NovaSec had never felt this loud.
The morning sun hadn't even crested the skyline when the headquarters came alive in a way that felt wrong — like energy vibrating at the wrong frequency. Elevators dinged too quickly. Footsteps were too sharp. Conversations were too hurried, too clipped, too brittle.
Because while the injunction had been issued yesterday, today was the day its teeth finally sank into NovaSec's operations.
And everyone felt the bite.
The building was awake early. Not rested — just alert. The way people get when danger wakes them, not alarms.
Department heads moved in clusters, talking in hushes that somehow carried across the halls. Analysts scrolled through data sheets so fast their fingers blurred. Engineers were already in the lower floors, eyes fixed on frozen interfaces that refused to execute.
And in Conference Room 27B, the first blow of the day landed.
Mr. Oh stood at the head of the table, hands planted on the polished surface as he listened to report after report crumble into bad news.
"We've lost KairoTech," one department head said. "They're pulling until legal clears the injunction."
"That's… that's a thirty-million-dollar freeze," another whispered, as if saying the number too loudly would summon something worse.
"And Greyline Investments?" Mr. Oh pressed.
"They sent a termination letter at six this morning," the legal director replied, voice wooden. "Stating they 'cannot remain affiliated with a firm undergoing compliance disputes.'"
A muscle in Mr. Oh's jaw twitched. "That's the second one."
"Today," the man corrected softly.
The words thudded into the room. Today.
It wasn't even 9 a.m.
Mr. Oh straightened. He wasn't breathing fast — not yet — but he was breathing deeper than usual. "Two major contracts frozen, another terminated. How many more?"
No one answered.
He already knew.
"Keep tracing," he said finally. "We need to know the full extent before we brief—"
A sudden chime cut him off.
One of the department heads looked down at her phone, then up. "Make that three," she whispered. "Veritex just pulled out."
"Three?" someone echoed, horrified.
"Three in the first three hours of the day?"
Mr. Oh's eyelids fluttered shut for half a second.
This was what an injunction did. It didn't destroy all at once. It bled a company.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
Publicly.
And NovaSec — the company built on precision, invincibility, and untouchable innovation — was suddenly looking very mortal.
He dismissed the meeting with a strained voice, then strode through the halls to the only person who could fix this.
Or… the person who was supposed to.
Jae-Hyun's office was already lit.
Not warmly. Coldly.
Screens glowed in silent walls of shifting graphs, server maps, legal updates, public sentiment trackers — a storm in digital form.
Jae-Hyun stood with his back turned, hands loosely tucked into his pockets, head slightly tilted as if he were listening to something only he could hear.
Mr. Oh closed the door behind him harder than intended.
"We're losing clients," he started. No courtesy. No easing in. "By the minute."
Jae-Hyun didn't turn.
Mr. Oh pressed, voice sharp with fear he wasn't used to showing. "Do you hear me? Three major contracts frozen or terminated within hours. Millions gone. Reputation compromised. We need to activate legal damage control and negotiate. Immediately."
Jae-Hyun finally moved — not to face him, but to drag a screen closer with a fingertip. His expression was unreadable.
"Reroute internal traffic priority three," he murmured, more to the system than to the man behind him. "Place server clusters 4, 9, and 11 on isolated perimeter mode. Restrict access to all staff except engineering lead tier."
Mr. Oh blinked.
Then he blinked again.
"...What?"
Jae-Hyun still didn't turn. "And flag the remaining vulnerability reports as 'under maintenance.' Not fixed. Not yet."
A disbelieving silence stretched.
Finally:
"What are you doing?" Mr. Oh demanded. "We are in the middle of a legal and financial crisis — and you're allocating manpower to internal servers no one even uses? Why those servers? Why now?"
Jae-Hyun's fingers paused over a holographic panel.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
"Sometimes," he said, "you fix a problem by letting people believe it's broken."
Mr. Oh stared at him.
Then laughed — short, shocked, almost hysterical.
"This is not the time to be philosophical, Jae-Hyun!"
Still no response.
He stepped forward. "We need to stabilize public trust. We need statements, negotiations—"
Jae-Hyun's gaze finally slid toward him, and the calmness in those eyes made Mr. Oh's stomach knot in a way he hated.
Not reassuring calm.
Detached calm.
Distant calm.
