing cost-cutting measures with phrases like "acceptable quality reduction" and "target demographic won't notice."
Dae-ho whistled. "This is like… corporate murder."
"It's evidence," Taehyun corrected. His eyes never left mine. "If you want to use it."
Jeong's mist coiled around the folder. A silent yes.
The Counterattack
We struck at midnight.
Not with flour bombs or sabotage—but with something far more dangerous: the truth.
Dae-ho uploaded the files to every food forum in Korea.
Mother called every journalist who'd ever written about us.
And I—
I baked.
Not the vanilla-miso brioche, not the showstoppers. Just simple hotteok, the way Grandfather had taught me when I was six. No additives. No shortcuts. Just flour, yeast, and time.
As the first batch came out of the oven, the bakery's landline rang.
A reporter from The Korea Times. A request for an interview from SBS News. And—
"Han Baking?" The voice on the other end was crisp, professional. "This is the Seoul Health Department. We'd like to discuss your… traditional methods."
Jeong's mist swirled around the phone, warm as a hand on my shoulder.
Outside, the first customers were already lining up.