The floor of NovaSec's command center looked nothing like the precision it was known for.
Rows of monitors flickered in erratic bursts, code freezing mid-execution, system warnings spilling across every screen like a contagion. Engineers barked commands, voices overlapping in a tangle of panic. The rhythmic hum of NovaSec's core network — normally steady and soothing — had dissolved into a shrill chorus of alarms.
"Server four is locked out!"
"Firewall permissions revoked—what the heck?"
"I can't access deployment logs! Everything's been halted!"
The glass walls of the operations floor trembled under the noise. Through them, the Seoul skyline blazed with evening light — indifferent to the crisis erupting within NovaSec's top floors.
A door slammed open.
"Emergency memo from legal!" someone shouted, waving a tablet. "All deploy operations are halted until further court notice. Effective immediately!"
A heavy silence fell — the kind that comes right before impact. Then, like a wave breaking, chaos resumed twice as loud.
And at the heart of it stood Jung Jae-Hyun.
He wasn't shouting. He wasn't moving. He stood by the main console in his office, eyes fixed on the streaming data that kept crashing into error after error. His reflection in the glass behind him was unreadable — pale, perfectly still.
He already knew what this was. The injunction had finally taken effect.
The doors of Jae-Hyun's office swung open hard enough to rattle their hinges.
Mr. Oh strode in, face pale, coat still flaring from the pace of his steps. The low hum of the emergency alerts outside filtered in through the soundproof glass — muted but relentless.
He slammed a tablet onto Jae-Hyun's desk. "They froze everything," he said, breath sharp. "Every single operation, Jae-Hyun. The injunction's active. We can't deploy, we can't sell, we can't even update the system."
His voice cracked through the room. "What did I tell you? What did I tell you about this possibility?"
Jae-Hyun turned, eyes slow to meet him.
Mr. Oh strode up, slamming a tablet onto the desk so hard the glass surface quivered. "They froze our operations. Our investors are pulling out like it's the apocalypse, the court's freezing our assets — and the media's painting us like criminals!"
He jabbed at the screen — news headlines flashing violently across it.
'NovaSec Faces Legal Freeze Amid Patent Scandal!'
'Insider Reports Suggest Unethical Data Mining!'
'Black Wall Accuses NovaSec of Systemic Manipulation.'
Jae-Hyun finally spoke, his voice quiet. "I didn't think they'd move this fast."
Mr. Oh's laugh was short, hollow. "Fast? They played you, Jae-Hyun! You made them believe they couldn't touch us — and now look!"
He gestured around — at the flashing warnings, the frozen systems, the staff standing helpless. "You let them strike. You even gave them projects worth billions! You gave them ammunition!"
Jae-Hyun's hands rested on the table, fingers steady, though his face had lost some of its usual composure. "No," he said softly. "I gave them a target. I didn't think they'd hit it so soon."
The silence between them was sharp as a blade.
Then the intercom buzzed. "Chairman, board members are requesting your presence in the conference hall. Emergency session."
Mr. Oh's jaw clenched. "You'd better have something to tell them, because right now, everyone thinks you've miscalculated for the first time in your life."
Jae-Hyun gave no answer. He simply adjusted his cuff and started walking.
- - -
The conference hall was electric.
Every seat around the oval table was filled — department heads, financial directors, and shareholders, their faces twisted with disbelief and fury. The large central display pulsed with red warnings and media updates.
"Do you even realize what this means?" one of the directors shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "Every contract—every single operation—suspended indefinitely!"
"Patent suspension means our licensing is frozen globally!" one executive barked.
"Do you understand what that means for our partnerships in Zurich?" another cut in.
Another barked over him, "The stock is plummeting! We've lost ten percent in an hour!"
"And the ministry's statement?"
"Nothing yet. Legal says the order came straight from the High Commerce Court—someone pulled strings."
"This is sabotage, it has to be!"
By the time Jae-Hyun entered, the arguments stopped only long enough for everyone to look at him.
The man who never miscalculated. The one who always had the answer.
An investor slammed his palm on the table. "We're hemorrhaging credibility! Clients are calling to cancel contracts by the minute. This injunction—this is death by paperwork!"
