The double oak doors of the Economics Club basement creaked with a heavy, mocking sound as I pushed them open. The air inside was cool, filtered, and carried the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood—a stark contrast to the sharp, chemical tang of the hospital corridors I had just left. It was 10:00 AM. The "inner circle" was already gathered, lounging on leather sofas like young princes surveying a map of a kingdom they hadn't yet earned.
At the center of the room, Park Dohyeon was holding a glass of sparkling water, his designer watch catching the dim light as he gestured toward a large monitor displaying live market feeds. When he saw me, his smile didn't just widen; it sharpened.
"Jiwoo! You finally decided to join the living," Dohyeon called out, his voice echoing with a forced camaraderie that made my skin crawl. "We were starting to think the 'Ghost of the Lecture Hall' had vanished into thin air."
I walked into the center of the room, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. I didn't look at the sycophants flanking him. I looked only at Dohyeon. I saw the arrogance in the tilt of his chin, the same tilt I had seen eighteen years later when he told me my life was worth less than his quarterly dividends.
"I had personal matters to attend to," I said, my voice flat, devoid of the nervous stutter he expected from a scholarship student.
"Personal matters. Right." Dohyeon stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Like registering a certain Han Suyeon at the Mirae Clinic? That's a very expensive 'personal matter' for a student living in a Goshiwon, Jiwoo. I hope your... 'foundation'... has deep pockets."
I didn't flinch. I let the silence hang between us, heavy and cold, until the smirk on his face faltered just a fraction. "My finances are my own, Dohyeon. I believe we're here to discuss the mock competition."
Dohyeon let out a short, sharp laugh and clapped me on the shoulder. The weight of his hand felt like a shackle. "Straight to business! I like that. Look at the screen."
He pointed to the K-Gene ticker. The stock was climbing steadily, fueled by the whispered rumors his father's PR firm had been seeding across the financial forums. "We've moved forty percent of the club's mock capital into K-Gene. By Friday, when the 'breakthrough' is announced, we'll be at the top of the university leaderboard. The Dean is already preparing the victory dinner."
He turned back to me, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "But I noticed something interesting this morning. Someone—a ghost entity—bought up a massive block of put options against K-Gene's primary supplier. A move that only makes sense if K-Gene is about to fail. Tell me, Jiwoo... do you know who that ghost is?"
I looked at the screen, then back at him. "In a market this volatile, everyone is a ghost until the lights come on."
"True." Dohyeon's grip on my shoulder tightened. "But ghosts usually don't have mothers in private clinics. Here's the deal, Jiwoo. I'm giving you one last chance to be a part of the winning team. Hand over the analysis you used for the NetZone trade. Show me how you're spotting these patterns. Do that, and your mother stays in that clinic for as long as she needs. Refuse... and well, I hear the public wards are very crowded this time of year."
I looked around the room. I saw the other students—boys who would grow up to be the men who destroyed the economy in 2008. They were watching us, sensing the tension, waiting for the scholarship kid to break.
Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out a single, slim manila folder. I held it out to Dohyeon.
"What's this? The analysis?" Dohyeon asked, reaching for it with a triumphant grin.
"It's a gift," I said.
Dohyeon opened the folder. His grin didn't just vanish; it froze. Inside wasn't a stock analysis. It was a series of high-resolution photographs of his father meeting with the CEO of a rival biotech firm—the very firm K-Gene was supposedly "crushing." Beside the photos was a copy of a bank transfer receipt from a Cayman Islands account, tied directly to Dohyeon's personal tuition fund.
"This is..." Dohyeon's voice turned into a strangled whisper. His face went from pale to a sickly, mottled red.
"That's evidence of insider trading and embezzlement of club funds," I said, my voice projecting clearly enough for the students on the sofas to sit up. "If those photos hit the Dean's desk—or the National Tax Service—your father doesn't just lose his company. He loses his freedom. And you? You'll be lucky if they let you finish the semester before the police arrive."
The room went deathly silent. The "princes" were no longer lounging; they were staring at Dohyeon with wide, terrified eyes.
"You wouldn't," Dohyeon hissed, his hand trembling as he gripped the folder. "You'd be destroying yourself too. I'll tell them you're a thief, a hacker—"
"Go ahead," I said, stepping even closer, until our chests were almost touching. I looked into his eyes—the eyes of my murderer—and for the first time, I let him see the void. "I've spent twenty years in the dark, Dohyeon. I'm comfortable there. Are you?"
I leaned in, my mouth inches from his ear. "By the way, I didn't just buy put options. I sent the full dossier to the Han-Woo Group thirty minutes ago. They're launching their hostile takeover bid at noon. K-Gene is already dead. You're just the last one to find out."
I pulled away, straightened my collar, and turned toward the door. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I heard the sound of the glass of sparkling water shattering on the floor.
As I pushed the oak doors open and stepped out into the hallway, I felt the vibration of my phone.
'The surgery was a success. She's asking for you. — Mirae Clinic.'
I walked toward the stairs, the sunlight from the campus windows hitting my face. I was twenty years old. I had thirty-two million won in a Singaporean trust, my mother was alive, and the man who killed me was currently staring at the ruins of his life in a basement.
The awakening was over. The empire was officially under construction.