The halls of City Hall smelled like sterile paper and fresh lacquer. Everything gleamed with polite efficiency—white LED panels, polished stone tiles, and potted plants trimmed so symmetrically they felt unnatural.
Kang Joon-ho walked past the security gate, flashing his temporary clearance badge at the guard. No one questioned him. Bureaucracy had a rhythm, and if you moved with its beat, you became invisible.
He found the conference room at the end of the east wing.
A plaque on the door read: Seoul Housing Development Review Committee – Session 14.
Inside, twelve men and women sat around an oval table, murmuring over paper packets and open laptops. None looked up as he entered.
"Ah, the student observer," said a woman near the head.
She was in her early forties, slim, composed, her blazer cut to perfection. Her name tag read Yoon Hye-won – Deputy Chair.
"Sit. Don't speak. Observe." She gestured to an empty chair near the corner.
Joon-ho nodded and took his seat.
On the table before him lay a thick binder with the C&T logo on the cover.
Proposal No. 78 – Doksan Redevelopment Corridor, Phases I–IV
He felt a cold chill run through his spine.
They weren't just planning evictions. They were planning entire districts.
---
The meeting dragged for two hours.
Most of it was procedural language.
"Objection to clause 4.3 regarding height restrictions."
"Requesting revision on green space allocation."
"Budget cap adjusted from 3.4B to 4.1B."
But under the jargon, something pulsed—something calculated.
At one point, Joon-ho leaned forward slightly as a committee member spoke.
"Regarding residential unit allocation, Taurus Holdings has proposed a rent-control delay of six years post-construction."
He raised an eyebrow.
That delay meant evicted families wouldn't be able to return for six years, even if they qualified.
Another member responded, "Six years is longer than the current average. It's effectively a buyout."
And then came the deputy chair's calm voice: "Let's move forward with the current proposal. We'll leave the clause open to legal review."
Joon-ho felt his jaw tighten.
That's how it happens, he thought.
Not with signatures and gavel strikes, but with silence.
---
After the meeting, most members filtered out quickly, phones in hand.
Only one person lingered—an older man, bald with thick glasses, still reviewing a spreadsheet.
Joon-ho approached him hesitantly. "Excuse me, sir. I'm the law student observer. Kang Joon-ho."
The man glanced up. "Mm. You're from Kangwon Law, right? Professor Han's clinic?"
"Yes."
He extended a hand. "Choi Min-seok. Urban Planning Division. I'm… less popular than most here."
Joon-ho raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
Choi smiled thinly. "Because I ask questions that slow things down."
He gestured at the binder. "That project—the Doksan Corridor—it's been rubber-stamped through three departments in record time. And every time someone asks for clarification, they get transferred."
Joon-ho leaned in. "You think it's being pushed?"
"I know it is," Choi said. "But no one touches Taurus Holdings. You'd need more than city hall signatures to fight them."
He paused, glancing at the door.
Then lowered his voice.
"If you're serious, meet me tonight. Gwanak Library. Basement archives. After 9 p.m. Don't be late."
He left without another word.
---
That evening, rain fell like spilled ink across the streets.
The Gwanak Library was nearly empty when Joon-ho arrived, his hoodie drawn over his head.
The basement was dimly lit, filled with microfilm readers, old municipal records, and forgotten student projects from decades past.
Choi Min-seok stood near the back, next to a row of sealed file drawers.
He handed over a folder.
Inside were internal communications—unsigned emails, draft memos, and a confidential map marked PRIVATE CONSULTATION ZONES.
Red circles surrounded districts in Eunpyeong, Doksan, Guro, and strangely, parts of central Seoul.
"These aren't just redevelopment targets," Choi whispered. "They're consolidation zones. Taurus buys small landholders out, removes public housing, and sells development rights to third-party shells."
He pulled out a photo.
It showed two men shaking hands at a golf course.
One was Park Joon-hyuk, CEO of Taurus.
The other was a man Joon-ho didn't recognize.
"That's Assemblyman Baek Dong-il. Chair of the Infrastructure Budget Committee."
Joon-ho's eyes widened. "This goes that far?"
Choi nodded grimly. "Further. These land deals get baked into the national budget through line items disguised as 'green renewal' initiatives."
"And if we expose this?"
Choi gave a dry smile. "You'd be crushed before you left campus."
---
Over the next week, Joon-ho balanced double lives.
By day, he sat in committee meetings, quietly noting every change in wording, every delay in enforcement, every sudden reclassification.
By night, he compiled files—threading links between Taurus, their shell subsidiaries, and land acquisition paths that pointed to deliberate targeting of poor neighborhoods.
He also began messaging Kang Ye-rin, the journalist.
She responded on a private encrypted app.
Ye-rin: I've been following Taurus for a while.
Ye-rin: Never found anything solid—until now.
Ye-rin: If you can get me proof of political involvement, I can get this published nationally.
Joon-ho sent her the photo of Park and Assemblyman Baek.
Ye-rin : That'll start a war. Are you ready for that?
He stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed:
Yes.
---
One night, a fire alarm rang through the dorm.
Students poured out into the rain, confused and panicked.
But the fire was a false one.
And when Joon-ho returned to his room, his laptop was gone.
So were his hard drives.
Only one thing was left behind—on his desk, scribbled on a Post-it:
"Tread lightly, reformer.
We don't warn twice."
He stood there, soaked and furious, chest heaving.
They weren't hiding anymore.
---
The next morning, he went to Professor Han.
"I want to go public," he said.
Han studied him carefully. "Once you do, there's no going back. Are you sure?"
"They stole everything. They're threatening my friends. This isn't about school anymore."
Han sighed. "Then let me show you something."
He opened a locked drawer and pulled out a flash drive.
"This is a full backup of everything you sent Ye-rin. I've been copying your files silently since week one. Call it an old habit from my prosecutor days."
Joon-ho blinked. "You knew?"
"I suspected you'd push too far. I just didn't know when."
Han placed the drive in his palm.
"You've done enough from the outside. It's time you stand in the center."
---
Two days later, the article dropped.
"The Silent Displacement: How Taurus Holdings Is Engineering Urban Poverty"
By Kang Ye-rin
Exclusive to The Seoul Dispatch
It included financial charts, maps, internal emails, and the now-famous photo of Park and Assemblyman Baek.
The story exploded online.
#TaurusExposed
#DoksanFiles
#UrbanSabotage
Within 24 hours, protest groups began gathering outside Taurus's main building.
Within 48, the mayor's office announced a formal inquiry.
And within 72 hours…
Professor Han was summoned by the university's board.
And Joon-ho received a notice from the city's legal committee:
Your observer status has been revoked, effective immediately.
He smiled grimly.
Good.
That meant it worked.
They were scared.
---
At the clinic, he found Sae-bin waiting.
She had returned.
"This fight isn't yours alone," she said. "I'm not afraid anymore."
He looked around the room—at the growing pile of case files, at the tired but determined students returning one by one.
A movement was beginning.
It wasn't big.
Not yet.
But it had weight.
It had fire.
And it had truth.