"Where were your safeguards, Chairman?" Director Min snapped, her voice razor-sharp. "Didn't you say we were untouchable?"
"I did," Jae-Hyun replied evenly.
Her eyes flared. "Then explain this disaster!"
"I underestimated their desperation."
That single line silenced the room.
He leaned forward, fingers interlaced, gaze drifting to the reports blinking on the monitor. "I assumed they'd wait to confirm our next move before retaliating. But they fired prematurely. That's why their case is built on noise — weak overlaps, unverified patents, and data leaks planted by their own intermediaries. But…" his voice lowered, "it doesn't matter. The damage is done."
The tension thickened until even the hum of the projector felt loud.
Mr. Oh, standing behind him now, ran a hand through his hair. "Jae-Hyun, we can't just outthink this one. The media's not listening to logic. They're feeding off blood."
Across the table, Director Park threw his pen down. "So what's the plan? We just sit here while the government drags our name through the mud?"
"Of course not."
He rose from his seat. The holographic display caught the reflection of his eyes — sharp, calculating, unreadable.
"We have forty-eight hours," he said. "That's how long it'll take before the first appeal reaches the court, and before the press's cycle shifts to the next scandal. Until then…" He glanced around the table, one executive at a time. "We hold."
Director Min frowned. "Hold? You want us to wait while everything collapses?"
Jae-Hyun's expression didn't waver. "Sometimes silence is the loudest strategy. Black Wall wants panic. We could give them calm. But I'd rather we give them the panic they want."
"You're insane," someone muttered.
"No," Jae-Hyun said, looking up, eyes narrowing just slightly. "I'm patient."
Mr. Oh let out a shaky breath. "You're gambling the entire company on patience."
"Not gambling." He picked up the tablet showing the injunction notice, studied it for a moment, then set it back down. "Predicting."
The boardroom was quiet again. The executives exchanged glances — disbelief, doubt.
"What?" Director Min asked, incredulous. "Chairman—are you—?"
He leaned back in his chair, eyes distant, almost detached. "Panic is useful. It clears the clutter. It shows you who you can't depend on."
"This isn't clarity!" another voice shot back. "We're bleeding out there!"
"Good," Jae-Hyun said. "Maybe we needed to."
It was the wrong thing to say. You could feel the air change — disbelief turning to outrage.
Mr. Oh, standing off to the side, shut his eyes briefly. Not now, Jae-Hyun. Not like this.
Director Min's voice trembled with barely contained anger. "You think this is a stress test? You think we're your lab rats? Do you have any idea what this injunction means for our operations in Europe? In Asia?"
Jae-Hyun's gaze stayed fixed on the main screen, where the news ticker blazed: "NOVA SEC FOUNDER ACCUSED OF CORPORATE OVERREACH."
He spoke softly, almost to himself. "Do you know why they attacked us legally and not technologically?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Because they can't touch our code. They can't breach our systems, so they're weaponizing bureaucracy instead. That's desperation."
The executives exchanged looks — this didn't sound like a plan; it sounded like denial.
One of the younger directors said under his breath, "Desperation? We're the ones choking."
Jae-Hyun's head snapped toward him, tone suddenly sharp. "Do you believe everything you see on a screen?"
No one answered. The weight of his voice pressed down on the room — but this time, not as authority. As unease.
Mr. Oh finally stepped forward. "Chairman—maybe we should focus on mitigation for now. The press, the investors—"
"They can wait," Jae-Hyun interrupted. "Forty-eight hours of chaos and unleashed panic. That's all I need."
A bitter laugh came from across the table. "You think you can undo a federal injunction in two days? You're not a magician, Jung."
He didn't look up. "No," he murmured. "I'm something worse."
The room went still again.Someone whispered, "He's lost it."
He rose slowly, adjusted his tie, and said with that same strange detachment: "Let the markets scream. Let the media feast. Forty-eight hours and I'll fix this."
He started for the door.
Director Min called after him, voice brittle. "And if you can't?"
Jae-Hyun paused, his reflection glinting against the glass wall.
"Then," he said without turning, "NovaSec deserves to fall."
The door slid shut behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then the room erupted — louder than before.
