Won Ghost
Yoon Jaehun didn't just sign the contract; he confirmed his powerful reputation. This authority came from twenty years of fighting and winning against the business world. He wasn't just a businessman; he was a financial war machine, and this document was the final proof of a victory he knew he'd won from the start.
The private conference room in Seoul was severely plain—it looked like a cold shrine. The walls were covered in dark, polished stone that seemed to absorb the light, much like the man himself. The air smelled of expensive leather and the metallic scent of fresh press releases—the faint smoke left after his victory.
This huge seven hundred billion won deal—a number so big it meant complete dominance—proved that his expensive suit was a symbol of his isolated, untouchable power. He knew the precise cost of everything, the fabric of his suit, and the exact business consequences of this takeover. He knew every number, except the one that truly mattered: the emotional cost. That part of his life remained empty.
He stood across from Mr. Ahn, the defeated CEO of the company he just bought. Mr. Ahn looked broken, barely managing a fake smile of congratulations. His handshake was not a friendly goodbye, but an act of giving up.
Jaehun shook his hand—a firm, professional grip that had absolutely no warmth—the final act in a decades-long financial battle. He felt Mr. Ahn's shaky, sweaty palm but felt only the cold, tired relief of things being finished.
"A truly brilliant move, CEO Yoon," Mr. Ahn choked out. He looked ten years older than when he walked in. "We… we just bet on the wrong side."
Jaehun gave a small, dismissive nod and let go of the hand, leaving the defeated man alone on the big rug. The silence was heavy and immediate.
Click. Click. Click.
The bright camera flash from the corner table suddenly turned the world pure white, wiping out all details. This light didn't just blind him; it felt like it instantly erased the present.
In that split second, his perfect, cold composure broke. The glass walls and the seven hundred billion won deal all disappeared. He was no longer a business giant; he was a suddenly terrified observer, violently thrown back into a small, sunny attic apartment twenty years ago. The air smelled of cheap coffee and dust motes hanging in the golden sunlight.
He saw her: Im Eunji, laughing, head tilted back, her laugh clear and sharp like breaking glass. She wore a simple cotton apron, slightly stained, her hair loosely tied up with a forgotten wooden chopstick. Her eyes were focused on something he couldn't see, full of the warmth that his current room completely lacked.
Then, a second, more painful image appeared over the rival CEO's face: a small, demanding hand holding hers. Nari. A little girl with his cold, analytical nose, but with Eunji's strong, determined eyes. The child stood right where the money and power were supposed to be, making his magnificent empire seem utterly pointless. His greatest business success couldn't buy back one minute of that impossible, imagined future.
He blinked. The light returned, bringing him back to the harsh reality.
He was back. The smell of leather. The clicking cameras. He tasted the sharp, bitter bile of regret, a flavor stronger than any victory.
"Excellent work, Everyone," Yoon Jaehun said, his voice measured, dominant, and completely cold—the voice of the company. He took a crystal glass of water. His hand was steady, a deliberate lie hiding the memory's shock.
Mr. Byun, his executive assistant, stepped forward, beaming. "Sir, Congressman Jung is waiting in the line. And the Seoul press conference is scheduled for two hours from now."
Yoon Jaehun waved him away. "Tell the Congressman I'm busy. Tell the press they have to wait."
He had built this entire empire for one specific, obsessive reason: to create a machine of influence, surveillance, and endless money to find the final, unchanging truth of a day two decades ago.
He was the most feared and envied man in the country. Yet, standing in his moment of victory, he knew the truth: He didn't need success. He needed a clue. He needed the location of a shadow, a mistakenly identified body, a final piece of evidence. Seven hundred billion won was just the cost of entry to his search for a ghost.
"The paperwork must be finished by the time I get back. Hold all calls, no matter who they are from, unless the name 'Im Eunji' shows up on the data feed."
Mr. Byun looked completely lost. "Sir? You're leaving right after the biggest takeover in five years? For... a name?"
"A nap," Jaehun said, the word sounding strange and fragile on his tongue. "A long one. The last three days were… tiring." The lie had the absolute, unchallengeable force of command.
He walked twenty feet from the conference room and entered his private office—a black granite and glass monument to his ambition. It felt less like an office and more like a high-security, airless bunker.
He went straight to his desk, a slab of polished black granite that was as cold and hard as his reputation. He sat in the leather chair but didn't loosen his tie. That would suggest he was relaxing. Instead, he pressed the index finger and thumb of his right hand firmly against his closed eyelids, seeking to shut everything out.
He wasn't tired from the deal. He was exhausted from the constant, rigorous work of keeping his mind controlled, making sure the ghost stayed locked away. But the camera flash had ripped a hole in his guard, and now, the images of Eunji and Nari were burning through. The only way to cope was to retreat.
He needed to enter the memory, to confirm its shape, to endure its pain one last time before locking it away again.
The pressure of his fingers against his eyes slowly faded, replaced by the strange, physical weight of a heavy textbook resting on his palm. The scent of expensive steel was suddenly gone, replaced by the slightly moldy smell of old paper and the institutional polish of gymnasium floors. The tailored charcoal wool of his suit vanished, replaced by the stiff, uncomfortable fabric of a poorly maintained senior high school uniform.
The memory was pulling him under. He didn't fight. He let the past take him.