The kind people have when they're focusing on something no one else can see.
And that terrified him more than any crisis.
"Trust me," Jae-Hyun said.
The words were steady.
The steadiness was the problem.
Trust him? Now? When he was tinkering with irrelevant servers while the company bled out?
Mr. Oh could feel panic rising like heat under his skin.
He took a sharp breath. "Jae-Hyun… the department heads are scared. The board is scared. I'm scared. If you keep acting like this — like these small internal tweaks matter more than the legal fires outside — they'll—"
He swallowed.
"They'll start doubting your leadership."
Jae-Hyun didn't flinch. Didn't look hurt. Didn't even look bothered.
He simply said, "Let them doubt. For now."
It was the worst answer he could have given.
Because it didn't sound strategic. It sounded… resigned.
And panic tastes different when it comes from someone who never panics.
Mr. Oh stepped back. "Fine," he said hoarsely. "Do what you want with your servers. But I have to protect the company. If you won't lead the
we need—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
But the implication hung in the air:
I may have to go around you.Or above you.
He left the office trembling.
He wasn't sure if it was with anger, fear… or the most dangerous feeling: doubt.
Behind him, Jae-Hyun closed the encrypted console.
A soft chime sounded — one only he could hear.
DELTA NODE: DIRECTIVE RECEIVED.PROTOCOL 7–BLACK INITIATED.
- - -
The department head meeting was chaos disguised as professionalism.
People sat straighter. Voices stayed in formal tones. But beneath the surface — panic.
"We're bleeding money," CFO Han Mi-Young said, flipping through projected charts. "We've already crossed negative projections for the quarter. If this continues, it'll destabilize our overseas branches."
"Our clients are leaving because they think we're guilty," another director snapped. "We can't afford silence."
"We can't afford the truth either," someone muttered.
Ellipses of tension filled the boardroom.
Mr. Oh sat at the end of the table, eyes tired but alert, listening to argument after argument crash into each other.
Then the door opened.
Every head turned.
Jae-Hyun walked in.
Usually, his presence settled a room instantly. Today… it electrified it.
Because instead of looking commanding, analytical, or even annoyed, he looked—
Pale.
And paleness, on Jung Jae-Hyun, was as unnatural as rain falling upward.
He took his seat. Didn't greet anyone. Didn't acknowledge the dozens of eyes watching him with equal parts hope and dread.
He took his seat. Didn't greet anyone. Didn't acknowledge the dozens of eyes watching him with equal parts hope and dread.
CFO Han Mi-Young cleared her throat. "Chairman… perhaps you can help us realign priorities. At the moment, our largest issue is client retention and external communication. We need direction."
All eyes locked on him.
Jae-Hyun stared at the glowing projections. Not studying them. Almost… blankly.
"As it stands…" he began.
Everyone leaned forward.
"…panic is reasonable."
A stunned pause swallowed the room.
Mr. Oh's head snapped toward him. "Jae-Hyun—"
"We've been hit harder than anticipated," Jae-Hyun continued, calm but hollow. "Our stocks are dropping. Our reputation is compromised. And Black Wall's project launch… was unfortunately timed."
He didn't look up to see the way executives stiffened.
"We need to prepare," he said, "for further damage."
It was the opposite of what they expected. The opposite of guidance. The opposite of genius.
CFO Han Mi-Young's voice trembled. "Chairman… are you saying we're… losing?"
Jae-Hyun's silence was louder than any answer.
One of the directors, Director Choi Do-Hoon, exhaled shakily. "If even he's uncertain… then…"
Another, Director Seo Jin-Wook, whispered, "We might actually be collapsing."
Someone else murmured, "Is this how it ends?"
Mr. Oh's chest tightened painfully.
Because this? This wasn't strategy.
This was doubt. From the one person who never doubted.
Finally, Jae-Hyun pushed back his chair. The scrape felt violent in the quiet room.
"I told you to give me forty-eight hours, didn't I?" he said quietly. Not commanding. Not confident. Not certain.
Almost begging.
"I'll… find a way to fix this."
A silence so sharp it cut.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Not because they trusted him — but because hearing hesitation in his voice was like hearing a mountain crack.
Jae-Hyun walked out before anyone could respond.
He didn't look like a genius.He didn't look invincible. He looked…
Cornered.