"He's gone insane!"
"Forty-eight hours? He'll sink the company in forty-eight minutes!"
"Call an emergency investor meeting—now!"
And as the noise rose, Mr. Oh stood there, staring at the empty seat Jae-Hyun had left behind.His gut twisted — because he couldn't tell which was worse: that everyone else might be right, or that Jae-Hyun might be.
- - -
Meanwhile, across town, the conference room at Black Wall buzzed with a different kind of energy — sharp, electric, almost carnivorous. Screens lined the walls, streaming live updates, news feeds, market fluctuations. Every ticker symbol, every headline seemed to pulse with the thrill of victory.
Directors and department heads leaned forward, some clapping each other on the back, some exchanging high-fives, while others simply let themselves bask in the satisfaction of the chaos unfolding across the city.
"So," said Director Kang Min-Soo, voice low but dripping with triumph, "the NovaSec has fallen into our trap. Investors scrambling, media spinning out of control. This—this is what we wanted."
Eun-Seo's lips curved into a small, controlled smile. "It's more than we expected," she said, voice calm but with an edge that made everyone sit straighter. "They've never faced anything like this. The injunction… it's a full stop. Operations frozen. Panic already creeping into every corner of their empire. And the market is reacting exactly as we anticipated."
Director Lee Ji-Hoon leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of water. "I never thought we'd see the day where NovaSec looked… vulnerable. The way their executives scrambled this morning — I could almost hear the panic dripping through every conference call."
Whispers rippled through the room, directors exchanging looks of disbelief and excitement. Director Park Do-Hyun leaned forward, fingers tapping the table. "Do you think this will affect their project launch entirely? Investors might withdraw completely. The headlines… they're already framing NovaSec as reckless. This could… cripple them for months."
Eun-Seo's eyes flicked to the monitors. "Exactly. That's why this strategy worked. We knew the public, the investors… they would panic faster than the systems themselves. Fear spreads faster than data."
Director Kim Hye-Rin chimed in, a note of awe in her voice. "And they didn't even see it coming. All our moves were subtle. Carefully placed hints, timed pressure, legal action… and the market reacts exactly as we planned."
Director Kang Min-Soo, practically bouncing in his chair, waved a tablet in the air. "Look at this! Revenues spiked in the first three hours. I mean, this is absurd! We planned for a good return, but this… this is off the charts!"
Director Lee Ji-Hoon laughed, leaning back with his glass raised. "I haven't seen numbers like this in years. We're making in a day what some companies take a month to earn. And all because of the… well, you know, their little panic."
A ripple of laughter moved across the room, but Eun-Seo's eyes narrowed, tracing the rising graphs. Something about it felt too easy, too clean. She could feel it in her gut: smooth successes always hid complications.
Director Park Do-Hyun, still grinning, slapped the table. "To think the market reacts this fast. I half expected their chaos to spill over into ours, but it's like we're untouchable."
Eun-Seo shifted slightly, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Yes, it's… impressive. But," she hesitated, letting the word hang, "it's strange. Too many things aligning perfectly, too smoothly. Something doesn't feel right."
Heads turned; some blinked in confusion. Kang Min-Soo raised a brow. "What do you mean? We've nailed it! NovaSec is panicking, profits are flying… this is the dream scenario."
Eun-Seo's lips pressed together. "Exactly. Too much of a dream scenario. Nothing in the real world ever moves this cleanly. And NovaSec… if they recover, if they're able to stabilize, we've only seen the first ripple. That's what worries me."
Min-Soo leaned back, a laugh escaping him. "I half expect Mr. Oh to try some last-minute miracle, but… it's too late. We've already won the psychological battle. Panic is contagious."
The room buzzed again, executives diving into discussions about expanding operations, reinvesting profits, calling congratulatory emails. But Eun-Seo's gaze drifted to the screens, to the rising numbers, to the smiles around her. She forced a small smile, but inwardly, she felt the faint pull of unease — a quiet tension beneath the surface of celebration.
The windfall was exhilarating, intoxicating even. But she had learned to trust instincts sharper than any spreadsheet, and this… this was too simple. Something was missing. Something dangerous.